1416	----	Transcribed from the 1894 Chapman and Hall "Christmas Stories" edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS CHAPTER I--HOW MRS. LIRRIPER CARRIED ON THE BUSINESS Whoever would begin to be worried with letting Lodgings that wasn't a lone woman with a living to get is a thing inconceivable to me, my dear; excuse the familiarity, but it comes natural to me in my own little room, when wishing to open my mind to those that I can trust, and I should be truly thankful if they were all mankind, but such is not so, for have but a Furnished bill in the window and your watch on the mantelpiece, and farewell to it if you turn your back for but a second, however gentlemanly the manners; nor is being of your own sex any safeguard, as I have reason, in the form of sugar-tongs to know, for that lady (and a fine woman she was) got me to run for a glass of water, on the plea of going to be confined, which certainly turned out true, but it was in the Station-house. Number Eighty-one Norfolk Street, Strand--situated midway between the City and St. James's, and within five minutes' walk of the principal places of public amusement--is my address. I have rented this house many years, as the parish rate-books will testify; and I could wish my landlord was as alive to the fact as I am myself; but no, bless you, not a half a pound of paint to save his life, nor so much, my dear, as a tile upon the roof, though on your bended knees. My dear, you never have found Number Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand advertised in Bradshaw's _Railway Guide_, and with the blessing of Heaven you never will or shall so find it. Some there are who do not think it lowering themselves to make their names that cheap, and even going the lengths of a portrait of the house not like it with a blot in every window and a coach and four at the door, but what will suit Wozenham's lower down on the other side of the way will not suit me, Miss Wozenham having her opinions and me having mine, though when it comes to systematic underbidding capable of being proved on oath in a court of justice and taking the form of "If Mrs. Lirriper names eighteen shillings a week, I name fifteen and six," it then comes to a settlement between yourself and your conscience, supposing for the sake of argument your name to be Wozenham, which I am well aware it is not or my opinion of you would be greatly lowered, and as to airy bedrooms and a night-porter in constant attendance the less said the better, the bedrooms being stuffy and the porter stuff. It is forty years ago since me and my poor Lirriper got married at St. Clement's Danes, where I now have a sitting in a very pleasant pew with genteel company and my own hassock, and being partial to evening service not too crowded. My poor Lirriper was a handsome figure of a man, with a beaming eye and a voice as mellow as a musical instrument made of honey and steel, but he had ever been a free liver being in the commercial travelling line and travelling what he called a limekiln road--"a dry road, Emma my dear," my poor Lirriper says to me, "where I have to lay the dust with one drink or another all day long and half the night, and it wears me Emma"--and this led to his running through a good deal and might have run through the turnpike too when that dreadful horse that never would stand still for a single instant set off, but for its being night and the gate shut and consequently took his wheel, my poor Lirriper and the gig smashed to atoms and never spoke afterwards. He was a handsome figure of a man, and a man with a jovial heart and a sweet temper; but if they had come up then they never could have given you the mellowness of his voice, and indeed I consider photographs wanting in mellowness as a general rule and making you look like a new-ploughed field. My poor Lirriper being behindhand with the world and being buried at Hatfield church in Hertfordshire, not that it was his native place but that he had a liking for the Salisbury Arms where we went upon our wedding-day and passed as happy a fortnight as ever happy was, I went round to the creditors and I says "Gentlemen I am acquainted with the fact that I am not answerable for my late husband's debts but I wish to pay them for I am his lawful wife and his good name is dear to me. I am going into the Lodgings gentlemen as a business and if I prosper every farthing that my late husband owed shall be paid for the sake of the love I bore him, by this right hand." It took a long time to do but it was done, and the silver cream-jug which is between ourselves and the bed and the mattress in my room up-stairs (or it would have found legs so sure as ever the Furnished bill was up) being presented by the gentlemen engraved "To Mrs. Lirriper a mark of grateful respect for her honourable conduct" gave me a turn which was too much for my feelings, till Mr. Betley which at that time had the parlours and loved his joke says "Cheer up Mrs. Lirriper, you should feel as if it was only your christening and they were your godfathers and godmothers which did promise for you." And it brought me round, and I don't mind confessing to you my dear that I then put a sandwich and a drop of sherry in a little basket and went down to Hatfield church-yard outside the coach and kissed my hand and laid it with a kind of proud and swelling love on my husband's grave, though bless you it had taken me so long to clear his name that my wedding-ring was worn quite fine and smooth when I laid it on the green green waving grass. I am an old woman now and my good looks are gone but that's me my dear over the plate-warmer and considered like in the times when you used to pay two guineas on ivory and took your chance pretty much how you came out, which made you very careful how you left it about afterwards because people were turned so red and uncomfortable by mostly guessing it was somebody else quite different, and there was once a certain person that had put his money in a hop business that came in one morning to pay his rent and his respects being the second floor that would have taken it down from its hook and put it in his breast-pocket--you understand my dear--for the L, he says of the original--only there was no mellowness in _his_ voice and I wouldn't let him, but his opinion of it you may gather from his saying to it "Speak to me Emma!" which was far from a rational observation no doubt but still a tribute to its being a likeness, and I think myself it _was_ like me when I was young and wore that sort of stays. But it was about the Lodgings that I was intending to hold forth and certainly I ought to know something of the business having been in it so long, for it was early in the second year of my married life that I lost my poor Lirriper and I set up at Islington directly afterwards and afterwards came here, being two houses and eight-and-thirty years and some losses and a deal of experience. Girls are your first trial after fixtures and they try you even worse than what I call the Wandering Christians, though why _they_ should roam the earth looking for bills and then coming in and viewing the apartments and stickling about terms and never at all wanting them or dreaming of taking them being already provided, is, a mystery I should be thankful to have explained if by any miracle it could be. It's wonderful they live so long and thrive so on it but I suppose the exercise makes it healthy, knocking so much and going from house to house and up and down-stairs all day, and then their pretending to be so particular and punctual is a most astonishing thing, looking at their watches and saying "Could you give me the refusal of the rooms till twenty minutes past eleven the day after to- morrow in the forenoon, and supposing it to be considered essential by my friend from the country could there be a small iron bedstead put in the little room upon the stairs?" Why when I was new to it my dear I used to consider before I promised and to make my mind anxious with calculations and to get quite wearied out with disappointments, but now I says "Certainly by all means" well knowing it's a Wandering Christian and I shall hear no more about it, indeed by this time I know most of the Wandering Christians by sight as well as they know me, it being the habit of each individual revolving round London in that capacity to come back about twice a year, and it's very remarkable that it runs in families and the children grow up to it, but even were it otherwise I should no sooner hear of the friend from the country which is a certain sign than I should nod and say to myself You're a Wandering Christian, though whether they are (as I _have_ heard) persons of small property with a taste for regular employment and frequent change of scene I cannot undertake to tell you. Girls as I was beginning to remark are one of your first and your lasting troubles, being like your teeth which begin with convulsions and never cease tormenting you from the time you cut them till they cut you, and then you don't want to part with them which seems hard but we must all succumb or buy artificial, and even where you get a will nine times out of ten you'll get a dirty face with it and naturally lodgers do not like good society to be shown in with a smear of black across the nose or a smudgy eyebrow. Where they pick the black up is a mystery I cannot solve, as in the case of the willingest girl that ever came into a house half-starved poor thing, a girl so willing that I called her Willing Sophy down upon her knees scrubbing early and late and ever cheerful but always smiling with a black face. And I says to Sophy, "Now Sophy my good girl have a regular day for your stoves and keep the width of the Airy between yourself and the blacking and do not brush your hair with the bottoms of the saucepans and do not meddle with the snuffs of the candles and it stands to reason that it can no longer be" yet there it was and always on her nose, which turning up and being broad at the end seemed to boast of it and caused warning from a steady gentleman and excellent lodger with breakfast by the week but a little irritable and use of a sitting-room when required, his words being "Mrs. Lirriper I have arrived at the point of admitting that the Black is a man and a brother, but only in a natural form and when it can't be got off." Well consequently I put poor Sophy on to other work and forbid her answering the door or answering a bell on any account but she was so unfortunately willing that nothing would stop her flying up the kitchen-stairs whenever a bell was heard to tingle. I put it to her "O Sophy Sophy for goodness' goodness' sake where does it come from?" To which that poor unlucky willing mortal--bursting out crying to see me so vexed replied "I took a deal of black into me ma'am when I was a small child being much neglected and I think it must be, that it works out," so it continuing to work out of that poor thing and not having another fault to find with her I says "Sophy what do you seriously think of my helping you away to New South Wales where it might not be noticed?" Nor did I ever repent the money which was well spent, for she married the ship's cook on the voyage (himself a Mulotter) and did well and lived happy, and so far as ever I heard it was _not_ noticed in a new state of society to her dying day. In what way Miss Wozenham lower down on the other side of the way reconciled it to her feelings as a lady (which she is not) to entice Mary Anne Perkinsop from my service is best known to herself, I do not know and I do not wish to know how opinions are formed at Wozenham's on any point. But Mary Anne Perkinsop although I behaved handsomely to her and she behaved unhandsomely to me was worth her weight in gold as overawing lodgers without driving them away, for lodgers would be far more sparing of their bells with Mary Anne than I ever knew them to be with Maid or Mistress, which is a great triumph especially when accompanied with a cast in the eye and a bag of bones, but it was the steadiness of her way with them through her father's having failed in Pork. It was Mary Anne's looking so respectable in her person and being so strict in her spirits that conquered the tea-and-sugarest gentleman (for he weighed them both in a pair of scales every morning) that I have ever had to deal with and no lamb grew meeker, still it afterwards came round to me that Miss Wozenham happening to pass and seeing Mary Anne take in the milk of a milkman that made free in a rosy-faced way (I think no worse of him) with every girl in the street but was quite frozen up like the statue at Charing-cross by her, saw Mary Anne's value in the lodging business and went as high as one pound per quarter more, consequently Mary Anne with not a word betwixt us says "If you will provide yourself Mrs. Lirriper in a month from this day I have already done the same," which hurt me and I said so, and she then hurt me more by insinuating that her father having failed in Pork had laid her open to it. My dear I do assure you it's a harassing thing to know what kind of girls to give the preference to, for if they are lively they get bell'd off their legs and if they are sluggish you suffer from it yourself in complaints and if they are sparkling-eyed they get made love to, and if they are smart in their persons they try on your Lodgers' bonnets and if they are musical I defy you to keep them away from bands and organs, and allowing for any difference you like in their heads their heads will be always out of window just the same. And then what the gentlemen like in girls the ladies don't, which is fruitful hot water for all parties, and then there's temper though such a temper as Caroline Maxey's I hope not often. A good-looking black-eyed girl was Caroline and a comely-made girl to your cost when she did break out and laid about her, as took place first and last through a new-married couple come to see London in the first floor and the lady very high and it _was_ supposed not liking the good looks of Caroline having none of her own to spare, but anyhow she did try Caroline though that was no excuse. So one afternoon Caroline comes down into the kitchen flushed and flashing, and she says to me "Mrs. Lirriper that woman in the first has aggravated me past bearing," I says "Caroline keep your temper," Caroline says with a curdling laugh "Keep my temper? You're right Mrs. Lirriper, so I will. Capital D her!" bursts out Caroline (you might have struck me into the centre of the earth with a feather when she said it) "I'll give her a touch of the temper that _I_ keep!" Caroline downs with her hair my dear, screeches and rushes up-stairs, I following as fast as my trembling legs could bear me, but before I got into the room the dinner-cloth and pink-and-white service all dragged off upon the floor with a crash and the new-married couple on their backs in the firegrate, him with the shovel and tongs and a dish of cucumber across him and a mercy it was summer-time. "Caroline" I says "be calm," but she catches off my cap and tears it in her teeth as she passes me, then pounces on the new-married lady makes her a bundle of ribbons takes her by the two ears and knocks the back of her head upon the carpet Murder screaming all the time Policemen running down the street and Wozenham's windows (judge of my feelings when I came to know it) thrown up and Miss Wozenham calling out from the balcony with crocodile's tears "It's Mrs. Lirriper been overcharging somebody to madness--she'll be murdered--I always thought so--Pleeseman save her!" My dear four of them and Caroline behind the chiffoniere attacking with the poker and when disarmed prize-fighting with her double fists, and down and up and up and down and dreadful! But I couldn't bear to see the poor young creature roughly handled and her hair torn when they got the better of her, and I says "Gentlemen Policemen pray remember that her sex is the sex of your mothers and sisters and your sweethearts, and God bless them and you!" And there she was sitting down on the ground handcuffed, taking breath against the skirting-board and them cool with their coats in strips, and all she says was "Mrs. Lirriper I'm sorry as ever I touched you, for you're a kind motherly old thing," and it made me think that I had often wished I had been a mother indeed and how would my heart have felt if I had been the mother of that girl! Well you know it turned out at the Police-office that she had done it before, and she had her clothes away and was sent to prison, and when she was to come out I trotted off to the gate in the evening with just a morsel of jelly in that little basket of mine to give her a mite of strength to face the world again, and there I met with a very decent mother waiting for her son through bad company and a stubborn one he was with his half-boots not laced. So out came Caroline and I says "Caroline come along with me and sit down under the wall where it's retired and eat a little trifle that I have brought with me to do you good," and she throws her arms round my neck and says sobbing "O why were you never a mother when there are such mothers as there are!" she says, and in half a minute more she begins to laugh and says "Did I really tear your cap to shreds?" and when I told her "You certainly did so Caroline" she laughed again and said while she patted my face "Then why do you wear such queer old caps you dear old thing? if you hadn't worn such queer old caps I don't think I should have done it even then." Fancy the girl! Nothing could get out of her what she was going to do except O she would do well enough, and we parted she being very thankful and kissing my hands, and I nevermore saw or heard of that girl, except that I shall always believe that a very genteel cap which was brought anonymous to me one Saturday night in an oilskin basket by a most impertinent young sparrow of a monkey whistling with dirty shoes on the clean steps and playing the harp on the Airy railings with a hoop-stick came from Caroline. What you lay yourself open to my dear in the way of being the object of uncharitable suspicions when you go into the Lodging business I have not the words to tell you, but never was I so dishonourable as to have two keys nor would I willingly think it even of Miss Wozenham lower down on the other side of the way sincerely hoping that it may not be, though doubtless at the same time money cannot come from nowhere and it is not reason to suppose that Bradshaws put it in for love be it blotty as it may. It _is_ a hardship hurting to the feelings that Lodgers open their minds so wide to the idea that you are trying to get the better of them and shut their minds so close to the idea that they are trying to get the better of you, but as Major Jackman says to me, "I know the ways of this circular world Mrs. Lirriper, and that's one of 'em all round it" and many is the little ruffle in my mind that the Major has smoothed, for he is a clever man who has seen much. Dear dear, thirteen years have passed though it seems but yesterday since I was sitting with my glasses on at the open front parlour window one evening in August (the parlours being then vacant) reading yesterday's paper my eyes for print being poor though still I am thankful to say a long sight at a distance, when I hear a gentleman come posting across the road and up the street in a dreadful rage talking to himself in a fury and d'ing and c'ing somebody. "By George!" says he out loud and clutching his walking-stick, "I'll go to Mrs. Lirriper's. Which is Mrs. Lirriper's?" Then looking round and seeing me he flourishes his hat right off his head as if I had been the queen and he says, "Excuse the intrusion Madam, but pray Madam can you tell me at what number in this street there resides a well-known and much- respected lady by the name of Lirriper?" A little flustered though I must say gratified I took off my glasses and courtesied and said "Sir, Mrs. Lirriper is your humble servant." "Astonishing!" says he. "A million pardons! Madam, may I ask you to have the kindness to direct one of your domestics to open the door to a gentleman in search of apartments, by the name of Jackman?" I had never heard the name but a politer gentleman I never hope to see, for says he, "Madam I am shocked at your opening the door yourself to no worthier a fellow than Jemmy Jackman. After you Madam. I never precede a lady." Then he comes into the parlours and he sniffs, and he says "Hah! These are parlours! Not musty cupboards" he says "but parlours, and no smell of coal-sacks." Now my dear it having been remarked by some inimical to the whole neighbourhood that it always smells of coal-sacks which might prove a drawback to Lodgers if encouraged, I says to the Major gently though firmly that I think he is referring to Arundel or Surrey or Howard but not Norfolk. "Madam" says he "I refer to Wozenham's lower down over the way--Madam you can form no notion what Wozenham's is--Madam it is a vast coal-sack, and Miss Wozenham has the principles and manners of a female heaver--Madam from the manner in which I have heard her mention you I know she has no appreciation of a lady, and from the manner in which she has conducted herself towards me I know she has no appreciation of a gentleman--Madam my name is Jackman--should you require any other reference than what I have already said, I name the Bank of England--perhaps you know it!" Such was the beginning of the Major's occupying the parlours and from that hour to this the same and a most obliging Lodger and punctual in all respects except one irregular which I need not particularly specify, but made up for by his being a protection and at all times ready to fill in the papers of the Assessed Taxes and Juries and that, and once collared a young man with the drawing-room clock under his coat, and once on the parapets with his own hands and blankets put out the kitchen chimney and afterwards attending the summons made a most eloquent speech against the Parish before the magistrates and saved the engine, and ever quite the gentleman though passionate. And certainly Miss Wozenham's detaining the trunks and umbrella was not in a liberal spirit though it may have been according to her rights in law or an act _I_ would myself have stooped to, the Major being so much the gentleman that though he is far from tall he seems almost so when he has his shirt-frill out and his frock-coat on and his hat with the curly brims, and in what service he was I cannot truly tell you my dear whether Militia or Foreign, for I never heard him even name himself as Major but always simple "Jemmy Jackman" and once soon after he came when I felt it my duty to let him know that Miss Wozenham had put it about that he was no Major and I took the liberty of adding "which you are sir" his words were "Madam at any rate I am not a Minor, and sufficient for the day is the evil thereof" which cannot be denied to be the sacred truth, nor yet his military ways of having his boots with only the dirt brushed off taken to him in the front parlour every morning on a clean plate and varnishing them himself with a little sponge and a saucer and a whistle in a whisper so sure as ever his breakfast is ended, and so neat his ways that it never soils his linen which is scrupulous though more in quality than quantity, neither that nor his mustachios which to the best of my belief are done at the same time and which are as black and shining as his boots, his head of hair being a lovely white. It was the third year nearly up of the Major's being in the parlours that early one morning in the month of February when Parliament was coming on and you may therefore suppose a number of impostors were about ready to take hold of anything they could get, a gentleman and a lady from the country came in to view the Second, and I well remember that I had been looking out of window and had watched them and the heavy sleet driving down the street together looking for bills. I did not quite take to the face of the gentleman though he was good-looking too but the lady was a very pretty young thing and delicate, and it seemed too rough for her to be out at all though she had only come from the Adelphi Hotel which would not have been much above a quarter of a mile if the weather had been less severe. Now it did so happen my dear that I had been forced to put five shillings weekly additional on the second in consequence of a loss from running away full dressed as if going out to a dinner-party, which was very artful and had made me rather suspicious taking it along with Parliament, so when the gentleman proposed three months certain and the money in advance and leave then reserved to renew on the same terms for six months more, I says I was not quite certain but that I might have engaged myself to another party but would step down-stairs and look into it if they would take a seat. They took a seat and I went down to the handle of the Major's door that I had already began to consult finding it a great blessing, and I knew by his whistling in a whisper that he was varnishing his boots which was generally considered private, however he kindly calls out "If it's you, Madam, come in," and I went in and told him. "Well, Madam," says the Major rubbing his nose--as I did fear at the moment with the black sponge but it was only his knuckle, he being always neat and dexterous with his fingers--"well, Madam, I suppose you would be glad of the money?" I was delicate of saying "Yes" too out, for a little extra colour rose into the Major's cheeks and there was irregularity which I will not particularly specify in a quarter which I will not name. "I am of opinion, Madam," says the Major, "that when money is ready for you--when it is ready for you, Mrs. Lirriper--you ought to take it. What is there against it, Madam, in this case up-stairs?" "I really cannot say there is anything against it, sir, still I thought I would consult you." "You said a newly-married couple, I think, Madam?" says the Major. I says "Ye-es. Evidently. And indeed the young lady mentioned to me in a casual way that she had not been married many months." The Major rubbed his nose again and stirred the varnish round and round in its little saucer with his piece of sponge and took to his whistling in a whisper for a few moments. Then he says "You would call it a Good Let, Madam?" "O certainly a Good Let sir." "Say they renew for the additional six months. Would it put you about very much Madam if--if the worst was to come to the worst?" said the Major. "Well I hardly know," I says to the Major. "It depends upon circumstances. Would _you_ object Sir for instance?" "I?" says the Major. "Object? Jemmy Jackman? Mrs. Lirriper close with the proposal." So I went up-stairs and accepted, and they came in next day which was Saturday and the Major was so good as to draw up a Memorandum of an agreement in a beautiful round hand and expressions that sounded to me equally legal and military, and Mr. Edson signed it on the Monday morning and the Major called upon Mr. Edson on the Tuesday and Mr. Edson called upon the Major on the Wednesday and the Second and the parlours were as friendly as could be wished. The three months paid for had run out and we had got without any fresh overtures as to payment into May my dear, when there came an obligation upon Mr. Edson to go a business expedition right across the Isle of Man, which fell quite unexpected upon that pretty little thing and is not a place that according to my views is particularly in the way to anywhere at any time but that may be a matter of opinion. So short a notice was it that he was to go next day, and dreadfully she cried poor pretty, and I am sure I cried too when I saw her on the cold pavement in the sharp east wind--it being a very backward spring that year--taking a last leave of him with her pretty bright hair blowing this way and that and her arms clinging round his neck and him saying "There there there. Now let me go Peggy." And by that time it was plain that what the Major had been so accommodating as to say he would not object to happening in the house, would happen in it, and I told her as much when he was gone while I comforted her with my arm up the staircase, for I says "You will soon have others to keep up for my pretty and you must think of that." His letter never came when it ought to have come and what she went through morning after morning when the postman brought none for her the very postman himself compassionated when she ran down to the door, and yet we cannot wonder at its being calculated to blunt the feelings to have all the trouble of other people's letters and none of the pleasure and doing it oftener in the mud and mizzle than not and at a rate of wages more resembling Little Britain than Great. But at last one morning when she was too poorly to come running down-stairs he says to me with a pleased look in his face that made me next to love the man in his uniform coat though he was dripping wet "I have taken you first in the street this morning Mrs. Lirriper, for here's the one for Mrs. Edson." I went up to her bedroom with it as fast as ever I could go, and she sat up in bed when she saw it and kissed it and tore it open and then a blank stare came upon her. "It's very short!" she says lifting her large eyes to my face. "O Mrs. Lirriper it's very short!" I says "My dear Mrs. Edson no doubt that's because your husband hadn't time to write more just at that time." "No doubt, no doubt," says she, and puts her two hands on her face and turns round in her bed. I shut her softly in and I crept down-stairs and I tapped at the Major's door, and when the Major having his thin slices of bacon in his own Dutch oven saw me he came out of his chair and put me down on the sofa. "Hush!" says he, "I see something's the matter. Don't speak--take time." I says "O Major I'm afraid there's cruel work up-stairs." "Yes yes" says he "I had begun to be afraid of it--take time." And then in opposition to his own words he rages out frightfully, and says "I shall never forgive myself Madam, that I, Jemmy Jackman, didn't see it all that morning--didn't go straight up-stairs when my boot-sponge was in my hand--didn't force it down his throat--and choke him dead with it on the spot!" The Major and me agreed when we came to ourselves that just at present we could do no more than take on to suspect nothing and use our best endeavours to keep that poor young creature quiet, and what I ever should have done without the Major when it got about among the organ-men that quiet was our object is unknown, for he made lion and tiger war upon them to that degree that without seeing it I could not have believed it was in any gentleman to have such a power of bursting out with fire-irons walking-sticks water-jugs coals potatoes off his table the very hat off his head, and at the same time so furious in foreign languages that they would stand with their handles half-turned fixed like the Sleeping Ugly--for I cannot say Beauty. Ever to see the postman come near the house now gave me such I fear that it was a reprieve when he went by, but in about another ten days or a fortnight he says again, "Here's one for Mrs. Edson.--Is she pretty well?" "She is pretty well postman, but not well enough to rise so early as she used" which was so far gospel-truth. I carried the letter in to the Major at his breakfast and I says tottering "Major I have not the courage to take it up to her." "It's an ill-looking villain of a letter," says the Major. "I have not the courage Major" I says again in a tremble "to take it up to her." After seeming lost in consideration for some moments the Major says, raising his head as if something new and useful had occurred to his mind "Mrs. Lirriper, I shall never forgive myself that I, Jemmy Jackman, didn't go straight up-stairs that morning when my boot-sponge was in my hand--and force it down his throat--and choke him dead with it." "Major" I says a little hasty "you didn't do it which is a blessing, for it would have done no good and I think your sponge was better employed on your own honourable boots." So we got to be rational, and planned that I should tap at her bedroom door and lay the letter on the mat outside and wait on the upper landing for what might happen, and never was gunpowder cannon-balls or shells or rockets more dreaded than that dreadful letter was by me as I took it to the second floor. A terrible loud scream sounded through the house the minute after she had opened it, and I found her on the floor lying as if her life was gone. My dear I never looked at the face of the letter which was lying, open by her, for there was no occasion. Everything I needed to bring her round the Major brought up with his own hands, besides running out to the chemist's for what was not in the house and likewise having the fiercest of all his many skirmishes with a musical instrument representing a ball-room I do not know in what particular country and company waltzing in and out at folding-doors with rolling eyes. When after a long time I saw her coming to, I slipped on the landing till I heard her cry, and then I went in and says cheerily "Mrs. Edson you're not well my dear and it's not to be wondered at," as if I had not been in before. Whether she believed or disbelieved I cannot say and it would signify nothing if I could, but I stayed by her for hours and then she God ever blesses me! and says she will try to rest for her head is bad. "Major," I whispers, looking in at the parlours, "I beg and pray of you don't go out." The Major whispers, "Madam, trust me I will do no such a thing. How is she?" I says "Major the good Lord above us only knows what burns and rages in her poor mind. I left her sitting at her window. I am going to sit at mine." It came on afternoon and it came on evening. Norfolk is a delightful street to lodge in--provided you don't go lower down--but of a summer evening when the dust and waste paper lie in it and stray children play in it and a kind of a gritty calm and bake settles on it and a peal of church-bells is practising in the neighbourhood it is a trifle dull, and never have I seen it since at such a time and never shall I see it evermore at such a time without seeing the dull June evening when that forlorn young creature sat at her open corner window on the second and me at my open corner window (the other corner) on the third. Something merciful, something wiser and better far than my own self, had moved me while it was yet light to sit in my bonnet and shawl, and as the shadows fell and the tide rose I could sometimes--when I put out my head and looked at her window below--see that she leaned out a little looking down the street. It was just settling dark when I saw _her_ in the street. So fearful of losing sight of her that it almost stops my breath while I tell it, I went down-stairs faster than I ever moved in all my life and only tapped with my hand at the Major's door in passing it and slipping out. She was gone already. I made the same speed down the street and when I came to the corner of Howard Street I saw that she had turned it and was there plain before me going towards the west. O with what a thankful heart I saw her going along! She was quite unacquainted with London and had very seldom been out for more than an airing in our own street where she knew two or three little children belonging to neighbours and had sometimes stood among them at the street looking at the water. She must be going at hazard I knew, still she kept the by-streets quite correctly as long as they would serve her, and then turned up into the Strand. But at every corner I could see her head turned one way, and that way was always the river way. It may have been only the darkness and quiet of the Adelphi that caused her to strike into it but she struck into it much as readily as if she had set out to go there, which perhaps was the case. She went straight down to the Terrace and along it and looked over the iron rail, and I often woke afterwards in my own bed with the horror of seeing her do it. The desertion of the wharf below and the flowing of the high water there seemed to settle her purpose. She looked about as if to make out the way down, and she struck out the right way or the wrong way--I don't know which, for I don't know the place before or since--and I followed her the way she went. It was noticeable that all this time she never once looked back. But there was now a great change in the manner of her going, and instead of going at a steady quick walk with her arms folded before her,--among the dark dismal arches she went in a wild way with her arms opened wide, as if they were wings and she was flying to her death. We were on the wharf and she stopped. I stopped. I saw her hands at her bonnet-strings, and I rushed between her and the brink and took her round the waist with both my arms. She might have drowned me, I felt then, but she could never have got quit of me. Down to that moment my mind had been all in a maze and not half an idea had I had in it what I should say to her, but the instant I touched her it came to me like magic and I had my natural voice and my senses and even almost my breath. "Mrs. Edson!" I says "My dear! Take care. How ever did you lose your way and stumble on a dangerous place like this? Why you must have come here by the most perplexing streets in all London. No wonder you are lost, I'm sure. And this place too! Why I thought nobody ever got here, except me to order my coals and the Major in the parlours to smoke his cigar!"--for I saw that blessed man close by, pretending to it. "Hah--Hah--Hum!" coughs the Major. "And good gracious me" I says, "why here he is!" "Halloa! who goes there?" says the Major in a military manner. "Well!" I says, "if this don't beat everything! Don't you know us Major Jackman?" "Halloa!" says the Major. "Who calls on Jemmy Jackman?" (and more out of breath he was, and did it less like life than I should have expected.) "Why here's Mrs. Edson Major" I says, "strolling out to cool her poor head which has been very bad, has missed her way and got lost, and Goodness knows where she might have got to but for me coming here to drop an order into my coal merchant's letter-box and you coming here to smoke your cigar!--And you really are not well enough my dear" I says to her "to be half so far from home without me. And your arm will be very acceptable I am sure Major" I says to him "and I know she may lean upon it as heavy as she likes." And now we had both got her--thanks be Above!--one on each side. She was all in a cold shiver and she so continued till I laid her on her own bed, and up to the early morning she held me by the hand and moaned and moaned "O wicked, wicked, wicked!" But when at last I made believe to droop my head and be overpowered with a dead sleep, I heard that poor young creature give such touching and such humble thanks for being preserved from taking her own life in her madness that I thought I should have cried my eyes out on the counterpane and I knew she was safe. Being well enough to do and able to afford it, me and the Major laid our little plans next day while she was asleep worn out, and so I says to her as soon as I could do it nicely: "Mrs. Edson my dear, when Mr. Edson paid me the rent for these farther six months--" She gave a start and I felt her large eyes look at me, but I went on with it and with my needlework. "--I can't say that I am quite sure I dated the receipt right. Could you let me look at it?" She laid her frozen cold hand upon mine and she looked through me when I was forced to look up from my needlework, but I had taken the precaution of having on my spectacles. "I have no receipt" says she. "Ah! Then he has got it" I says in a careless way. "It's of no great consequence. A receipt's a receipt." From that time she always had hold of my hand when I could spare it which was generally only when I read to her, for of course she and me had our bits of needlework to plod at and neither of us was very handy at those little things, though I am still rather proud of my share in them too considering. And though she took to all I read to her, I used to fancy that next to what was taught upon the Mount she took most of all to His gentle compassion for us poor women and to His young life and to how His mother was proud of Him and treasured His sayings in her heart. She had a grateful look in her eyes that never never never will be out of mine until they are closed in my last sleep, and when I chanced to look at her without thinking of it I would always meet that look, and she would often offer me her trembling lip to kiss, much more like a little affectionate half broken-hearted child than ever I can imagine any grown person. One time the trembling of this poor lip was so strong and her tears ran down so fast that I thought she was going to tell me all her woe, so I takes her two hands in mine and I says: "No my dear not now, you had best not try to do it now. Wait for better times when you have got over this and are strong, and then you shall tell me whatever you will. Shall it be agreed?" With our hands still joined she nodded her head many times, and she lifted my hands and put them to her lips and to her bosom. "Only one word now my dear" I says. "Is there any one?" She looked inquiringly "Any one?" "That I can go to?" She shook her head. "No one that I can bring?" She shook her head. "No one is wanted by _me_ my dear. Now that may be considered past and gone." Not much more than a week afterwards--for this was far on in the time of our being so together--I was bending over at her bedside with my ear down to her lips, by turns listening for her breath and looking for a sign of life in her face. At last it came in a solemn way--not in a flash but like a kind of pale faint light brought very slow to the face. She said something to me that had no sound in it, but I saw she asked me: "Is this death?" And I says: "Poor dear poor dear, I think it is." Knowing somehow that she wanted me to move her weak right hand, I took it and laid it on her breast and then folded her other hand upon it, and she prayed a good good prayer and I joined in it poor me though there were no words spoke. Then I brought the baby in its wrappers from where it lay, and I says: "My dear this is sent to a childless old woman. This is for me to take care of." The trembling lip was put up towards my face for the last time, and I dearly kissed it. "Yes my dear," I says. "Please God! Me and the Major." I don't know how to tell it right, but I saw her soul brighten and leap up, and get free and fly away in the grateful look. * * * * * So this is the why and wherefore of its coming to pass my dear that we called him Jemmy, being after the Major his own godfather with Lirriper for a surname being after myself, and never was a dear child such a brightening thing in a Lodgings or such a playmate to his grandmother as Jemmy to this house and me, and always good and minding what he was told (upon the whole) and soothing for the temper and making everything pleasanter except when he grew old enough to drop his cap down Wozenham's Airy and they wouldn't hand it up to him, and being worked into a state I put on my best bonnet and gloves and parasol with the child in my hand and I says "Miss Wozenham I little thought ever to have entered your house but unless my grandson's cap is instantly restored, the laws of this country regulating the property of the Subject shall at length decide betwixt yourself and me, cost what it may." With a sneer upon her face which did strike me I must say as being expressive of two keys but it may have been a mistake and if there is any doubt let Miss Wozenham have the full benefit of it as is but right, she rang the bell and she says "Jane, is there a street-child's old cap down our Airy?" I says "Miss Wozenham before your housemaid answers that question you must allow me to inform you to your face that my grandson is _not_ a street-child and is _not_ in the habit of wearing old caps. In fact" I says "Miss Wozenham I am far from sure that my grandson's cap may not be newer than your own" which was perfectly savage in me, her lace being the commonest machine-make washed and torn besides, but I had been put into a state to begin with fomented by impertinence. Miss Wozenham says red in the face "Jane you heard my question, is there any child's cap down our Airy?" "Yes Ma'am" says Jane, "I think I did see some such rubbish a-lying there." "Then" says Miss Wozenham "let these visitors out, and then throw up that worthless article out of my premises." But here the child who had been staring at Miss Wozenham with all his eyes and more, frowns down his little eyebrows purses up his little mouth puts his chubby legs far apart turns his little dimpled fists round and round slowly over one another like a little coffee-mill, and says to her "Oo impdent to mi Gran, me tut oor hi!" "O!" says Miss Wozenham looking down scornfully at the Mite "this is not a street-child is it not! Really!" I bursts out laughing and I says "Miss Wozenham if this ain't a pretty sight to you I don't envy your feelings and I wish you good-day. Jemmy come along with Gran." And I was still in the best of humours though his cap came flying up into the street as if it had been just turned on out of the water-plug, and I went home laughing all the way, all owing to that dear boy. The miles and miles that me and the Major have travelled with Jemmy in the dusk between the lights are not to be calculated, Jemmy driving on the coach-box which is the Major's brass-bound writing desk on the table, me inside in the easy-chair and the Major Guard up behind with a brown- paper horn doing it really wonderful. I do assure you my dear that sometimes when I have taken a few winks in my place inside the coach and have come half awake by the flashing light of the fire and have heard that precious pet driving and the Major blowing up behind to have the change of horses ready when we got to the Inn, I have half believed we were on the old North Road that my poor Lirriper knew so well. Then to see that child and the Major both wrapped up getting down to warm their feet and going stamping about and having glasses of ale out of the paper matchboxes on the chimney-piece is to see the Major enjoying it fully as much as the child I am very sure, and it's equal to any play when Coachee opens the coach-door to look in at me inside and say "Wery 'past that 'tage.--'Prightened old lady?" But what my inexpressible feelings were when we lost that child can only be compared to the Major's which were not a shade better, through his straying out at five years old and eleven o'clock in the forenoon and never heard of by word or sign or deed till half-past nine at night, when the Major had gone to the Editor of the _Times_ newspaper to put in an advertisement, which came out next day four-and-twenty hours after he was found, and which I mean always carefully to keep in my lavender drawer as the first printed account of him. The more the day got on, the more I got distracted and the Major too and both of us made worse by the composed ways of the police though very civil and obliging and what I must call their obstinacy in not entertaining the idea that he was stolen. "We mostly find Mum" says the sergeant who came round to comfort me, which he didn't at all and he had been one of the private constables in Caroline's time to which he referred in his opening words when he said "Don't give way to uneasiness in your mind Mum, it'll all come as right as my nose did when I got the same barked by that young woman in your second floor"--says this sergeant "we mostly find Mum as people ain't over-anxious to have what I may call second-hand children. _You'll_ get him back Mum." "O but my dear good sir" I says clasping my hands and wringing them and clasping them again "he is such an uncommon child!" "Yes Mum" says the sergeant, "we mostly find that too Mum. The question is what his clothes were worth." "His clothes" I says "were not worth much sir for he had only got his playing-dress on, but the dear child!--" "All right Mum" says the sergeant. "You'll get him back Mum. And even if he'd had his best clothes on, it wouldn't come to worse than his being found wrapped up in a cabbage-leaf, a shivering in a lane." His words pierced my heart like daggers and daggers, and me and the Major ran in and out like wild things all day long till the Major returning from his interview with the Editor of the _Times_ at night rushes into my little room hysterical and squeezes my hand and wipes his eyes and says "Joy joy--officer in plain clothes came up on the steps as I was letting myself in--compose your feelings--Jemmy's found." Consequently I fainted away and when I came to, embraced the legs of the officer in plain clothes who seemed to be taking a kind of a quiet inventory in his mind of the property in my little room with brown whiskers, and I says "Blessings on you sir where is the Darling!" and he says "In Kennington Station House." I was dropping at his feet Stone at the image of that Innocence in cells with murderers when he adds "He followed the Monkey." I says deeming it slang language "O sir explain for a loving grandmother what Monkey!" He says "Him in the spangled cap with the strap under the chin, as won't keep on--him as sweeps the crossings on a round table and don't want to draw his sabre more than he can help." Then I understood it all and most thankfully thanked him, and me and the Major and him drove over to Kennington and there we found our boy lying quite comfortable before a blazing fire having sweetly played himself to sleep upon a small accordion nothing like so big as a flat-iron which they had been so kind as to lend him for the purpose and which it appeared had been stopped upon a very young person. My dear the system upon which the Major commenced and as I may say perfected Jemmy's learning when he was so small that if the dear was on the other side of the table you had to look under it instead of over it to see him with his mother's own bright hair in beautiful curls, is a thing that ought to be known to the Throne and Lords and Commons and then might obtain some promotion for the Major which he well deserves and would be none the worse for (speaking between friends) L. S. D.-ically. When the Major first undertook his learning he says to me: "I'm going Madam," he says "to make our child a Calculating Boy. "Major," I says, "you terrify me and may do the pet a permanent injury you would never forgive yourself." "Madam," says the Major, "next to my regret that when I had my boot-sponge in my hand, I didn't choke that scoundrel with it--on the spot--" "There! For Gracious' sake," I interrupts, "let his conscience find him without sponges." "--I say next to that regret, Madam," says the Major "would be the regret with which my breast," which he tapped, "would be surcharged if this fine mind was not early cultivated. But mark me Madam," says the Major holding up his forefinger "cultivated on a principle that will make it a delight." "Major" I says "I will be candid with you and tell you openly that if ever I find the dear child fall off in his appetite I shall know it is his calculations and shall put a stop to them at two minutes' notice. Or if I find them mounting to his head" I says, "or striking anyways cold to his stomach or leading to anything approaching flabbiness in his legs, the result will be the same, but Major you are a clever man and have seen much and you love the child and are his own godfather, and if you feel a confidence in trying try." "Spoken Madam" says the Major "like Emma Lirriper. All I have to ask, Madam, is that you will leave my godson and myself to make a week or two's preparations for surprising you, and that you will give me leave to have up and down any small articles not actually in use that I may require from the kitchen." "From the kitchen Major?" I says half feeling as if he had a mind to cook the child. "From the kitchen" says the Major, and smiles and swells, and at the same time looks taller. So I passed my word and the Major and the dear boy were shut up together for half an hour at a time through a certain while, and never could I hear anything going on betwixt them but talking and laughing and Jemmy clapping his hands and screaming out numbers, so I says to myself "it has not harmed him yet" nor could I on examining the dear find any signs of it anywhere about him which was likewise a great relief. At last one day Jemmy brings me a card in joke in the Major's neat writing "The Messrs. Jemmy Jackman" for we had given him the Major's other name too "request the honour of Mrs. Lirriper's company at the Jackman Institution in the front parlour this evening at five, military time, to witness a few slight feats of elementary arithmetic." And if you'll believe me there in the front parlour at five punctual to the moment was the Major behind the Pembroke table with both leaves up and a lot of things from the kitchen tidily set out on old newspapers spread atop of it, and there was the Mite stood upon a chair with his rosy cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling clusters of diamonds. "Now Gran" says he, "oo tit down and don't oo touch ler people"--for he saw with every one of those diamonds of his that I was going to give him a squeeze. "Very well sir" I says "I am obedient in this good company I am sure." And I sits down in the easy-chair that was put for me, shaking my sides. But picture my admiration when the Major going on almost as quick as if he was conjuring sets out all the articles he names, and says "Three saucepans, an Italian iron, a hand-bell, a toasting-fork, a nutmeg-grater, four potlids, a spice-box, two egg-cups, and a chopping- board--how many?" and when that Mite instantly cries "Tifteen, tut down tive and carry ler 'toppin-board" and then claps his hands draws up his legs and dances on his chair. My dear with the same astonishing ease and correctness him and the Major added up the tables chairs and sofy, the picters fenders and fire-irons their own selves me and the cat and the eyes in Miss Wozenham's head, and whenever the sum was done Young Roses and Diamonds claps his hands and draws up his legs and dances on his chair. The pride of the Major! ("_Here's_ a mind Ma'am!" he says to me behind his hand.) Then he says aloud, "We now come to the next elementary rule,--which is called--" "Umtraction!" cries Jemmy. "Right," says the Major. "We have here a toasting-fork, a potato in its natural state, two potlids, one egg-cup, a wooden spoon, and two skewers, from which it is necessary for commercial purposes to subtract a sprat- gridiron, a small pickle-jar, two lemons, one pepper-castor, a blackbeetle-trap, and a knob of the dresser-drawer--what remains?" "Toatin-fork!" cries Jemmy. "In numbers how many?" says the Major. "One!" cries Jemmy. ("_Here's_ a boy, Ma'am!" says the Major to me behind his hand.) Then the Major goes on: "We now approach the next elementary rule,--which is entitled--" "Tickleication" cries Jemmy. "Correct" says the Major. But my dear to relate to you in detail the way in which they multiplied fourteen sticks of firewood by two bits of ginger and a larding needle, or divided pretty well everything else there was on the table by the heater of the Italian iron and a chamber candlestick, and got a lemon over, would make my head spin round and round and round as it did at the time. So I says "if you'll excuse my addressing the chair Professor Jackman I think the period of the lecture has now arrived when it becomes necessary that I should take a good hug of this young scholar." Upon which Jemmy calls out from his station on the chair, "Gran oo open oor arms and me'll make a 'pring into 'em." So I opened my arms to him as I had opened my sorrowful heart when his poor young mother lay a dying, and he had his jump and we had a good long hug together and the Major prouder than any peacock says to me behind his hand, "You need not let him know it Madam" (which I certainly need not for the Major was quite audible) "but he _is_ a boy!" In this way Jemmy grew and grew and went to day-school and continued under the Major too, and in summer we were as happy as the days were long, and in winter we were as happy as the days were short and there seemed to rest a Blessing on the Lodgings for they as good as Let themselves and would have done it if there had been twice the accommodation, when sore and hard against my will I one day says to the Major. "Major you know what I am going to break to you. Our boy must go to boarding-school." It was a sad sight to see the Major's countenance drop, and I pitied the good soul with all my heart. "Yes Major" I says, "though he is as popular with the Lodgers as you are yourself and though he is to you and me what only you and me know, still it is in the course of things and Life is made of partings and we must part with our Pet." Bold as I spoke, I saw two Majors and half-a-dozen fireplaces, and when the poor Major put one of his neat bright-varnished boots upon the fender and his elbow on his knee and his head upon his hand and rocked himself a little to and fro, I was dreadfully cut up. "But" says I clearing my throat "you have so well prepared him Major--he has had such a Tutor in you--that he will have none of the first drudgery to go through. And he is so clever besides that he'll soon make his way to the front rank." "He is a boy" says the Major--having sniffed--"that has not his like on the face of the earth." "True as you say Major, and it is not for us merely for our own sakes to do anything to keep him back from being a credit and an ornament wherever he goes and perhaps even rising to be a great man, is it Major? He will have all my little savings when my work is done (being all the world to me) and we must try to make him a wise man and a good man, mustn't we Major?" "Madam" says the Major rising "Jemmy Jackman is becoming an older file than I was aware of, and you put him to shame. You are thoroughly right Madam. You are simply and undeniably right.--And if you'll excuse me, I'll take a walk." So the Major being gone out and Jemmy being at home, I got the child into my little room here and I stood him by my chair and I took his mother's own curls in my hand and I spoke to him loving and serious. And when I had reminded the darling how that he was now in his tenth year and when I had said to him about his getting on in life pretty much what I had said to the Major I broke to him how that we must have this same parting, and there I was forced to stop for there I saw of a sudden the well-remembered lip with its tremble, and it so brought back that time! But with the spirit that was in him he controlled it soon and he says gravely nodding through his tears, "I understand Gran--I know it _must_ be, Gran--go on Gran, don't be afraid of _me_." And when I had said all that ever I could think of, he turned his bright steady face to mine and he says just a little broken here and there "You shall see Gran that I can be a man and that I can do anything that is grateful and loving to you--and if I don't grow up to be what you would like to have me--I hope it will be--because I shall die." And with that he sat down by me and I went on to tell him of the school of which I had excellent recommendations and where it was and how many scholars and what games they played as I had heard and what length of holidays, to all of which he listened bright and clear. And so it came that at last he says "And now dear Gran let me kneel down here where I have been used to say my prayers and let me fold my face for just a minute in your gown and let me cry, for you have been more than father--more than mother--more than brothers sisters friends--to me!" And so he did cry and I too and we were both much the better for it. From that time forth he was true to his word and ever blithe and ready, and even when me and the Major took him down into Lincolnshire he was far the gayest of the party though for sure and certain he might easily have been that, but he really was and put life into us only when it came to the last Good-bye, he says with a wistful look, "You wouldn't have me not really sorry would you Gran?" and when I says "No dear, Lord forbid!" he says "I am glad of that!" and ran in out of sight. But now that the child was gone out of the Lodgings the Major fell into a regularly moping state. It was taken notice of by all the Lodgers that the Major moped. He hadn't even the same air of being rather tall than he used to have, and if he varnished his boots with a single gleam of interest it was as much as he did. One evening the Major came into my little room to take a cup of tea and a morsel of buttered toast and to read Jemmy's newest letter which had arrived that afternoon (by the very same postman more than middle-aged upon the Beat now), and the letter raising him up a little I says to the Major: "Major you mustn't get into a moping way." The Major shook his head. "Jemmy Jackman Madam," he says with a deep sigh, "is an older file than I thought him." "Moping is not the way to grow younger Major." "My dear Madam," says the Major, "is there _any_ way of growing younger?" Feeling that the Major was getting rather the best of that point I made a diversion to another. "Thirteen years! Thir-teen years! Many Lodgers have come and gone, in the thirteen years that you have lived in the parlours Major." "Hah!" says the Major warming. "Many Madam, many." "And I should say you have been familiar with them all?" "As a rule (with its exceptions like all rules) my dear Madam" says the Major, "they have honoured me with their acquaintance, and not unfrequently with their confidence." Watching the Major as he drooped his white head and stroked his black mustachios and moped again, a thought which I think must have been going about looking for an owner somewhere dropped into my old noddle if you will excuse the expression. "The walls of my Lodgings" I says in a casual way--for my dear it is of no use going straight at a man who mopes--"might have something to tell if they could tell it." The Major neither moved nor said anything but I saw he was attending with his shoulders my dear--attending with his shoulders to what I said. In fact I saw that his shoulders were struck by it. "The dear boy was always fond of story-books" I went on, like as if I was talking to myself. "I am sure this house--his own home--might write a story or two for his reading one day or another." The Major's shoulders gave a dip and a curve and his head came up in his shirt-collar. The Major's head came up in his shirt-collar as I hadn't seen it come up since Jemmy went to school. "It is unquestionable that in intervals of cribbage and a friendly rubber, my dear Madam," says the Major, "and also over what used to be called in my young times--in the salad days of Jemmy Jackman--the social glass, I have exchanged many a reminiscence with your Lodgers." My remark was--I confess I made it with the deepest and artfullest of intentions--"I wish our dear boy had heard them!" "Are you serious Madam?" asked the Major starting and turning full round. "Why not Major?" "Madam" says the Major, turning up one of his cuffs, "they shall be written for him." "Ah! Now you speak" I says giving my hands a pleased clap. "Now you are in a way out of moping Major!" "Between this and my holidays--I mean the dear boy's" says the Major turning up his other cuff, "a good deal may be done towards it." "Major you are a clever man and you have seen much and not a doubt of it." "I'll begin," says the Major looking as tall as ever he did, "to-morrow." My dear the Major was another man in three days and he was himself again in a week and he wrote and wrote and wrote with his pen scratching like rats behind the wainscot, and whether he had many grounds to go upon or whether he did at all romance I cannot tell you, but what he has written is in the left-hand glass closet of the little bookcase close behind you. CHAPTER II--HOW THE PARLOURS ADDED A FEW WORDS I have the honour of presenting myself by the name of Jackman. I esteem it a proud privilege to go down to posterity through the instrumentality of the most remarkable boy that ever lived,--by the name of JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER,--and of my most worthy and most highly respected friend, Mrs. Emma Lirriper, of Eighty-one, Norfolk Street, Strand, in the County of Middlesex, in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. It is not for me to express the rapture with which we received that dear and eminently remarkable boy, on the occurrence of his first Christmas holidays. Suffice it to observe that when he came flying into the house with two splendid prizes (Arithmetic, and Exemplary Conduct), Mrs. Lirriper and myself embraced with emotion, and instantly took him to the Play, where we were all three admirably entertained. Nor is it to render homage to the virtues of the best of her good and honoured sex--whom, in deference to her unassuming worth, I will only here designate by the initials E. L.--that I add this record to the bundle of papers with which our, in a most distinguished degree, remarkable boy has expressed himself delighted, before re-consigning the same to the left-hand glass closet of Mrs. Lirriper's little bookcase. Neither is it to obtrude the name of the old original superannuated obscure Jemmy Jackman, once (to his degradation) of Wozenham's, long (to his elevation) of Lirriper's. If I could be consciously guilty of that piece of bad taste, it would indeed be a work of supererogation, now that the name is borne by JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER. No, I take up my humble pen to register a little record of our strikingly remarkable boy, which my poor capacity regards as presenting a pleasant little picture of the dear boy's mind. The picture may be interesting to himself when he is a man. Our first reunited Christmas-day was the most delightful one we have ever passed together. Jemmy was never silent for five minutes, except in church-time. He talked as we sat by the fire, he talked when we were out walking, he talked as we sat by the fire again, he talked incessantly at dinner, though he made a dinner almost as remarkable as himself. It was the spring of happiness in his fresh young heart flowing and flowing, and it fertilised (if I may be allowed so bold a figure) my much-esteemed friend, and J. J. the present writer. There were only we three. We dined in my esteemed friend's little room, and our entertainment was perfect. But everything in the establishment is, in neatness, order, and comfort, always perfect. After dinner our boy slipped away to his old stool at my esteemed friend's knee, and there, with his hot chestnuts and his glass of brown sherry (really, a most excellent wine!) on a chair for a table, his face outshone the apples in the dish. We talked of these jottings of mine, which Jemmy had read through and through by that time; and so it came about that my esteemed friend remarked, as she sat smoothing Jemmy's curls: "And as you belong to the house too, Jemmy,--and so much more than the Lodgers, having been born in it,--why, your story ought to be added to the rest, I think, one of these days." Jemmy's eyes sparkled at this, and he said, "So _I_ think, Gran." Then he sat looking at the fire, and then he began to laugh in a sort of confidence with the fire, and then he said, folding his arms across my esteemed friend's lap, and raising his bright face to hers. "Would you like to hear a boy's story, Gran?" "Of all things," replied my esteemed friend. "Would you, godfather?" "Of all things," I too replied. "Well, then," said Jemmy, "I'll tell you one." Here our indisputably remarkable boy gave himself a hug, and laughed again, musically, at the idea of his coming out in that new line. Then he once more took the fire into the same sort of confidence as before, and began: "Once upon a time, When pigs drank wine, And monkeys chewed tobaccer, 'Twas neither in your time nor mine, But that's no macker--" "Bless the child!" cried my esteemed friend, "what's amiss with his brain?" "It's poetry, Gran," returned Jemmy, shouting with laughter. "We always begin stories that way at school." "Gave me quite a turn, Major," said my esteemed friend, fanning herself with a plate. "Thought he was light-headed!" "In those remarkable times, Gran and godfather, there was once a boy,--not me, you know." "No, no," says my respected friend, "not you. Not him, Major, you understand?" "No, no," says I. "And he went to school in Rutlandshire--" "Why not Lincolnshire?" says my respected friend. "Why not, you dear old Gran? Because _I_ go to school in Lincolnshire, don't I?" "Ah, to be sure!" says my respected friend. "And it's not Jemmy, you understand, Major?" "No, no," says I. "Well!" our boy proceeded, hugging himself comfortably, and laughing merrily (again in confidence with the fire), before he again looked up in Mrs. Lirriper's face, "and so he was tremendously in love with his schoolmaster's daughter, and she was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen, and she had brown eyes, and she had brown hair all curling beautifully, and she had a delicious voice, and she was delicious altogether, and her name was Seraphina." "What's the name of _your_ schoolmaster's daughter, Jemmy?" asks my respected friend. "Polly!" replied Jemmy, pointing his forefinger at her. "There now! Caught you! Ha, ha, ha!" When he and my respected friend had had a laugh and a hug together, our admittedly remarkable boy resumed with a great relish: "Well! And so he loved her. And so he thought about her, and dreamed about her, and made her presents of oranges and nuts, and would have made her presents of pearls and diamonds if he could have afforded it out of his pocket-money, but he couldn't. And so her father--O, he WAS a Tartar! Keeping the boys up to the mark, holding examinations once a month, lecturing upon all sorts of subjects at all sorts of times, and knowing everything in the world out of book. And so this boy--" "Had he any name?" asks my respected friend. "No, he hadn't, Gran. Ha, ha! There now! Caught you again!" After this, they had another laugh and another hug, and then our boy went on. "Well! And so this boy, he had a friend about as old as himself at the same school, and his name (for He _had_ a name, as it happened) was--let me remember--was Bobbo." "Not Bob," says my respected friend. "Of course not," says Jemmy. "What made you think it was, Gran? Well! And so this friend was the cleverest and bravest and best-looking and most generous of all the friends that ever were, and so he was in love with Seraphina's sister, and so Seraphina's sister was in love with him, and so they all grew up." "Bless us!" says my respected friend. "They were very sudden about it." "So they all grew up," our boy repeated, laughing heartily, "and Bobbo and this boy went away together on horseback to seek their fortunes, and they partly got their horses by favour, and partly in a bargain; that is to say, they had saved up between them seven and fourpence, and the two horses, being Arabs, were worth more, only the man said he would take that, to favour them. Well! And so they made their fortunes and came prancing back to the school, with their pockets full of gold, enough to last for ever. And so they rang at the parents' and visitors' bell (not the back gate), and when the bell was answered they proclaimed 'The same as if it was scarlet fever! Every boy goes home for an indefinite period!' And then there was great hurrahing, and then they kissed Seraphina and her sister,--each his own love, and not the other's on any account,--and then they ordered the Tartar into instant confinement." "Poor man!" said my respected friend. "Into instant confinement, Gran," repeated Jemmy, trying to look severe and roaring with laughter; "and he was to have nothing to eat but the boys' dinners, and was to drink half a cask of their beer every day. And so then the preparations were made for the two weddings, and there were hampers, and potted things, and sweet things, and nuts, and postage-stamps, and all manner of things. And so they were so jolly, that they let the Tartar out, and he was jolly too." "I am glad they let him out," says my respected friend, "because he had only done his duty." "O, but hadn't he overdone it, though!" cried Jemmy. "Well! And so then this boy mounted his horse, with his bride in his arms, and cantered away, and cantered on and on till he came to a certain place where he had a certain Gran and a certain godfather,--not you two, you know." "No, no," we both said. "And there he was received with great rejoicings, and he filled the cupboard and the bookcase with gold, and he showered it out on his Gran and his godfather because they were the two kindest and dearest people that ever lived in this world. And so while they were sitting up to their knees in gold, a knocking was heard at the street door, and who should it be but Bobbo, also on horseback with his bride in his arms, and what had he come to say but that he would take (at double rent) all the Lodgings for ever, that were not wanted by this a boy and this Gran and this godfather, and that they would all live together, and all be happy! And so they were, and so it never ended!" "And was there no quarrelling?" asked my respected friend, as Jemmy sat upon her lap and hugged her. "No! Nobody ever quarrelled." "And did the money never melt away?" "No! Nobody could ever spend it all." "And did none of them ever grow older?" "No! Nobody ever grew older after that." "And did none of them ever die?" "O, no, no, no, Gran!" exclaimed our dear boy, laying his cheek upon her breast, and drawing her closer to him. "Nobody ever died." "Ah, Major, Major!" says my respected friend, smiling benignly upon me, "this beats our stories. Let us end with the Boy's story, Major, for the Boy's story is the best that is ever told!" In submission to which request on the part of the best of women, I have here noted it down as faithfully as my best abilities, coupled with my best intentions, would admit, subscribing it with my name, J. JACKMAN. THE PARLOURS. MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS. 
18207	----	[Illustration: "'ARE YOU RELATED TO GOVERNOR McKINLEY?'"] COFFEE AND REPARTEE BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 1899 Harper's "Black and White" Series. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents each. In the Vestibule Limited. Lowell. By G. W. Curtis. By Brander Matthews. George William Curtis. By This Picture and That. A John White Chadwick. Comedy. By Brander Matthews. Slavery and the Slave Trade The Decision of the Court. in Africa. By Henry M. A Comedy. By Brander Matthews. Stanley. A Family Canoe Trip. By Whittier: Notes of His Life Florence W. Snedeker. and of His Friendships. By Annie Fields. Three Weeks in Politics. By John Kendrick Bangs. The Japanese Bride. By Naomi Tamura. Coffee and Repartee. By John Kendrick Bangs. Giles Corey, Yeoman. By Mary E. Wilkins. Travels in America 100 Years Ago. By Thomas Twining. Seen From the Saddle. By Isa Carrington Cabell. The Work of Washington Irving. By Charles Dudley BY W. D. HOWELLS. Warner. Farces: A Letter of Introduction.--The Edwin Booth. By Laurence Albany Depot.--The Garroters.--Five Hutton. O'Clock Tea.--The Mouse-trap.--A Likely Story.--Evening Dress.--The Phillips Brooks. By Rev. Unexpected Guests. Arthur Brooks, D.D. A Little Swiss Sojourn. The Rivals. By François Coppée. My Year in a Log Cabin. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers. _All rights reserved._ TO F. S. M. ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "'Are you related to Governor McKinley?'" _Frontispiece_ "Alarmed the cook" 5 "'What are the first symptoms of insanity?'" 13 "'Reading Webster's Dictionary'" 17 "'I stuck to the pigs'" 23 The conspirators 25 "'Weren't your ears long enough?'" 33 "'The corks popped to some purpose last night'" 37 "'If you could spare so little as one flame'" 43 The school-master as a cooler 47 "'Reading the Sunday newspapers'" 51 Bobbo 55 Wooing the Muse 67 "'He gave up jokes'" 71 "'A little garden of my own, where I could raise an occasional can of tomatoes'" 75 "'A hind-quarter of lamb gambolling about its native heath'" 77 "'The gladsome click of the lawn-mower'" 80 "'You don't mean to say that you write for the papers?'" 85 "'We wooed the self-same maid'" 87 Curing insomnia 91 "Holding his plate up to the light" 97 "'I believe you'd blow out the gas in your bed-room'" 101 "'His fairy stories were told him in words of ten syllables'" 105 "'I thought my father a mean-spirited assassin'" 109 "'Mrs. S. brought him to the point of proposing'" 115 "'Hoorah!' cried the Idiot, grasping Mr. Pedagog by the hand" 119 [Illustration: Coffee and Repartee] I The guests at Mrs. Smithers's high-class boarding-house for gentlemen had assembled as usual for breakfast, and in a few moments Mary, the dainty waitress, entered with the steaming coffee, the mush, and the rolls. The School-master, who, by-the-way, was suspected by Mrs. Smithers of having intentions, and who for that reason occupied the chair nearest the lady's heart, folded up the morning paper, and placing it under him so that no one else could get it, observed, quite genially for him, "It was very wet yesterday." "I didn't find it so," observed a young man seated half-way down the table, who was by common consent called the Idiot, because of his "views." "In fact, I was very dry. Curious thing, I'm always dry on rainy days. I am one of the kind of men who know that it is the part of wisdom to stay in when it rains, or to carry an umbrella when it is not possible to stay at home, or, having no home, like ourselves, to remain cooped up in stalls, or stalled up in coops, as you may prefer." "You carried an umbrella, then?" queried the landlady, ignoring the Idiot's shaft at the size of her "elegant and airy apartments" with an ease born of experience. "Yes, madame," returned the Idiot, quite unconscious of what was coming. "Whose?" queried the lady, a sarcastic smile playing about her lips. "That I cannot say, Mrs. Smithers," replied the Idiot, serenely, "but it is the one you usually carry." "Your insinuation, sir," said the School-master, coming to the landlady's rescue, "is an unworthy one. The umbrella in question is mine. It has been in my possession for five years." "Then," replied the Idiot, unabashed, "it is time you returned it. Don't you think men's morals are rather lax in this matter of umbrellas, Mr. Whitechoker?" he added, turning from the School-master, who began to show signs of irritation. "Very," said the Minister, running his finger about his neck to make the collar which had been sent home from the laundry by mistake set more easily--"very lax. At the last Conference I attended, some person, forgetting his high office as a minister in the Church, walked off with my umbrella without so much as a thank you; and it was embarrassing too, because the rain was coming down in bucketfuls." "What did you do?" asked the landlady, sympathetically. She liked Mr. Whitechoker's sermons, and, beyond this, he was a more profitable boarder than any of the others, remaining home to luncheon every day and having to pay extra therefor. "There was but one thing left for me to do. I took the bishop's umbrella," said Mr. Whitechoker, blushing slightly. "But you returned it, of course?" said the Idiot. "I intended to, but I left it on the train on my way back home the next day," replied the clergyman, visibly embarrassed by the Idiot's unexpected cross-examination. "It's the same way with books," put in the Bibliomaniac, an unfortunate being whose love of rare first editions had brought him down from affluence to boarding. "Many a man who wouldn't steal a dollar would run off with a book. I had a friend once who had a rare copy of _Through Africa by Daylight_. It was a beautiful book. Only twenty-five copies printed. The margins of the pages were four inches wide, and the title-page was rubricated; the frontispiece was colored by hand, and the seventeenth page had one of the most amusing typographical errors on it--" "Was there any reading-matter in the book?" queried the Idiot, blowing softly on a hot potato that was nicely balanced on the end of his fork. [Illustration: "ALARMED THE COOK"] "Yes, a little; but it didn't amount to much," returned the Bibliomaniac. "But, you know, it isn't as reading-matter that men like myself care for books. We have a higher notion than that. It is as a specimen of book-making that we admire a chaste bit of literature like _Through Africa by Daylight_. But, as I was saying, my friend had this book, and he'd extra-illustrated it. He had pictures from all parts of the world in it, and the book had grown from a volume of one hundred pages to four volumes of two hundred pages each." "And it was stolen by a highly honorable friend, I suppose?" queried the Idiot. "Yes, it was stolen--and my friend never knew by whom," said the Bibliomaniac. "What?" asked the Idiot, in much surprise. "Did you never confess?" It was very fortunate for the Idiot that the buckwheat cakes were brought on at this moment. Had there not been some diversion of that kind, it is certain that the Bibliomaniac would have assaulted him. "It is very kind of Mrs. Smithers, I think," said the School-master, "to provide us with such delightful cakes as these free of charge." "Yes," said the Idiot, helping himself to six cakes. "Very kind indeed, although I must say they are extremely economical from an architectural point of view--which is to say, they are rather fuller of pores than of buckwheat. I wonder why it is," he continued, possibly to avert the landlady's retaliatory comments--"I wonder why it is that porous plasters and buckwheat cakes are so similar in appearance?" "And so widely different in their respective effects on the system," put in a genial old gentleman who occasionally imbibed, seated next to the Idiot. "I fail to see the similarity between a buckwheat cake and a porous plaster," said the School-master, resolved, if possible, to embarrass the Idiot. "You don't, eh?" replied the latter. "Then it is very plain, sir, that you have never eaten a porous plaster." To this the School-master could find no reasonable reply, and he took refuge in silence. Mr. Whitechoker tried to look severe; the gentleman who occasionally imbibed smiled all over; the Bibliomaniac ignored the remark entirely, not having as yet forgiven the Idiot for his gross insinuation regarding his friend's _édition de luxe_ of _Through Africa by Daylight_; Mary, the maid, who greatly admired the Idiot, not so much for his idiocy as for the aristocratic manner in which he carried himself, and the truly striking striped shirts he wore, left the room in a convulsion of laughter that so alarmed the cook below-stairs that the next platterful of cakes were more like tin plates than cakes; and as for Mrs. Smithers, that worthy woman was speechless with wrath. But she was not paralyzed apparently, for reaching down into her pocket she brought forth a small piece of paper, on which was written in detail the "account due" of the Idiot. "I'd like to have this settled, sir," she said, with some asperity. "Certainly, my dear madame," replied the Idiot, unabashed--"certainly. Can you change a check for a hundred?" No, Mrs. Smithers could not. "Then I shall have to put off paying the account until this evening," said the Idiot. "But," he added, with a glance at the amount of the bill, "are you related to Governor McKinley, Mrs. Smithers?" "I am not," she returned, sharply. "My mother was a Partington." "I only asked," said the Idiot, apologetically, "because I am very much interested in the subject of heredity, and you may not know it, but you and he have each a marked tendency towards high-tariff bills." And before Mrs. Smithers could think of anything to say, the Idiot was on his way down town to help his employer lose money on Wall Street. II "Do you know, I sometimes think--" began the Idiot, opening and shutting the silver cover of his watch several times with a snap, with the probable, and not altogether laudable, purpose of calling his landlady's attention to the fact--of which she was already painfully aware--that breakfast was fifteen minutes late. "Do you, really?" interrupted the School-master, looking up from his book with an air of mock surprise. "I am sure I never should have suspected it." "Indeed?" returned the Idiot, undisturbed by this reflection upon his intellect. "I don't really know whether that is due to your generally unsuspicious nature, or to your shortcomings as a mind-reader." "There are some minds," put in the landlady at this point, "that are so small that it would certainly ruin the eyes to read them." "I have seen many such," observed the Idiot, suavely. "Even our friend the Bibliomaniac at times has seemed to me to be very absent-minded. And that reminds me, Doctor," he continued, addressing himself to the medical boarder. "What is the cause of absent-mindedness?" "That," returned the Doctor, ponderously, "is a very large question. Absent-mindedness, generally speaking, is the result of the projection of the intellect into surroundings other than those which for want of a better term I might call the corporeally immediate." "So I have understood," said the Idiot, approvingly. "And is absent-mindedness acquired or inherent?" Here the Idiot appropriated the roll of his neighbor. "That depends largely upon the case," replied the Doctor, nervously. "Some are born absent-minded, some achieve absent-mindedness, and some have absent-mindedness thrust upon them." "As illustrations of which we might take, for instance, I suppose," said the Idiot, "the born idiot, the borrower, and the man who is knocked silly by the pole of a truck on Broadway." "Precisely," replied the Doctor, glad to get out of the discussion so easily. He was a very young doctor, and not always sure of himself. "Or," put in the School-master, "to condense our illustrations, if the Idiot would kindly go out upon Broadway and encounter the truck, we should find the three combined in him." The landlady here laughed quite heartily, and handed the School-master an extra strong cup of coffee. "There is a great deal in what you say," said the Idiot, without a tremor. "There are very few scientific phenomena that cannot be demonstrated in one way or another by my poor self. It is the exception always that proves the rule, and in my case you find a consistent converse exemplification of all three branches of absent-mindedness." "He talks well," said the Bibliomaniac, _sotto voce_, to the Minister. "Yes, especially when he gets hold of large words. I really believe he reads," replied Mr. Whitechoker. [Illustration: "'WHAT ARE THE FIRST SYMPTOMS OF INSANITY?'"] "I know he does," said the School-master, who had overheard. "I saw him reading Webster's Dictionary last night. I have noticed, however, that generally his vocabulary is largely confined to words that come between the letters A and F, which shows that as yet he has not dipped very deeply into the book." "What are you murmuring about?" queried the Idiot, noting the lowered tone of those on the other side of the table. "We were conversing--ahem! about--" began the Minister, with a despairing glance at the Bibliomaniac. "Let me say it," interrupted the Bibliomaniac. "You aren't used to prevarication, and that is what is demanded at this time. We were talking about--ah--about--er--" "Tut! tut!" ejaculated the School-master. "We were only saying we thought the--er--the--that the--" "What _are_ the first symptoms of insanity, Doctor?" observed the Idiot, with a look of wonder at the three shuffling boarders opposite him, and turning anxiously to the physician. "I wish you wouldn't talk shop," retorted the Doctor, angrily. Insanity was one of his weak points. "It's a beastly habit," said the School-master, much relieved at this turn of the conversation. "Well, perhaps you are right," returned the Idiot. "People do, as a rule, prefer to talk of things they know something about, and I don't blame you, Doctor, for wanting to keep out of a medical discussion. I only asked my last question because the behavior of the Bibliomaniac and Mr. Whitechoker and the School-master for some time past has worried me, and I didn't know but what you might work up a nice little practice among us. It might not pay, but you'd find the experience valuable, and I think unique." "It is a fine thing to have a doctor right in the house," said Mr. Whitechoker, kindly, fearing that the Doctor's manifest indignation might get the better of him. "That," returned the Idiot, "is an assertion, Mr. Whitechoker, that is both true and untrue. There are times when a physician is an ornament to a boarding-house; times when he is not. For instance, on Wednesday morning if it had not been for the surgical skill of our friend here, our good landlady could never have managed properly to distribute the late autumn chicken we found upon the menu. Tally one for the affirmative. On the other hand, I must confess to considerable loss of appetite when I see the Doctor rolling his bread up into little pills, or measuring the vinegar he puts on his salad by means of a glass dropper, and taking the temperature of his coffee with his pocket thermometer. Nor do I like--and I should not have mentioned it save by way of illustrating my position in regard to Mr. Whitechoker's assertion--nor do I like the cold, eager glitter in the Doctor's eyes as he watches me consuming, with some difficulty, I admit, the cold pastry we have served up to us on Saturday mornings under the wholly transparent _alias_ of 'Hot Bread.' I may have very bad taste, but, in my humble opinion, the man who talks shop is preferable to the one who suggests it in his eyes. Some more iced potatoes, Mary," he added, calmly. [Illustration: "'READING WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY'"] "Madame," said the Doctor, turning angrily to the landlady, "this is insufferable. You may make out my bill this morning. I shall have to seek a home elsewhere." "Oh, now, Doctor!" began the landlady, in her most pleading tone. "Jove!" ejaculated the Idiot. "That's a good idea, Doctor. I think I'll go with you; I'm not altogether satisfied here myself, but to desert so charming a company as we have here had never occurred to me. Together, however, we can go forth, and perhaps find happiness. Shall we put on our hunting togs and chase the fiery, untamed hall-room to the death this morning, or shall we put it off until some pleasanter day?" "Put it off," observed the School-master, persuasively. "The Idiot was only indulging in persiflage, Doctor. That's all. When you have known him longer you will understand him better. Views are as necessary to him as sunlight to the flowers; and I truly think that in an asylum he would prove a delightful companion." "There, Doctor," said the Idiot; "that's handsome of the School-master. He couldn't make more of an apology if he tried. I'll forgive him if you will. What say you?" And strange to say, the Doctor, in spite of the indignation which still left a red tinge on his cheek, laughed aloud and was reconciled. As for the School-master, he wanted to be angry, but he did not feel that he could afford his wrath, and for the first time in some months the guests went their several ways at peace with each other and the world. III There was a conspiracy in hand to embarrass the Idiot. The School-master and the Bibliomaniac had combined forces to give him a taste of his own medicine. The time had not yet arrived which showed the Idiot at a disadvantage; and the two boarders, the one proud of his learning, and the other not wholly unconscious of a bookish life, were distinctly tired of the triumphant manner in which the Idiot always left the breakfast-table to their invariable discomfiture. It was the School-master's suggestion to put their tormentor into the pit he had heretofore digged for them. The worthy instructor of youth had of late come to see that while he was still a prime favorite with his landlady, he had, nevertheless, suffered somewhat in her estimation because of the apparent ease with which the Idiot had got the better of him on all points. It was necessary, he thought, to rehabilitate himself, and a deep-laid plot, to which the Bibliomaniac readily lent ear, was the result of his reflections. They twain were to indulge in a discussion of the great story of _Robert Elsmere_, which both were confident the Idiot had not read, and concerning which they felt assured he could not have an intelligent opinion if he had read it. So it happened upon this bright Sunday morning that as the boarders sat them down to partake of the usual "restful breakfast," as the Idiot termed it, the Bibliomaniac observed: "I have just finished reading _Robert Elsmere_." "Have you, indeed?" returned the School-master, with apparent interest. "I trust you profited by it?" "On the contrary," observed the Bibliomaniac. "My views are much unsettled by it." "I prefer the breast of the chicken, Mrs. Smithers," observed the Idiot, sending his plate back to the presiding genius of the table. "The neck of a chicken is graceful, but not too full of sustenance." "He fights shy," whispered the Bibliomaniac, gleefully. "Never mind," returned the School-master, confidently; "we'll land him yet." Then he added, aloud: "Unsettled by it? I fail to see how any man with beliefs that are at all the result of mature convictions can be unsettled by the story of _Elsmere_. For my part I believe, and I have always said--" "I never could understand why the neck of a chicken should be allowed on a respectable table anyhow," continued the Idiot, ignoring the controversy in which his neighbors were engaged, "unless for the purpose of showing that the deceased fowl met with an accidental rather than a natural death." "In what way does the neck demonstrate that point?" queried the Bibliomaniac, forgetting the conspiracy for a moment. "By its twist or by its length, of course," returned the Idiot. "A chicken that dies a natural death does not have its neck wrung; nor when the head is removed by the use of a hatchet, is it likely that it will be cut off so close behind the ears that those who eat the chicken are confronted with four inches of neck." [Illustration: "'I STUCK TO THE PIGS'"] "Very entertaining indeed," interposed the School-master; "but we are wandering from the point the Bibliomaniac and I were discussing. Is or is not the story of _Robert Elsmere_ unsettling to one's beliefs? Perhaps you can help us to decide that question." "Perhaps I can," returned the Idiot; "and perhaps not. It did not unsettle my beliefs." "But don't you think," observed the Bibliomaniac, "that to certain minds the book is more or less unsettling?" "To that I can confidently say no. The certain mind knows no uncertainty," replied the Idiot, calmly. "Very pretty indeed," said the School-master, coldly. "But what was your opinion of Mrs. Ward's handling of the subject? Do you think she was sufficiently realistic? And if so, and Elsmere weakened under the stress of circumstances, do you think--or don't you think--the production of such a book harmful, because--being real--it must of necessity be unsettling to some minds?" [Illustration: THE CONSPIRATORS] "I prefer not to express an opinion on that subject," returned the Idiot, "because I never read _Robert Els_--" "Never read it?" ejaculated the School-master, a look of triumph in his eyes. "Why, everybody has read _Elsmere_ that pretends to have read anything," asserted the Bibliomaniac. "Of course," put in the landlady, with a scornful laugh. "Well, I didn't," said the Idiot, nonchalantly. "The same ground was gone over two years before in Burrows's great story, _Is It, or Is It Not?_ and anybody who ever read Clink's books on the _Non-Existent as Opposed to What Is_, knows where Burrows got his points. Burrows's story was a perfect marvel. I don't know how many editions it went through in England, and when it was translated into French by Madame Tournay, it simply set the French wild." "Great Scott!" whispered the Bibliomaniac, desperately, "I'm afraid we've been barking up the wrong tree." "You've read Clink, I suppose?" asked the Idiot, turning to the School-master. "Y--yes," returned the School-master, blushing deeply. The Idiot looked surprised, and tried to conceal a smile by sipping his coffee from a spoon. "And Burrows?" "No," returned the School-master, humbly. "I never read Burrows." "Well, you ought to. It's a great book, and it's the one _Robert Elsmere_ is taken from--same ideas all through, I'm told--that's why I didn't read _Elsmere_. Waste of time, you know. But you noticed yourself, I suppose, that Clink's ground is the same as that covered in _Elsmere_?" "No; I only dipped lightly into Clink," returned the School-master, with some embarrassment. "But you couldn't help noticing a similarity of ideas?" insisted the Idiot, calmly. The School-master looked beseechingly at the Bibliomaniac, who would have been glad to fly to his co-conspirator's assistance had he known how, but never having heard of Clink, or Burrows either, for that matter, he made up his mind that it was best for his reputation for him to stay out of the controversy. "Very slight similarity, however," said the School-master, in despair. "Where can I find Clink's books?" put in Mr. Whitechoker, very much interested. The Idiot conveniently had his mouth full of chicken at the moment, and it was to the School-master who had also read him that they all--the landlady included--looked for an answer. "Oh, I think," returned that worthy, hesitatingly--"I think you'll find Clink in any of the public libraries." "What is his full name?" persisted Mr. Whitechoker, taking out a memorandum-book. "Horace J. Clink," said the Idiot. "Yes; that's it--Horace J. Clink," echoed the School-master. "Very virile writer and a clear thinker," he added, with some nervousness. "What, if any, of his books would you specially recommend?" asked the Minister again. The Idiot had by this time risen from the table, and was leaving the room with the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed. The School-master's reply was not audible. "I say," said the genial gentleman to the Idiot, as they passed out into the hall, "they didn't get much the best of you in that matter. But, tell me, who was Clink, anyhow?" "Never heard of him before," returned the Idiot. "And Burrows?" "Same as Clink." "Know anything about _Elsmere_?" chuckled the genial gentleman. "Nothing--except that it and 'Pigs in Clover' came out at the same time, and I stuck to the Pigs." And the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed was so pleased at the plight of the School-master and of the Bibliomaniac that he invited the Idiot up to his room, where the private stock was kept for just such occasions, and they put in a very pleasant morning together. IV The guests were assembled as usual. The oatmeal course had been eaten in silence. In the Idiot's eye there was a cold glitter of expectancy--a glitter that boded ill for the man who should challenge him to controversial combat--and there seemed also to be, judging from sundry winks passed over the table and kicks passed under it, an understanding to which he and the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed were parties. As the School-master sampled his coffee the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed broke the silence. "I missed you at the concert last night, Mr. Idiot," said he. "Yes," said the Idiot, with a caressing movement of the hand over his upper lip; "I was very sorry, but I couldn't get around last night. I had an engagement with a number of friends at the athletic club. I meant to have dropped you a line in the afternoon telling you about it, but I forgot it until it was too late. Was the concert a success?" "Very successful indeed. The best one, in fact, we have had this season, which makes me regret all the more deeply your absence," returned the genial gentleman, with a suggestion of a smile playing about his lips. "Indeed," he added, "it was the finest one I've ever seen." "The finest one you've what?" queried the School-master, startled at the verb. "The finest one I've ever seen," replied the genial gentleman. "There were only ten performers, and really, in all my experience as an attendant at concerts, I never saw such a magnificent rendering of Beethoven as we had last night. I wish you could have been there. It was a sight for the gods." "I don't believe," said the Idiot, with a slight cough that may have been intended to conceal a laugh--and that may also have been the result of too many cigarettes--"I don't believe it could have been any more interesting than a game of pool I heard at the club." "It appears to me," said the Bibliomaniac to the School-master, "that the popping sounds we heard late last night in the Idiot's room may have some connection with the present mode of speech these two gentlemen affect." "Let's hear them out," returned the School-master, "and then we'll take them into camp, as the Idiot would say." "I don't know about that," replied the genial gentleman. "I've seen a great many concerts, and I've heard a great many good games of pool, but the concert last night was simply a ravishing spectacle. We had a Cuban pianist there who played the orchestration of the first act of _Parsifal_ with surprising agility. As far as I could see, he didn't miss a note, though it was a little annoying to observe how he used the pedals." "Too forcibly, or how?" queried the Idiot. "Not forcibly enough," returned the Imbiber. "He tried to work them both with one foot. It was the only thing to mar an otherwise marvellous performance. The idea of a man trying to display Wagner with two hands and one foot is irritating to a musician with a trained eye." [Illustration: "'WEREN'T YOUR EARS LONG ENOUGH?'"] "I wish the Doctor would come down," said Mrs. Smithers, anxiously. "Yes," put in the School-master; "there seems to be madness in our midst." "Well, what can you expect of a Cuban, anyhow?" queried the Idiot. "The Cuban, like the Spaniard or the Italian or the African, hasn't the vigor which is necessary for the proper comprehension and rendering of Wagner's music. He is by nature slow and indolent. If it were easier for a Spaniard to hop than to walk, he'd hop, and rest his other leg. I've known Italians whose diet was entirely confined to liquids, because they were too tired to masticate solids. It is the ease with which it can be absorbed that makes macaroni the favorite dish of the Italians, and the fondness of all Latin races for wines is entirely due, I think, to the fact that wine can be swallowed without chewing. This indolence affects also their language. The Italian and the Spaniard speak the language that comes easy--that is soft and dreamy; while the Germans and Russians, stronger, more energetic, indulge in a speech that even to us, who are people of an average amount of energy, is sometimes appalling in the severity of the strain it puts upon the tongue. So, while I do not wonder that your Cuban pianist showed woful defects in his use of the pedals, I do wonder that, even with his surprising agility, he had sufficient energy to manipulate the keys to the satisfaction of so competent a witness as yourself." "It was too bad; but we made up for it later," asserted the other. "There was a young girl there who gave us some of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. Her expression was simply perfect. I wouldn't have missed it for all the world; and now that I think of it, in a few days I can let you see for yourself how splendid it was. We persuaded her to encore the songs in the dark, and we got a flash-light photograph of two of them." "Oh! then it was not on the piano-forte she gave them?" said the Idiot. "Oh no; all labial," returned the genial gentleman. Here Mr. Whitechoker began to look concerned, and whispered something to the School-master, who replied that there were enough others present to cope with the two parties to the conversation in case of a violent outbreak. "I'd be very glad to see the photographs," replied the Idiot. "Can't I secure copies of them for my collection? You know I have the complete rendering of 'Home, Sweet Home' in kodak views, as sung by Patti. They are simply wonderful, and they prove what has repeatedly been said by critics, that, in the matter of expression, the superior of Patti has never been seen." "I'll try to get them for you, though I doubt it can be done. The artist is a very shy young girl, and does not care to have her efforts given too great a publicity until she is ready to go into music a little more deeply. She is going to read the 'Moonlight Sonata' to us at our next concert. You'd better come. I'm told her gestures bring out the composer's meaning in a manner never as yet equalled." [Illustration: "'THE CORKS POPPED TO SOME PURPOSE LAST NIGHT'"] "I'll be there; thank you," returned the Idiot. "And the next time those fellows at the club are down for a pool tournament I want you to come up and hear them play. It was extraordinary last night to hear the balls dropping one by one--click, click, click--as regularly as a metronome, into the pockets. One of the finest shots, I am sorry to say, I missed." "How did it happen?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Weren't your ears long enough?" "It was a kiss shot, and I couldn't hear it," returned the Idiot. "I think you men are crazy," said the School-master, unable to contain himself any longer. "So?" observed the Idiot, calmly. "And how do we show our insanity?" "Seeing concerts and hearing games of pool." "I take exception to your ruling," returned the Imbiber. "As my friend the Idiot has frequently remarked, you have the peculiarity of a great many men in your profession, who think because they never happened to see or do or hear things as other people do, they may not be seen, done, or heard at all. I _saw_ the concert I attended last night. Our musical club has rooms next to a hospital, and we have to give silent concerts for fear of disturbing the patients; but we are all musicians of sufficient education to understand by a glance of the eye what you would fail to comprehend with fourteen ears and a microphone." "Very well said," put in the Idiot, with a scornful glance at the School-master. "And I literally heard the pool tournament. I was dining in a room off the billiard-hall, and every shot that was made, with the exception of the one I spoke of, was distinctly audible. You gentlemen, who think you know it all, wouldn't be able to supply a bureau of information at the rate of five minutes a day for an hour on a holiday. Let's go up-stairs," he added, turning to the Imbiber, "where we may discuss our last night's entertainment apart from this atmosphere of rarefied learning. It makes me faint." And the Imbiber, who was with difficulty keeping his lips in proper form, was glad enough to accept the invitation. "The corks popped to some purpose last night," he said, later on. "Yes," said the Idiot; "for a conspiracy there's nothing so helpful as popping corks." V "When you get through with the fire, Mr. Pedagog," observed the Idiot, one winter's morning, noticing that the ample proportions of the School-master served as a screen to shut off the heat from himself and the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed, "I wish you would let us have a little of it. Indeed, if you could conveniently spare so little as one flame for my friend here and myself, we'd be much obliged." "It won't hurt you to cool off a little, sir," returned the School-master, without moving. "No, I am not so much afraid of the injury that may be mine as I am concerned for you. If that fire should melt our only refrigerating material, I do not know what our good landlady would do. Is it true, as the Bibliomaniac asserts, that Mrs. Smithers leaves all her milk and butter in your room overnight, relying upon your coolness to keep them fresh?" "I never made any such assertion," said the Bibliomaniac, warmly. "I am not used to having my word disputed," returned the Idiot, with a wink at the genial old gentleman. "But I never said it, and I defy you to prove that I said it," returned the Bibliomaniac, hotly. "You forget, sir," said the Idiot, coolly, "that you are the one who disputes my assertion. That casts the burden of proof on your shoulders. Of course if you can prove that you never said anything of the sort, I withdraw; but if you cannot adduce proofs, you, having doubted my word, and publicly at that, need not feel hurt if I decline to accept all that you say as gospel." "You show ridiculous heat," said the School-master. "Thank you," returned the Idiot, gracefully. "And that brings us back to the original proposition that you would do well to show a little yourself." "Good-morning, gentlemen," said Mrs. Smithers, entering the room at this moment. "It's a bright, fresh morning." "Like yourself," said the School-master, gallantly. "Yes," added the Idiot, with a glance at the clock, which registered 8.45--forty-five minutes after the breakfast hour--"very like Mrs. Smithers--rather advanced." To this the landlady paid no attention; but the School-master could not refrain from saying, "Advanced, and therefore not backward, like some persons I might name." "Very clever," retorted the Idiot, "and really worth rewarding. Mrs. Smithers, you ought to give Mr. Pedagog a receipt in full for the past six months." "Mr. Pedagog," returned the landlady, severely, "is one of the gentlemen who always have their receipts for the past six months." "Which betrays a very saving disposition," accorded the Idiot. "I wish I had all I'd received for six months. I'd be a rich man." [Illustration: "'IF YOU COULD SPARE SO LITTLE AS ONE FLAME'"] "Would you, now?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "That is interesting enough. How men's ideas differ on the subject of wealth! Here is the Idiot would consider himself rich with $150 in his pocket--" "Do you think he gets as much as that?" put in the School-master, viciously. "Five dollars a week is rather high pay for one of his--" "Very high indeed," agreed the Idiot. "I wish I got that much. I might be able to hire a two-legged encyclopædia to tell me everything, and have over $4.75 a week left to spend on opera, dress, and the poor but honest board Mrs. Smithers provides, if my salary was up to the $5 mark; but the trouble is men do not make the fabulous fortunes nowadays with the ease with which you, Mr. Pedagog, made yours. There are, no doubt, more and greater opportunities to-day than there were in the olden time, but there are also more men trying to take advantage of them. Labor in the business world is badly watered. The colleges are turning out more men in a week nowadays than the whole country turned out in a year forty years ago, and the quality is so poor that there has been a general reduction of wages all along the line. Where does the struggler for existence come in when he has to compete with the college-bred youth who, for fear of not getting employment anywhere, is willing to work for nothing? People are not willing to pay for what they can get for nothing." "I am glad to hear from your lips so complete an admission," said the School-master, "that education is downing ignorance." "I am glad to know of your gladness," returned the Idiot. "I didn't quite say that education was downing ignorance. I plead guilty to the charge of holding the belief that unskilled omniscience interferes very materially with skilled sciolism in skilled sciolism's efforts to make a living." "Then you admit your own superficiality?" asked the School-master, somewhat surprised by the Idiot's command of syllables. "I admit that I do not know it all," returned the Idiot. "I prefer to go through life feeling that there is yet something for me to learn. It seems to me far better to admit this voluntarily than to have it forced home upon me by circumstances, as happened in the case of a college graduate I know, who speculated on Wall Street, and lost the hundred dollars that were subsequently put to a good use by the uneducated me." "From which you deduce that ignorance is better than education?" queried the School-master, scornfully. "For an omniscient," returned the Idiot, "you are singularly near-sighted. I have made no such deduction. I arrive at the conclusion, however, that in the chase for the gilded shekel the education of experience is better than the coddling of Alma Mater. In the satisfaction--the personal satisfaction--one derives from a liberal education, I admit that the sons of Alma Mater are the better off. I never could hope to be so self-satisfied, for instance, as you are." [Illustration: THE SCHOOL-MASTER AS A COOLER] "No," observed the School-master, "you cannot raise grapes on a thistle farm. Any unbiassed observer looking around this table," he added, "and noting Mr. Whitechoker, a graduate of Yale; the Bibliomaniac, a son of dear old Harvard; the Doctor, an honor man of Williams; our legal friend here, a graduate of Columbia--to say nothing of myself, who was graduated with honors at Amherst--any unbiassed observer seeing these, I say, and then seeing you, wouldn't take very long to make up his mind as to whether a man is better off or not for having had a collegiate training." "There I must again dispute your assertion," returned the Idiot. "The unbiassed person of whom you speak would say, 'Here is this gray-haired Amherst man, this book-loving Cambridge boy of fifty-seven years of age, the reverend graduate of Yale, class of '55, and the other two learned gentlemen of forty-nine summers each, and this poor ignoramus of an Idiot, whose only virtue is his modesty, all in the same box.' And then he would ask himself, 'In what way have these sons of Amherst, Yale, Harvard, and so forth, the better of the unassuming Idiot?'" "The same box?" said the Bibliomaniac. "What do you mean by that?" "Just what I say," returned the Idiot. "The same box. All boarding, all eschewing luxuries of necessity, all paying their bills with difficulty, all sparsely clothed; in reality, all keeping Lent the year through. 'Verily,' he would say, 'the Idiot has the best of it, for he is young.'" And leaving them chewing the cud of reflection, the Idiot departed. "I thought they were going to land you that time," said the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed, later; "but when I heard you use the word 'sciolism,' I knew you were all right. Where did you get it?" "My chief got it off on me at the office the other day. I happened in a mad moment to try to unload some of my original observations on him apropos of my getting to the office two hours late, in which it was my endeavor to prove to him that the truly safe and conservative man was always slow, and so apt to turn up late on occasions. He hopped about the office for a minute or two, and then he informed me that I was an 18-karat sciolist. I didn't know what he meant, and so I looked it up." "And what did he mean?" "He meant that I took the cake for superficiality, and I guess he was right," replied the Idiot, with a smile that was not altogether mirthful. VI "Good-morning!" said the Idiot, cheerfully, as he entered the dining-room. To this remark no one but the landlady vouchsafed a reply. "I don't think it is," she said, shortly. "It's raining too hard to be a very good morning." "That reminds me," observed the Idiot, taking his seat and helping himself copiously to the hominy. "A friend of mine on one of the newspapers is preparing an article on the 'Antiquity of Modern Humor.' With your kind permission, Mrs. Smithers, I'll take down your remark and hand it over to Mr. Scribuler as a specimen of the modern antique joke. You may not be aware of the fact, but that jest is to be found in the rare first edition of the _Tales of Bobbo_, an Italian humorist, who stole everything he wrote from the Greeks." [Illustration: "'READING THE SUNDAY NEWSPAPERS'"] "So?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "I never heard of Bobbo, though I had, before the auction sale of my library, a choice copy of the _Tales of Poggio_, bound in full crushed Levant morocco, with gilt edges, and one or two other Italian _Joe Millers_ in tree calf. I cannot at this moment recall their names." "At what period did Bobbo live?" inquired the School-master. "I don't exactly remember," returned the Idiot, assisting the last potato on the table over to his plate. "I don't know exactly. It was subsequent to B.C., I think, although I may be wrong. If it was not, you may rest assured it was prior to B.C." "Do you happen to know," queried the Bibliomaniac, "the exact date of this rare first edition of which you speak?" "No; no one knows that," returned the Idiot. "And for a very good reason. It was printed before dates were invented." The silence which followed this bit of information from the Idiot was almost insulting in its intensity. It was a silence that spoke, and what it said was that the Idiot's idiocy was colossal, and he, accepting the stillness as a tribute, smiled sweetly. "What do you think, Mr. Whitechoker," he said, when he thought the time was ripe for renewing the conversation--"what do you think of the doctrine that every day will be Sunday by-and-by?" "I have only to say, sir," returned the Dominie, pouring a little hot water into his milk, which was a bit too strong for him, "that I am a firm believer in the occurrence of a period when Sunday will be to all practical purposes perpetual." "That is my belief, too," observed the School-master. "But it will be ruinous to our good landlady to provide us with one of her exceptionally fine Sunday breakfasts every morning." "Thank you, Mr. Pedagog," returned Mrs. Smithers, with a smile. "Can't I give you another cup of coffee?" "You may," returned the School-master, pained at the lady's grammar, but too courteous to call attention to it save by the emphasis with which he spoke the word "may." "That's one view to take of it," said the Idiot. "But in case we got a Sunday breakfast every day in the week, we, on the other hand, would get approximately what we pay for. You may fill my cup too, Mrs. Smithers." "The coffee is all gone," returned the landlady, with a snap. "Then, Mary," said the Idiot, gracefully, turning to the maid, "you may give me a glass of ice-water. It is quite as warm, after all, as the coffee, and not quite so weak. A perpetual Sunday, though, would have its drawbacks," he added, unconscious of the venomous glances of the landlady. "You, Mr. Whitechoker, for instance, would be preaching all the time, and in consequence would soon break down. Then the effect upon our eyes from habitually reading the Sunday newspapers day after day would be extremely bad; nor must we forget that an eternity of Sundays means the elimination 'from our midst,' as the novelists say, of baseball, of circuses, of horse-racing, and other necessities of life, unless we are prepared to cast over the Puritanical view of Sunday which now prevails. It would substitute Dr. Watts for 'Annie Rooney.' We should lose 'Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay' entirely, which is a point in its favor." "I don't know about that," said the genial old gentleman. "I rather like that song." "Did you ever hear me sing it?" asked the Idiot. "Never mind," returned the genial old gentleman, hastily. "Perhaps you are right, after all." [Illustration: BOBBO] The Idiot smiled, and resumed: "Our shops would be perpetually closed, and an enormous loss to the shopkeepers would be sure to follow. Mr. Pedagog's theory that we should have Sunday breakfasts every day is not tenable, for the reason that with a perpetual day of rest agriculture would die out, food products would be killed off by unpulled weeds; in fact, we should go back to that really unfortunate period when women were without dress-makers, and man's chief object in life was to christen animals as he met them, and to abstain from apples, wisdom, and full dress." "The Idiot is right," said the Bibliomaniac. "It would not be a very good thing for the world if every day were Sunday. Wash-day is a necessity of life. I am willing to admit this, in the face of the fact that wash-day meals are invariably atrocious. Contracts would be void, as a rule, because Sunday is a _dies non_." "A what?" asked the Idiot. "A non-existent day in a business sense," put in the School-master. "Of course," said the landlady, scornfully. "Any person who knows anything knows that." "Then, madame," returned the Idiot, rising from his chair, and putting a handful of sweet crackers in his pocket--"then I must put in a claim for $104 from you, having been charged, at the rate of one dollar a day for 104 _dies nons_ in the two years I have been with you." "Indeed!" returned the lady, sharply. "Very well. And I shall put in a counterclaim for the lunches you carry away from breakfast every morning in your pockets." "In that event we'll call it off, madame," returned the Idiot, as with a courtly bow and a pleasant smile he left the room. "Well, I call him 'off,'" was all the landlady could say, as the other guests took their departure. And of course the School-master agreed with her. VII "Our streets appear to be as far from perfect as ever," said the Bibliomaniac with a sigh, as he looked out through the window at the great pools of water that gathered in the basins made by the sinking of the Belgian blocks. "We'd better go back to the cowpaths of our fathers." "There is a great deal in what you say," observed the School-master. "The cowpath has all the solidity of mother earth, and none of the distracting noises we get from the pavements that obtain to-day. It is porous and absorbs the moisture. The Belgian pavement is leaky, and lets it run into our cellars. We might do far worse than to go back--" "Excuse me for having an opinion," said the Idiot, "but the man of enterprise can't afford to indulge in the luxury of the somnolent cowpath. It is too quiet. It conduces to sleep, which is a luxury business men cannot afford to indulge in too freely. Man must be up and doing. The prosperity of a great city is to my mind directly due to its noise and clatter, which effectually put a stop to napping, and keep men at all times wide awake." "This is a Welsh-rabbit idea, I fancy," said the School-master, quietly. He had overheard the Idiot's confidences, as revealed to the genial Imbiber, regarding the sources of some of his ideas. "Not at all," returned the Idiot. "These ideas are beef--not Welsh-rabbit. They are the result of much thought. If you will put your mind on the subject, you will see for yourself that there is more in my theory than there is in yours. The prosperity of a locality is the greater as the noise in its vicinity increases. It is in the quiet neighborhood that man stagnates. Where do we find great business houses? Where do we find great fortunes made? Where do we find the busy bees who make the honey that enables posterity to get into Society and do nothing? Do we pick up our millions on the cowpath? I guess not. Do we erect our most princely business houses along the roads laid out by our bovine sister? I think not. Does the man who goes from the towpath to the White House take the short cut? I fancy not. He goes over the block pavement. He seeks the home of the noisy, clattering street before he lands in the shoes of Washington. The man who sticks to the cowpath may be able to drink milk, but he never wears diamonds." "All that you say is very true, but it is not based on any fundamental principle. It is so because it happens to be so," returned the School-master. "If it were man's habit to have the streets laid out on the old cowpath principle in his cities he would be quite as energetic, quite as prosperous, as he is now." "No fundamental principle involved? There is the fundamental principle of all business success involved," said the Idiot, warming up to his subject. "What is the basic quality in the good business man? Alertness. What is 'alertness?' Wide-awakeishness. In this town it is impossible for a man to sleep after a stated hour, and for no other reason than that the clatter of the pavements prevents him. As a promoter of alertness, where is your cowpath? The cowpaths of the Catskills, and we all know the mountains are riddled by 'em, didn't keep Rip Van Winkle awake, and I'll wager Mr. Whitechoker here a year's board that there isn't a man in his congregation who can sleep a half-hour--much less twenty years--with Broadway within hearing distance. "I tell you, Mr. Pedagog," he continued, "it is the man from the cowpath who gets buncoed. It's the man from the cowpath who can't make a living even out of what he calls his 'New York Store.' It is the man from the cowpath who rejoices because he can sell ten dollars' worth of sheep's-wool for five dollars, and is happy when he goes to meeting dressed up in a four-dollar suit of clothes that has cost him twenty." "Your theory, my young friend," observed the School-master, "is as fragile as this cup"--tapping his coffee-cup. "The countryman of whom you speak is up and doing long before you or I or your successful merchant, who has waxed great on noise as you put it, is awake. If the early bird catches the worm, what becomes of your theory?" "The early bird does get the bait," replied the Idiot. "But he does not catch the fish, and I'll offer the board another wager that the Belgian block merchant is wider awake at 8 A.M., when he first opens his eyes, than his suburban brother who gets up at five is all day. It's the extent to which the eyes are opened that counts, and as for your statement that the fact that prosperity and noisy streets go hand in hand is true only because it happens to be so, that is an argument which may be applied to any truth in existence. I am because I happen to be, not because I am. You are what you are because you are, because if you were not, you would not be what you are." "Your logic is delightful," said the School-master, scornfully. "I strive to please," replied the Idiot. "But I do agree with the Bibliomaniac that our streets are far from perfection," he added. "In my opinion they should be laid in strata. On the ground-floor should be the sewers and telegraph pipes; above this should be the water-mains, then a layer for trucks, then a broad stratum for carriages, above which should be a promenade for pedestrians. The promenade for pedestrians should be divided into four sections--one for persons of leisure, one for those in a hurry, one for peddlers, and one for beggars." "Highly original," said the Bibliomaniac. "And so cheap," added the School-master. "In no part of the world," said the Idiot, in response to the last comment, "do we get something for nothing. Of course this scheme would be costly, but it would increase prosperity--" "Ha! ha!" laughed the School-master, satirically. "Laugh away, but you cannot gainsay my point. Our prosperity would increase, for we should not be always excavating to get at our pipes; our surface cars with a clear track would gain for us rapid transit, our truck-drivers would not be subjected to the temptations of stopping by the way-side to overturn a coupé, or to run down a pedestrian; our fine equipages would in consequence need fewer repairs; and as for the pedestrians, the beggars, if relegated to themselves, would be forced out of business as would also the street-peddlers. The men in a hurry would not be delayed by loungers, beggars, and peddlers, and the loungers would derive inestimable benefit from the arrangement in the saving of wear and tear on their clothes and minds by contact with the busy world." "It would be delightful," acceded the School-master, "particularly on Sundays, when they were all loungers." "Yes," replied the Idiot. "It would be delightful then, especially in summer, when covered with an awning to shield promenaders from the sun." Mr. Pedagog sighed, and the Bibliomaniac, wearily declining a second cup of coffee, left the table with the Doctor, earnestly discussing with that worthy gentleman the causes of weakmindedness. VIII "There's a friend of mine up near Riverdale," said the Idiot, as he unfolded his napkin and let his bill flutter from it to the floor, "who's tried to make a name for himself in literature." "What's his name?" asked the Bibliomaniac, interested at once. "That's just the trouble. He hasn't made it yet," replied the Idiot. "He hasn't succeeded in his courtship of the Muse, and beyond himself and a few friends his name is utterly unknown." "What work has he tried?" queried the School-master, pouring unadmonished two portions of skimmed milk over his oatmeal. "A little of everything. First he wrote a novel. It had an immense circulation, and he only lost $300 on it. All of his friends took a copy--I've got one that he gave me--and I believe two hundred newspapers were fortunate enough to secure the book for review. His father bought two, and tried to obtain the balance of the edition, but didn't have enough money. That was gratifying, but gratification is more apt to deplete than to strengthen a bank account." "I had not expected so extraordinarily wise an observation from one so unusually unwise," said the School-master, coldly. "Thank you," returned the Idiot. "But I think your remark is rather contradictory. You would naturally expect wise observations from the unusually unwise; that is, if your teaching that the expression 'unusually unwise' is but another form of the expression 'usually wise' is correct. But, as I was saying, when the genial instructor of youth interrupted me with his flattery," continued the Idiot, "gratification is gratifying but not filling, so my friend concluded that he had better give up novel-writing and try jokes. He kept at that a year, and managed to clear his postage-stamps. His jokes were good, but too classic for the tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respect for age--particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend's jokes had seemed good enough for Plutarch to print when he had a publisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mighty products of this age who sit in judgment on such things in the comic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes." [Illustration: WOOING THE MUSE] "Does he still know you?" asked the landlady. "Yes, madame," observed the Idiot. "Then he hasn't given up all jokes," she retorted, with fine scorn. "Tee-he-hee!" laughed the School-master. "Pretty good, Mrs. Smithers--pretty good." "Yes," said the Idiot. "That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from your butter, Mrs. Smithers, because it's entirely fresh. It's good enough to print, and I don't think the butter is." "What did your friend do next?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "He was employed by a funeral director in Philadelphia to write obituary verses for memorial cards." "And was he successful?" "For a time; but he lost his position because of an error made by a careless compositor in a marble-yard. He had written, "'Here lies the hero of a hundred fights-- Approximated he a perfect man; He fought for country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the van.'" "Fine in sentiment and in execution!" observed Mr. Whitechoker. "Truly so," returned the Idiot. "But when the compositor in the marble-yard got it engraved on the monument, my friend was away, and when the army post that was to pay the bill received the monument, the quatrain read, "'Here lies the hero of a hundred flights-- Approximated he a perfect one; He fought his country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the run.'" "Awful!" ejaculated the Minister. "Dreadful!" said the landlady, forgetting to be sarcastic. "What happened?" asked the School-master. "He was bounced, of course, without a cent of pay, and the company failed the next week, so he couldn't make anything by suing for what they owed him." "Mighty hard luck," said the Bibliomaniac. "Very; but there was one bright side to the case," observed the Idiot. "He managed to sell both versions of the quatrain afterwards for five dollars. He sold the original one to a religious weekly for a dollar, and got four dollars for the other one from a comic paper. Then he wrote an anecdote about the whole thing for a Sunday newspaper, and got three dollars more out of it." "And what is your friend doing now?" asked the Doctor. "Oh, he's making a mint of money now, but no name." "In literature?" "Yes. He writes advertisements on salary," returned the Idiot. "He is writing now a recommendation of tooth-powder in Indian dialect." "Why didn't he try writing an epic?" said the Bibliomaniac. [Illustration: "'HE GAVE UP JOKES'"] "Because," replied the Idiot, "the one aim of his life has been to be original, and he couldn't reconcile that with epic poetry." At which remark the landlady stooped over, and recovering the Idiot's bill from under the table, called the maid, and ostentatiously requested her to hand it to the Idiot. He, taking a cigarette from his pocket, thanked the maid for the attention, and rolling the slip into a taper, thoughtfully stuck one end of it into the alcohol light under the coffee-pot, and lighting the cigarette with it, walked nonchalantly from the room. IX "I've just been reading a book," began the Idiot. "I thought you looked rather pale," said the School-master. "Yes," returned the Idiot, cheerfully, "it made me feel pale. It was about the pleasures of country life; and when I contrasted rural blessedness as it was there depicted with urban life as we live it, I felt as if my youth were being thrown away. I still feel as if I were wasting my sweetness on the desert air." "Why don't you move?" queried the Bibliomaniac, suggestively. "If I were purely selfish I should do so at once, but I am, like my good friend Mr. Whitechoker, a slave to duty. I deem it my duty to stay here to keep the School-master fully informed in the various branches of knowledge which are day by day opened up, many of which seem to be so far beyond the reach of one of his conservative habits; to assist Mr. Whitechoker in his crusades against vice at this table and elsewhere; to give the Bibliomaniac the benefit of my advice in regard to those precious little tomes he no longer buys--to make life worth the living for all of you, to say nothing of enabling Mrs. Smithers to keep up the extraordinarily high standard of this house by means of the hard-earned stipend I pay to her every Monday morning." "Every Monday?" queried the School-master. "Every Monday," returned the Idiot. "That is, of course, every Monday that I pay. The things one gets to eat in the country, the air one breathes, the utter freedom from restraint, the thousand and more things one enjoys in the suburbs that are not attainable here--it is these that make my heart yearn for the open." [Illustration: "'A LITTLE GARDEN OF MY OWN, WHERE I COULD RAISE AN OCCASIONAL CAN OF TOMATOES'"] "Well, it's all rot," said the School-master, impatiently. "Country life is ideal only in books. Books do not tell of running for trains through blinding snowstorms; writers do not expatiate on the delights of waking on cold winter nights and finding your piano and parlor furniture afloat because of bursted pipes, with the plumber, like Sheridan at Winchester, twenty miles away. They are dumb on the subject of the ecstasy one feels when pushing a twenty-pound lawn-mower up and down a weed patch at the end of a wearisome hot summer's day. They are silent--" "Don't get excited, Mr. Pedagog, please," interrupted the Idiot. "I am not contemplating leaving you and Mrs. Smithers, but I do pine for a little garden of my own, where I could raise an occasional can of tomatoes. I dream sometimes of getting milk fresh from the pump, instead of twenty-four hours after it has been drawn, as we do here. In my musings it seems to me to be almost idyllic to have known a spring chicken in his infancy; to have watched a hind-quarter of lamb gambolling about its native heath before its muscles became adamant, and before chopped-up celery tops steeped in vinegar were poured upon it in the hope of hypnotizing boarders into the belief that spring lamb and mint-sauce lay before them. What care I how hard it is to rise every morning before six in winter to thaw out the boiler, so long as the night coming finds me seated in the genial glow of the gas log! What man is he that would complain of having to bale out his cellar every week, if, on the other hand, that cellar gains thereby a fertility that keeps its floor sheeny, soft, and green--an interior tennis-court--from spring to spring, causing the gladsome click of the lawn-mower to be heard within its walls all through the still watches of the winter day? I tell you, sir, it is the life to lead, that of our rural brother. I do not believe that in this whole vast city there is a cellar like that--an in-door garden-patch, as it were." [Illustration: "'A HIND-QUARTER OF LAMB GAMBOLLING ABOUT ITS NATIVE HEATH'"] "No," returned the Doctor; "and it is a good thing there isn't. There is enough sickness in the world without bringing any of your _rus_ ideas _in urbe_. I've lived in the country, sir, and I assure you it is not what it is written up to be. Country life is misery, melancholy, and malaria." "You must have struck a profitable section, Doctor," returned the Idiot, taking possession of three steaming buckwheat cakes to the dismay of Mr. Whitechoker, who was about to reach out for them himself. "And I should have supposed that your good business sense would have restrained you from leaving." "Then the countryman is poor--always poor," continued the Doctor, ignoring the Idiot's sarcastic comments. "Ah! that accounts for it," observed the Idiot. "I see why you did not stay; for what shall it profit a man to save a patient if practice, like virtue, is to be its own reward?" "Your suggestion, sir," retorted the Doctor, "betrays an unhealthy frame of mind." "That's all right, Doctor," returned the Idiot; "but please do not diagnose the case any further. I can't afford an expert opinion as to my mental condition. But to return to our subject: you two gentlemen appear to have had unhappy experiences in country life--quite different from those of a friend of mine who owns a farm. He doesn't have to run for trains; he is independent of plumbers, because the only pipes in his house are for smoking purposes. The farm produces corn enough to keep his family supplied all the year round and to sell a balance at a profit. Oats and wheat are harvested to an extent which keeps the cattle and declares dividends besides. He never suffers from the cold or heat. He is never afraid of losing his house or barns by fire, because the whole fire department of the neighboring village is, to a man, in love with the house-keeper's daughter, and is always on hand in force. The chickens are the envy and pride of the county, and there are so many of them that they have to take turns in going to roost. The pigs are the most intelligent of their kind, and are so happy they never grunt. In fact, everything is lovely and cheap, the only thing that hangs high being the goose." [Illustration: "'THE GLADSOME CLICK OF THE LAWN-MOWER'"] "Quite an ideal, no doubt," put in the School-master, scornfully. "I suppose his is one of those model farms with steam-pipes under the walks to melt the snow in winter, and of course there is a vein of coal growing right up into his furnace ready to be lit." "Yes," observed the Bibliomaniac; "and no doubt the chickens lay eggs in every style--poached, fried, scrambled, and boiled. The weeds in the garden grow so fast, I suppose, that they pull themselves up by the roots; and if there is anything left undone at the end of the day I presume tramps in dress suits, and courtly in manner, spring out of the ground and finish up for him." "I'll bet he's not on good terms with his neighbors if he has everything you speak of in such perfection. These farmers get frightfully jealous of each other," asserted the Doctor, with a positiveness that seemed to be born of experience. "He never quarrelled with one of them in his life," returned the Idiot. "He doesn't know them well enough to quarrel with them; in fact, I doubt if he ever sees them at all. He's very exclusive." "Of course he is a born farmer to get everything the way he has it," suggested Mrs. Smithers. "No, he isn't. He's a broker," said the Idiot, "and a very successful one. I see him on the street every day." "Does he employ a man to run the farm?" asked the Clergyman. "No," returned the Idiot, "he has too much sense and too few dollars to do any such foolish thing as that." "It must be one of those self-winding stock farms," put in the School-master, scornfully. "But I don't see how he can be a successful broker and make money off his farm at the same time. Your statements do not agree, either. You said he never had to run for trains." "Well, he never has," returned the Idiot, calmly. "He never goes near his farm. He doesn't have to. It's leased to the husband of the house-keeper whose daughter has a crush on the fire department. He takes his pay in produce, and gets more than if he took it in cash on the basis of the New York vegetable market." "Then you have got us into an argument about country life that ends--" began the School-master, indignantly. "That ends where it leaves off," retorted the Idiot, departing with a smile on his lips. "He's an Idiot from Idaho," asserted the Bibliomaniac. "Yes; but I'm afraid idiocy is a little contagious," observed the Doctor, with a grin and sidelong glance at the School-master. X "Good-morning, gentlemen," said the Idiot, as he seated himself at the breakfast-table and glanced over his mail. "Good-morning yourself," returned the Poet. "You have an unusually large number of letters this morning. All checks, I hope?" "Yes," replied the Idiot. "All checks of one kind or another. Mostly checks on ambition--otherwise, rejections from my friends the editors." "You don't mean to say that you write for the papers?" put in the School-master, with an incredulous smile. "I try to," returned the Idiot, meekly. "If the papers don't take 'em, I find them useful in curing my genial friend who imbibes of insomnia." "What do you write--advertisements?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "No. Advertisement writing is an art to which I dare not aspire. It's too great a tax on the brain," replied the Idiot. "Tax on what?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the Idiot. "The brain," returned the latter, not ready to be squelched. "It's a little thing people use to think with, Doctor. I'd advise you to get one." Then he added, "I write poems and foreign letters mostly." "I did not know that you had ever been abroad," said the clergyman. [Illustration: "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE PAPERS?'"] "I never have," returned the Idiot. "Then how, may I ask," said Mr. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you write foreign letters?" "With my stub pen, of course," replied the Idiot. "How did you suppose--with an oyster-knife?" The clergyman sighed. "I should like to hear some of your poems," said the Poet. "Very well," returned the Idiot. "Here's one that has just returned from the _Bengal Monthly_. It's about a writer who died some years ago. Shakespeare's his name. You've heard of Shakespeare, haven't you, Mr. Pedagog?" he added. Then, as there was no answer, he read the verse, which was as follows: SETTLED. Yes! Shakespeare wrote the plays--'tis clear to me. Lord Bacon's claim's condemned before the bar. He'd not have penned, "what fools these mortals be!" But--more correct--"what fools these mortals are!" "That's not bad," said the Poet. [Illustration: "'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"] "Thanks," returned the Idiot. "I wish you were an editor. I wrote that last spring, and it has been coming back to me at the rate of once a week ever since." "It is too short," said the Bibliomaniac. "It's an epigram," said the Idiot. "How many yards long do you think epigrams should be?" The Bibliomaniac scorned to reply. "I agree with the Bibliomaniac," said the School-master. "It is too short. People want greater quantity." "Well, here is quantity for you," said the Idiot. "Quantity as she is not wanted by nine comic papers I wot of. This poem is called: "THE TURNING OF THE WORM. "'How hard my fate perhaps you'll gather in, My dearest reader, when I tell you that I entered into this fair world a twin-- The one was spare enough, the other fat. "'I was, of course, the lean one of the two, The homelier as well, and consequently In ecstasy o'er Jim my parents flew, And good of me was spoken accident'ly. "'As boys, we went to school, and Jim, of course, Was e'er his teacher's favorite, and ranked Among the lads renowned for moral force, Whilst I was every day right soundly spanked. "'Jim had an angel face, but there he stopped. I never knew a lad who'd sin so oft And look so like a branch of heaven lopped From off the parent trunk that grows aloft. "'I seemed an imp--indeed 'twas often said That I resembled much Beelzebub. My face was freckled and my hair was red-- The kind of looking boy that men call scrub. "'Kind deeds, however, were my constant thought; In everything I did the best I could; I said my prayers thrice daily, and I sought In all my ways to do the right and good. "'On Saturdays I'd do my Monday's sums, While Jim would spend the day in search of fun; He'd sneak away and steal the neighbors' plums, And, strange to say, to earth was never run. "'Whilst I, when study-time was haply through, Would seek my brother in the neighbor's orchard; Would find the neighbor there with anger blue, And as the thieving culprit would be tortured. "'The sums I'd done he'd steal, this lad forsaken, Then change my work, so that a paltry four Would be my mark, whilst he had overtaken The maximum and all the prizes bore. "'In later years we loved the self-same maid; We sent her little presents, sweets, bouquets, For which, alas! 'twas I that always paid; And Jim the maid now honors and obeys. "'We entered politics--in different roles, And for a minor office each did run. 'Twas I was left--left badly at the polls, Because of fishy things that Jim had done. "'When Jim went into business and failed, I signed his notes and freed him from the strife Which bankruptcy and ruin hath entailed On them that lead a queer financial life. "'Then, penniless, I learned that Jim had set Aside before his failure--hard to tell!-- A half a million dollars on his pet-- His Mrs. Jim--the former lovely Nell. "'That wearied me of Jim. It may be right For one to bear another's cross, but I Quite fail to see it in its proper light, If that's the rule man should be guided by. "'And since a fate perverse has had the wit To mix us up so that the one's deserts Upon the shoulders of the other sit, No matter how the other one it hurts, "'I am resolved to take some mortal's life; Just when, or where, or how, I do not reck, So long as law will end this horrid strife And twist my dear twin brother's sinful neck.'" "There," said the Idiot, putting down the manuscript. "How's that?" "I don't like it," said Mr. Whitechoker. "It is immoral and vindictive. You should accept the hardships of life, no matter how unjust. The conclusion of your poem horrifies me, sir. I--" [Illustration: CURING INSOMNIA] "Have you tried your hand at dialect poetry?" asked the Doctor. "Yes; once," said the Idiot. "I sent it to the _Great Western Weekly_. Oh yes. Here it is. Sent back with thanks. It's an octette written in cigar-box dialect." "In wh-a-at?" asked the Poet. "Cigar-box dialect. Here it is: "'O Manuel garcia alonzo, Colorado especial H. Clay, Invincible flora alphonzo, Cigarette panatella el rey, Victoria Reina selectas-- O twofer madura grandé-- O conchas oscuro perfectas, You drive all my sorrows away.'" "Ingenious, but vicious," said the School-master, who does not smoke. "Again thanks. How is this for a sonnet?" said the Idiot: "'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancel'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I now pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think of thee, dear friend! All losses are restored and sorrows end.'" "It is bosh!" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly. "Perfect bosh!" repeated the School-master. "And only shows how in weak hands so beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be made ridiculous." "What's wrong with it?" asked the Idiot. "It doesn't contain any thought--or if it does, no one can tell what the thought is. Your rhymes are atrocious. Your phraseology is ridiculous. The whole thing is bad. You'll never get anybody to print it." "I do not intend to try," said the Idiot, meekly. "You are wise," said the School-master, "to take my advice for once." "No, it is not your advice that restrains me," said the Idiot, dryly. "It is the fact that this sonnet has already been printed." "In the name of Letters, where?" cried the School-master. "In the collected works of William Shakespeare," replied the Idiot, quietly. The Poet laughed; Mrs. Smithers's eyes filled with tears; and the School-master for once had absolutely nothing to say. XI "Do you believe, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, taking his place at the table, and holding his plate up to the light, apparently to see whether or not it was immaculate, whereat the landlady sniffed contemptuously--"do you believe that the love of money is the root of all evil?" "I have always been of that impression," returned Mr. Whitechoker, pleasantly. "In fact, I am sure of it," he added. "There is no evil thing in this world, sir, that cannot be traced back to a point where greed is found to be its main-spring and the source of its strength." "Then how do you reconcile this with the scriptural story of the forbidden fruit? Do you think the apples referred to were figures of speech, the true import of which was that Adam and Eve had their eyes on the original surplus?" "Well, of course, there you begin to--ah--you seem to me to be going back to the--er--the--ah--" "Original root of all evil," prompted the Idiot, calmly. "Precisely," returned Mr. Whitechoker, with a sigh of relief. "Mrs. Smithers, I think I'll have a dash of hot-water in my coffee this morning." Then, with a nervous glance towards the Idiot, he added, addressing the Bibliomaniac, "I think it looks like rain." "Referring to the coffee, Mr. Whitechoker?" queried the Idiot, not disposed to let go of his victim quite so easily. "Ah--I don't quite follow you," replied the Minister, with some annoyance. "You said something looked like rain, and I asked you if the thing you referred to was the coffee, for I was disposed to agree with you," said the Idiot. "I am sure," put in Mrs. Smithers, "that a gentleman of Mr. Whitechoker's refinement would not make any such insinuation, sir. He is not the man to quarrel with what is set before him." [Illustration: "HOLDING HIS PLATE UP TO THE LIGHT"] "I ask your pardon, madam," returned the Idiot, politely. "I hope that I am not the man to quarrel with my food, either. Indeed, I make it a rule to avoid unpleasantness of all sorts, particularly with the weak, under which category we find your coffee. I simply wish to know to what Mr. Whitechoker refers when he says 'it looks like rain.'" "I mean, of course," said the Minister, with as much calmness as he could command--and that was not much--"I mean the day. The day looks as if it might be rainy." "Any one with a modicum of brain knows what you meant, Mr. Whitechoker," volunteered the School-master. "Certainly," observed the Idiot, scraping the butter from his toast; "but to those who have more than a modicum of brains my reverend friend's remark was not entirely clear. If I am talking of cotton, and a gentleman chooses to state that it looks like snow, I know exactly what he means. He doesn't mean that the day looks like snow, however; he refers to the cotton. Mr. Whitechoker, talking about coffee, chooses to state that it looks like rain, which it undoubtedly does. I, realizing that, as Mrs. Smithers says, it is not the gentleman's habit to attack too violently the food which is set before him, manifest some surprise, and, giving the gentleman the benefit of the doubt, afford him an opportunity to set himself right." "Change the subject," said the Bibliomaniac, curtly. "With pleasure," answered the Idiot, filling his glass with cream. "We'll change the subject, or the object, or anything you choose. We'll have another breakfast, or another variety of biscuits _frappé_--anything, in short, to keep peace at the table. Tell me, Mr. Pedagog," he added, "is the use of the word 'it,' in the sentence 'it looks like rain,' perfectly correct?" "I don't know why it is not," returned the School-master, uneasily. He was not at all desirous of parleying with the Idiot. "And is it correct to suppose that 'it' refers to the day--is the day supposed to look like rain?--or do we simply use 'it' to express a condition which confronts us?" "It refers to the latter, of course." "Then the full text of Mr. Whitechoker's remark is, I suppose, that 'the rainy condition of the atmosphere which confronts us looks like rain?'" "Oh, I suppose so," sighed the School-master, wearily. "Rather an unnecessary sort of statement that!" continued the Idiot. "It's something like asserting that a man looks like himself, or, as in the case of a child's primer-- "'See the cat?' "'Yes, I see the cat.' "'What is the cat?' "'The cat is a cat. Scat cat!'" At this even Mrs. Smithers smiled. "I don't agree with Mr. Pedagog," put in the Bibliomaniac, after a pause. Here the School-master shook his head warningly at the Bibliomaniac, as if to indicate that he was not in good form. "So I observe," remarked the Idiot. "You have upset him completely. See how Mr. Pedagog trembles?" he added, addressing the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed. [Illustration: "'I BELIEVE YOU'D BLOW OUT THE GAS IN YOUR BED-ROOM'"] "I don't mean that way," sneered the Bibliomaniac, bound to set Mr. Whitechoker straight. "I mean that the word 'it,' as employed in that sentence, stands for day. The day looks like rain." "Did you ever see a day?" queried the Idiot. "Certainly I have," returned the Bibliomaniac. "What does it look like?" was the calmly put question. The Bibliomaniac's impatience was here almost too great for safety, and the manner in which his face colored aroused considerable interest in the breast of the Doctor, who was a good deal of a specialist in apoplexy. "Was it a whole day you saw, or only a half-day?" persisted the Idiot. "You may think you are very funny," retorted the Bibliomaniac. "I think you are--" "Now don't get angry," returned the Idiot. "There are two or three things I do not know, and I'm anxious to learn. I'd like to know how a day looks to one to whom it is a visible object. If it is visible, is it tangible? and, if so, how does it feel?" "The visible is always tangible," asserted the School-master, recklessly. "How about a red-hot stove, or manifest indignation, or a view from a mountain-top, or, as in the case of the young man in the novel who 'suddenly waked,' and, 'looking anxiously about him, saw no one?'" returned the Idiot, imperturbably. "Tut!" ejaculated the Bibliomaniac. "If I had brains like yours, I'd blow them out." "Yes, I think you would," observed the Idiot, folding up his napkin. "You're just the man to do a thing like that. I believe you'd blow out the gas in your bedroom if there wasn't a sign over it requesting you not to." And filling his match-box from the landlady's mantel supply, the Idiot hurried from the room, and soon after left the house. XII "If my father hadn't met with reverses--" the Idiot began. "Did you really have a father?" interrupted the School-master. "I thought you were one of these self-made Idiots. How terrible it must be for a man to think that he is responsible for you!" "Yes," rejoined the Idiot; "my father finds it rather hard to stand up under his responsibility for me; but he is a brave old gentleman, and he manages to bear the burden very well with the aid of my mother--for I have a mother, too, Mr. Pedagog. A womanly mother she is, too, with all the natural follies, such as fondness for and belief in her boy. Why, it would soften your heart to see how she looks on me. She thinks I am the most everlastingly brilliant man she ever knew--excepting father, of course, who has always been a hero of heroes in her eyes, because he never rails at misfortune, never spoke an unkind word to her in his life, and just lives gently along and waiting for the end of all things." [Illustration: "'HIS FAIRY STORIES WERE TOLD HIM IN WORDS OF TEN SYLLABLES'"] "Do you think it is right in you to deceive your mother in this way--making her think you a young Napoleon of intellect when you know you are an Idiot?" observed the Bibliomaniac, with a twinkle in his eye. "Why certainly I do," returned the Idiot, calmly. "It's my place to make the old folks happy if I can; and if thinking me nineteen different kinds of a genius is going to fill my mother's heart with happiness, I'm going to let her think it. What's the use of destroying other people's idols even if we do know them to be hollow mockeries? Do you think you do a praiseworthy act, for instance, when you kick over the heathen's stone gods and leave him without any at all? You may not have noticed it, but I have--that it is easier to pull down an idol than it is to rear an ideal. I have had idols shattered myself, and I haven't found that the pedestals they used to occupy have been rented since. They are there yet and empty--standing as monuments to what once seemed good to me--and I'm no happier nor no better for being disillusioned. So it is with my mother. I let her go on and think me perfect. It does her good, and it does me good because it makes me try to live up to that idea of hers as to what I am. If she had the same opinion of me that we all have she'd be the most miserable woman in the world." "We don't all think so badly of you," said the Doctor, rather softened by the Idiot's remarks. "No," put in the Bibliomaniac. "You are all right. You breathe normally, and you have nice blue eyes. You are graceful and pleasant to look upon, and if you'd been born dumb we'd esteem you very highly. It is only your manners and your theories that we don't like; but even in these we are disposed to believe that you are a well-meaning child." "That is precisely the way to put it," assented the School-master. "You are harmless even when most annoying. For my own part, I think the most objectionable feature about you is that you suffer from that unfortunately not uncommon malady, extreme youth. You are young for your age, and if you only wouldn't talk, I think we should get on famously together." "You overwhelm me with your compliments," said the Idiot. "I am sorry I am so young, but I cannot be brought to believe that that is my own fault. One must live to attain age, and how the deuce can one live when one boards?" As no one ventured to reply to this question, the force of which very evidently, however, was fully appreciated by Mrs. Smithers, the Idiot continued: [Illustration: "'I THOUGHT MY FATHER A MEAN-SPIRITED ASSASSIN'"] "Youth is thrust upon us in our infancy, and must be endured until such a time as Fate permits us to account ourselves cured. It swoops down upon us when we have neither the strength nor the brains to resent it. Of course there are some superior persons in this world who never were young. Mr. Pedagog, I doubt not, was ushered into this world with all three sets of teeth cut, and not wailing as most infants are, but discussing the most abstruse philosophical problems. His fairy stories were told him, if ever, in words of ten syllables; and his father's first remark to him was doubtless an inquiry as to his opinion on the subject of Latin and Greek in our colleges. It's all right to be this kind of a baby if you like that sort of thing. For my part, I rejoice to think that there was once a day when I thought my father a mean-spirited assassin, because he wouldn't tie a string to the moon and let me make it rise and set as suited my sweet will. Babies of Mr. Pedagog's sort are fortunately like angel's visits, few and far between. In spite of his stand in the matter, though, I can't help thinking there was a great deal of truth in a rhyme a friend of mine got off on Youth. It fits the case. He said: "'Youth is a state of being we attain In early years; to some 'tis but a crime-- And, like the mumps, most agèd men complain, It can't be caught, alas! a second time."' "Your rhymes are interesting, and your reasoning, as usual, is faulty," said the School-master. "I passed a very pleasant childhood, though it was a childhood devoted, as you have insinuated, to serious rather than to flippant pursuits. I wasn't particularly fond of tag and hide-and-seek, nor do I think that even as an infant I ever cried for the moon." "It would have expanded your chest if you had, Mr. Pedagog," observed the Idiot, quietly. "So it would, but I never found myself short-winded, sir," retorted the School-master, with some acerbity. "That is evident; but go on," said the Idiot. "You never passed a childish youth nor a youthful childhood, and therefore what?" "Therefore, in my present condition, I am normally contented. I have no youthful follies to look back upon, no indiscretions to regret; I never knowingly told a lie, and--" "All of which proves that you never were young," put in the Idiot; "and you will excuse me if I say it, but my father is the model for me rather than so exalted a personage as yourself. He is still young, though turned seventy, and I don't believe on his own account there ever was a boy who played hookey more, who prevaricated oftener, who purloined others' fruits with greater frequency than he. He was guilty of every crime in the calendar of youth; and if there is one thing that delights him more than another, it is to sit on a winter's night before the crackling log and tell us yarns about his youthful follies and his boyhood indiscretions." "But is he normally a happy man?" queried the School-master. "No." "Ah!" "No. He's an _ab_normally happy man, because he's got his follies and indiscretions to look back upon and not forward to." "Ahem!" said Mrs. Smithers. "Dear me!" ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker. Mr. Pedagog said nothing, and the breakfast-room was soon deserted. XIII There was an air of suppressed excitement about Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Pedagog as they sat down to breakfast. Something had happened, but just what that something was no one as yet knew, although the genial old gentleman had a sort of notion as to what it was. "Pedagog has been good-natured enough for an engaged man for nearly a week now," he whispered to the Idiot, who had asked him what he supposed was up, "and I have a half idea that Mrs. S. has at last brought him to the point of proposing." "It's the other way, I imagine," returned the Idiot. "You don't really think she has rejected him, do you?" queried the genial old gentleman. "Oh no; not by a great deal. I mean that I think it very likely that he has brought her to the point. This is leap-year, you know," said the Idiot. "Well, if I were a betting man, which I haven't been since night before last, I'd lay you a wager that they're engaged," said the old gentleman. "I'm glad you've given up betting," rejoined the Idiot, "because I'm sure I'd take the bet if you offered it--and then I believe I'd lose." "We are to have Philadelphia spring chickens this morning, gentlemen," said Mrs. Smithers, beaming upon all at the table. "It's a special treat." "Which we all appreciate, my dear Mrs. Smithers," observed the Idiot, with a courteous bow to his landlady. "And, by the way, why is it that Philadelphia spring chickens do not appear until autumn, do you suppose? Is it because Philadelphia spring doesn't come around until it is autumn everywhere else?" "No, I think not," said the Doctor. "I think it is because Philadelphia spring chickens are not sufficiently hardened to be able to stand the strain of exportation much before September, or else Philadelphia people do not get so sated with such delicacies as to permit any of the crop to go into other than Philadelphia markets before that period. For my part, I simply love them." [Illustration: "'MRS. S. BROUGHT HIM TO THE POINT OF PROPOSING'"] "So do I," said the Idiot; "and if Mrs. Smithers will pardon me for expressing a preference for any especial part of the _pièce de résistance_, I will state to her that if, in helping me, she will give me two drumsticks, a pair of second joints, and plenty of the white meat, I shall be very happy." "You ought to have said so yesterday," said the School-master, with a surprisingly genial laugh. "Then Mrs. Smithers could have prepared an individual chicken for you." "That would be too much," returned the Idiot, "and I should really hesitate to eat too much spring chicken. I never did it in my life, and don't know what the effect would be. Would it be harmful, Doctor?" "I really do not know how it would be," answered the Doctor. "In all my wide experience I have never found a case of the kind." "It's very rarely that one gets too much spring chicken," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I haven't had any experience with patients, as my friend the Doctor has; but I have lived in many boarding-houses, and I have never yet known of any one even getting enough." "Well, perhaps we shall have all we want this morning," said Mrs. Smithers. "I hope so, at any rate, for I wish this day to be a memorable one in our house. Mr. Pedagog has something to tell you. John, will you announce it now?" "Did you hear that?" whispered the Idiot. "She called him 'John.'" "Yes," said the genial old gentleman. "I didn't know Pedagog had a first name before." "Certainly, my dear--that is, my very dear Mrs. Smithers," stammered the School-master, getting red in the face. "The fact is, gentlemen--ahem!--I--er--we--er--that is, of course--er--Mrs. Smithers has er--ahem!--Mrs. Smithers has asked me to be her--I--er--I should say I have asked Mrs. Smithers to be my husb--my wife, and--er--she--" "Hoorah!" cried the Idiot, jumping up from the table and grasping Mr. Pedagog by the hand. "Hoorah! You've got in ahead of us, old man, but we are just as glad when we think of your good-fortune. Your gain may be our loss--but what of that where the happiness of our dear landlady is at stake?" Mrs. Smithers glanced coyly at the Idiot and smiled. "Thank you," said the School-master. "You are welcome," said the Idiot. "Mrs. Smithers, you will also permit me to felicitate you upon this happy event. I, who have so often differed with Mr. Pedagog upon matters of human knowledge, am forced to admit that upon this occasion he has shown such eminently good sense that you are fortunate, indeed, to have won him." "Again I thank you," said the School-master. "You are a very sensible person yourself, my dear Idiot; perhaps my failure to appreciate you at times in the past has been due to your brilliant qualities, which have so dazzled me that I have been unable to see you as you really are." "Here are the chickens," said Mrs. Smithers. "Ah!" ejaculated the Idiot. "What lucky fellows we are, to be sure! I hope, Mrs. Smithers, now that Mr. Pedagog has cut us all out, you will at least be a sister to the rest of us, and let us live at home." [Illustration: "'HOORAH!' CRIED THE IDIOT, GRASPING MR. PEDAGOG BY THE HAND"] "There is to be no change," said Mrs. Smithers--"at least, I hope not, except that Mr. Pedagog will take a more active part in the management of our home." "I don't envy him that," said the Idiot. "We shall be severe critics, and it will be hard work for him to manage affairs better than you did, Mrs. Smithers." "Mary, get me a larger cup for the Idiot's coffee," said Mrs. Smithers. "Let's all retire from business," suggested the Idiot, after the other guests had expressed their satisfaction with the turn affairs had taken. "Let's retire from business, and change the Smithers Home for Boarders into an Educational Institution." "For what purpose?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "Everything is so lovely now," explained the Idiot, "that I feel as though I never wanted to leave the house again, even to win a fortune. If we turn it into a college and instruct youth, we need never go outside the front door excepting for pleasure." "Where will the money and the instructors come from?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "Money? From pupils; and after we get going maybe somebody will endow us. As for instructors, I think we know enough to be instructors ourselves," replied the Idiot. "For instance: Pedagog's University. John Pedagog, President; Alonzo B. Whitechoker, Chaplain; Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog, Matron. For Professor of Belles-lettres, the Bibliomaniac, assisted by the Poet; Medical Lectures by Dr. Capsule; Chemistry taught by our genial friend who occasionally imbibes; Chair in General Information, your humble servant. Why, we would be overrun with pupils and money in less than a year." "A very good idea," returned Mr. Pedagog. "I have often thought that a nice little school could be started here to advantage, though I must confess that I had different ideas on the subject of the instructors. You, my dear Idiot, would be a great deal more useful as a Professor Emeritus." "Hm!" said the Idiot. "It sounds mighty well--I've no doubt I should like it. What is a Professor Emeritus, Mr. Pedagog?" "He is a professor who is paid a salary for doing nothing." The whole table joined in a laugh, the Idiot included. "By Jove! Mr. Pedagog," he said, as soon as he could speak, "you are just dead right about that. That's the place of places for me. Salary and nothing to do! Oh, how I'd love it!" The rest of the breakfast was eaten in silence. The spring chickens were too good and too plentiful to admit of much waste of time in conversation. At the conclusion of the meal the Idiot rose from the table, and, after again congratulating Mr. Pedagog and his fiancée, announced that he was going to see his employer. "On Sunday?" queried Mrs. Smithers. "Yes; I want him to write me a recommendation as a man who can do nothing beautifully." "And why, pray?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "I'm going to apply to the Trustees of Columbia College the first thing to-morrow morning for an Emeritus Professorship, for if anybody can do nothing and draw money for it gracefully I'm the man. Wall Street is too wearing on my nerves," he replied. And in a moment he was gone. "I _like_ him," said Mrs. Smithers. "So do I," said Mr. Pedagog. "He isn't half the idiot he thinks he is." THE END By LILIAN BELL A Little Sister to the Wilderness. A Novel. 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1421	----	Transcribed from the 1894 Chapman and Hall "Christmas Stories" edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk MRS. LIRRIPER'S LEGACY CHAPTER I--MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES HOW SHE WENT ON, AND WENT OVER Ah! It's pleasant to drop into my own easy-chair my dear though a little palpitating what with trotting up-stairs and what with trotting down, and why kitchen stairs should all be corner stairs is for the builders to justify though I do not think they fully understand their trade and never did, else why the sameness and why not more conveniences and fewer draughts and likewise making a practice of laying the plaster on too thick I am well convinced which holds the damp, and as to chimney-pots putting them on by guess-work like hats at a party and no more knowing what their effect will be upon the smoke bless you than I do if so much, except that it will mostly be either to send it down your throat in a straight form or give it a twist before it goes there. And what I says speaking as I find of those new metal chimneys all manner of shapes (there's a row of 'em at Miss Wozenham's lodging-house lower down on the other side of the way) is that they only work your smoke into artificial patterns for you before you swallow it and that I'd quite as soon swallow mine plain, the flavour being the same, not to mention the conceit of putting up signs on the top of your house to show the forms in which you take your smoke into your inside. Being here before your eyes my dear in my own easy-chair in my own quiet room in my own Lodging-House Number Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand London situated midway between the City and St. James's--if anything is where it used to be with these hotels calling themselves Limited but called unlimited by Major Jackman rising up everywhere and rising up into flagstaffs where they can't go any higher, but my mind of those monsters is give me a landlord's or landlady's wholesome face when I come off a journey and not a brass plate with an electrified number clicking out of it which it's not in nature can be glad to see me and to which I don't want to be hoisted like molasses at the Docks and left there telegraphing for help with the most ingenious instruments but quite in vain--being here my dear I have no call to mention that I am still in the Lodgings as a business hoping to die in the same and if agreeable to the clergy partly read over at Saint Clement's Danes and concluded in Hatfield churchyard when lying once again by my poor Lirriper ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Neither should I tell you any news my dear in telling you that the Major is still a fixture in the Parlours quite as much so as the roof of the house, and that Jemmy is of boys the best and brightest and has ever had kept from him the cruel story of his poor pretty young mother Mrs. Edson being deserted in the second floor and dying in my arms, fully believing that I am his born Gran and him an orphan, though what with engineering since he took a taste for it and him and the Major making Locomotives out of parasols broken iron pots and cotton-reels and them absolutely a getting off the line and falling over the table and injuring the passengers almost equal to the originals it really is quite wonderful. And when I says to the Major, "Major can't you by _any_ means give us a communication with the guard?" the Major says quite huffy, "No madam it's not to be done," and when I says "Why not?" the Major says, "That is between us who are in the Railway Interest madam and our friend the Right Honourable Vice-President of the Board of Trade" and if you'll believe me my dear the Major wrote to Jemmy at school to consult him on the answer I should have before I could get even that amount of unsatisfactoriness out of the man, the reason being that when we first began with the little model and the working signals beautiful and perfect (being in general as wrong as the real) and when I says laughing "What appointment am I to hold in this undertaking gentlemen?" Jemmy hugs me round the neck and tells me dancing, "You shall be the Public Gran" and consequently they put upon me just as much as ever they like and I sit a growling in my easy-chair. My dear whether it is that a grown man as clever as the Major cannot give half his heart and mind to anything--even a plaything--but must get into right down earnest with it, whether it is so or whether it is not so I do not undertake to say, but Jemmy is far out-done by the serious and believing ways of the Major in the management of the United Grand Junction Lirriper and Jackman Great Norfolk Parlour Line, "For" says my Jemmy with the sparkling eyes when it was christened, "we must have a whole mouthful of name Gran or our dear old Public" and there the young rogue kissed me, "won't stump up." So the Public took the shares--ten at ninepence, and immediately when that was spent twelve Preference at one and sixpence--and they were all signed by Jemmy and countersigned by the Major, and between ourselves much better worth the money than some shares I have paid for in my time. In the same holidays the line was made and worked and opened and ran excursions and had collisions and burst its boilers and all sorts of accidents and offences all most regular correct and pretty. The sense of responsibility entertained by the Major as a military style of station-master my dear starting the down train behind time and ringing one of those little bells that you buy with the little coal-scuttles off the tray round the man's neck in the street did him honour, but noticing the Major of a night when he is writing out his monthly report to Jemmy at school of the state of the Rolling Stock and the Permanent Way and all the rest of it (the whole kept upon the Major's sideboard and dusted with his own hands every morning before varnishing his boots) I notice him as full of thought and care as full can be and frowning in a fearful manner, but indeed the Major does nothing by halves as witness his great delight in going out surveying with Jemmy when he has Jemmy to go with, carrying a chain and a measuring-tape and driving I don't know what improvements right through Westminster Abbey and fully believed in the streets to be knocking everything upside down by Act of Parliament. As please Heaven will come to pass when Jemmy takes to that as a profession! Mentioning my poor Lirriper brings into my head his own youngest brother the Doctor though Doctor of what I am sure it would be hard to say unless Liquor, for neither Physic nor Music nor yet Law does Joshua Lirriper know a morsel of except continually being summoned to the County Court and having orders made upon him which he runs away from, and once was taken in the passage of this very house with an umbrella up and the Major's hat on, giving his name with the door-mat round him as Sir Johnson Jones, K.C.B. in spectacles residing at the Horse Guards. On which occasion he had got into the house not a minute before, through the girl letting him on the mat when he sent in a piece of paper twisted more like one of those spills for lighting candles than a note, offering me the choice between thirty shillings in hand and his brains on the premises marked immediate and waiting for an answer. My dear it gave me such a dreadful turn to think of the brains of my poor dear Lirriper's own flesh and blood flying about the new oilcloth however unworthy to be so assisted, that I went out of my room here to ask him what he would take once for all not to do it for life when I found him in the custody of two gentlemen that I should have judged to be in the feather-bed trade if they had not announced the law, so fluffy were their personal appearance. "Bring your chains, sir," says Joshua to the littlest of the two in the biggest hat, "rivet on my fetters!" Imagine my feelings when I pictered him clanking up Norfolk Street in irons and Miss Wozenham looking out of window! "Gentlemen," I says all of a tremble and ready to drop "please to bring him into Major Jackman's apartments." So they brought him into the Parlours, and when the Major spies his own curly- brimmed hat on him which Joshua Lirriper had whipped off its peg in the passage for a military disguise he goes into such a tearing passion that he tips it off his head with his hand and kicks it up to the ceiling with his foot where it grazed long afterwards. "Major" I says "be cool and advise me what to do with Joshua my dead and gone Lirriper's own youngest brother." "Madam" says the Major "my advice is that you board and lodge him in a Powder Mill, with a handsome gratuity to the proprietor when exploded." "Major" I says "as a Christian you cannot mean your words." "Madam" says the Major "by the Lord I do!" and indeed the Major besides being with all his merits a very passionate man for his size had a bad opinion of Joshua on account of former troubles even unattended by liberties taken with his apparel. When Joshua Lirriper hears this conversation betwixt us he turns upon the littlest one with the biggest hat and says "Come sir! Remove me to my vile dungeon. Where is my mouldy straw?" My dear at the picter of him rising in my mind dressed almost entirely in padlocks like Baron Trenck in Jemmy's book I was so overcome that I burst into tears and I says to the Major, "Major take my keys and settle with these gentlemen or I shall never know a happy minute more," which was done several times both before and since, but still I must remember that Joshua Lirriper has his good feelings and shows them in being always so troubled in his mind when he cannot wear mourning for his brother. Many a long year have I left off my widow's mourning not being wishful to intrude, but the tender point in Joshua that I cannot help a little yielding to is when he writes "One single sovereign would enable me to wear a decent suit of mourning for my much-loved brother. I vowed at the time of his lamented death that I would ever wear sables in memory of him but Alas how short-sighted is man, How keep that vow when penniless!" It says a good deal for the strength of his feelings that he couldn't have been seven year old when my poor Lirriper died and to have kept to it ever since is highly creditable. But we know there's good in all of us,--if we only knew where it was in some of us,--and though it was far from delicate in Joshua to work upon the dear child's feelings when first sent to school and write down into Lincolnshire for his pocket- money by return of post and got it, still he is my poor Lirriper's own youngest brother and mightn't have meant not paying his bill at the Salisbury Arms when his affection took him down to stay a fortnight at Hatfield churchyard and might have meant to keep sober but for bad company. Consequently if the Major _had_ played on him with the garden- engine which he got privately into his room without my knowing of it, I think that much as I should have regretted it there would have been words betwixt the Major and me. Therefore my dear though he played on Mr. Buffle by mistake being hot in his head, and though it might have been misrepresented down at Wozenham's into not being ready for Mr. Buffle in other respects he being the Assessed Taxes, still I do not so much regret it as perhaps I ought. And whether Joshua Lirriper will yet do well in life I cannot say, but I did hear of his coming, out at a Private Theatre in the character of a Bandit without receiving any offers afterwards from the regular managers. Mentioning Mr. Baffle gives an instance of there being good in persons where good is not expected, for it cannot be denied that Mr. Buffle's manners when engaged in his business were not agreeable. To collect is one thing, and to look about as if suspicious of the goods being gradually removing in the dead of the night by a back door is another, over taxing you have no control but suspecting is voluntary. Allowances too must ever be made for a gentleman of the Major's warmth not relishing being spoke to with a pen in the mouth, and while I do not know that it is more irritable to my own feelings to have a low-crowned hat with a broad brim kept on in doors than any other hat still I can appreciate the Major's, besides which without bearing malice or vengeance the Major is a man that scores up arrears as his habit always was with Joshua Lirriper. So at last my dear the Major lay in wait for Mr. Buffle, and it worrited me a good deal. Mr. Buffle gives his rap of two sharp knocks one day and the Major bounces to the door. "Collector has called for two quarters' Assessed Taxes" says Mr. Buffle. "They are ready for him" says the Major and brings him in here. But on the way Mr. Buffle looks about him in his usual suspicious manner and the Major fires and asks him "Do you see a Ghost sir?" "No sir" says Mr. Buffle. "Because I have before noticed you" says the Major "apparently looking for a spectre very hard beneath the roof of my respected friend. When you find that supernatural agent, be so good as point him out sir." Mr. Buffle stares at the Major and then nods at me. "Mrs. Lirriper sir" says the Major going off into a perfect steam and introducing me with his hand. "Pleasure of knowing her" says Mr. Buffle. "A--hum!--Jemmy Jackman sir!" says the Major introducing himself. "Honour of knowing you by sight" says Mr. Buffle. "Jemmy Jackman sir" says the Major wagging his head sideways in a sort of obstinate fury "presents to you his esteemed friend that lady Mrs. Emma Lirriper of Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand London in the County of Middlesex in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Upon which occasion sir," says the Major, "Jemmy Jackman takes your hat off." Mr. Buffle looks at his hat where the Major drops it on the floor, and he picks it up and puts it on again. "Sir" says the Major very red and looking him full in the face "there are two quarters of the Gallantry Taxes due and the Collector has called." Upon which if you can believe my words my dear the Major drops Mr. Buffle's hat off again. "This--" Mr. Buffle begins very angry with his pen in his mouth, when the Major steaming more and more says "Take your bit out sir! Or by the whole infernal system of Taxation of this country and every individual figure in the National Debt, I'll get upon your back and ride you like a horse!" which it's my belief he would have done and even actually jerking his neat little legs ready for a spring as it was. "This," says Mr. Buffle without his pen "is an assault and I'll have the law of you." "Sir" replies the Major "if you are a man of honour, your Collector of whatever may be due on the Honourable Assessment by applying to Major Jackman at the Parlours Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings, may obtain what he wants in full at any moment." When the Major glared at Mr. Buffle with those meaning words my dear I literally gasped for a teaspoonful of salvolatile in a wine-glass of water, and I says "Pray let it go no farther gentlemen I beg and beseech of you!" But the Major could be got to do nothing else but snort long after Mr. Buffle was gone, and the effect it had upon my whole mass of blood when on the next day of Mr. Buffle's rounds the Major spruced himself up and went humming a tune up and down the street with one eye almost obliterated by his hat there are not expressions in Johnson's Dictionary to state. But I safely put the street door on the jar and got behind the Major's blinds with my shawl on and my mind made up the moment I saw danger to rush out screeching till my voice failed me and catch the Major round the neck till my strength went and have all parties bound. I had not been behind the blinds a quarter of an hour when I saw Mr. Buffle approaching with his Collecting-books in his hand. The Major likewise saw him approaching and hummed louder and himself approached. They met before the Airy railings. The Major takes off his hat at arm's length and says "Mr. Buffle I believe?" Mr. Buffle takes off _his_ hat at arm's length and says "That is my name sir." Says the Major "Have you any commands for me, Mr. Buffle?" Says Mr. Buffle "Not any sir." Then my dear both of 'em bowed very low and haughty and parted, and whenever Mr. Buffle made his rounds in future him and the Major always met and bowed before the Airy railings, putting me much in mind of Hamlet and the other gentleman in mourning before killing one another, though I could have wished the other gentleman had done it fairer and even if less polite no poison. Mr. Buffle's family were not liked in this neighbourhood, for when you are a householder my dear you'll find it does not come by nature to like the Assessed, and it was considered besides that a one-horse pheayton ought not to have elevated Mrs. Buffle to that height especially when purloined from the Taxes which I myself did consider uncharitable. But they were _not_ liked and there was that domestic unhappiness in the family in consequence of their both being very hard with Miss Buffle and one another on account of Miss Buffle's favouring Mr. Buffle's articled young gentleman, that it _was_ whispered that Miss Buffle would go either into a consumption or a convent she being so very thin and off her appetite and two close-shaved gentlemen with white bands round their necks peeping round the corner whenever she went out in waistcoats resembling black pinafores. So things stood towards Mr. Buffle when one night I was woke by a frightful noise and a smell of burning, and going to my bedroom window saw the whole street in a glow. Fortunately we had two sets empty just then and before I could hurry on some clothes I heard the Major hammering at the attics' doors and calling out "Dress yourselves!--Fire! Don't be frightened!--Fire! Collect your presence of mind!--Fire! All right--Fire!" most tremenjously. As I opened my bedroom door the Major came tumbling in over himself and me, and caught me in his arms. "Major" I says breathless "where is it?" "I don't know dearest madam" says the Major--"Fire! Jemmy Jackman will defend you to the last drop of his blood--Fire! If the dear boy was at home what a treat this would be for him--Fire!" and altogether very collected and bold except that he couldn't say a single sentence without shaking me to the very centre with roaring Fire. We ran down to the drawing-room and put our heads out of window, and the Major calls to an unfeeling young monkey, scampering by be joyful and ready to split "Where is it?--Fire!" The monkey answers without stopping "O here's a lark! Old Buffle's been setting his house alight to prevent its being found out that he boned the Taxes. Hurrah! Fire!" And then the sparks came flying up and the smoke came pouring down and the crackling of flames and spatting of water and banging of engines and hacking of axes and breaking of glass and knocking at doors and the shouting and crying and hurrying and the heat and altogether gave me a dreadful palpitation. "Don't be frightened dearest madam," says the Major, "--Fire! There's nothing to be alarmed at--Fire! Don't open the street door till I come back--Fire! I'll go and see if I can be of any service--Fire! You're quite composed and comfortable ain't you?--Fire, Fire, Fire!" It was in vain for me to hold the man and tell him he'd be galloped to death by the engines--pumped to death by his over- exertions--wet-feeted to death by the slop and mess--flattened to death when the roofs fell in--his spirit was up and he went scampering off after the young monkey with all the breath he had and none to spare, and me and the girls huddled together at the parlour windows looking at the dreadful flames above the houses over the way, Mr. Buffle's being round the corner. Presently what should we see but some people running down the street straight to our door, and then the Major directing operations in the busiest way, and then some more people and then--carried in a chair similar to Guy Fawkes--Mr. Buffle in a blanket! My dear the Major has Mr. Buffle brought up our steps and whisked into the parlour and carted out on the sofy, and then he and all the rest of them without so much as a word burst away again full speed leaving the impression of a vision except for Mr. Buffle awful in his blanket with his eyes a rolling. In a twinkling they all burst back again with Mrs. Buffle in another blanket, which whisked in and carted out on the sofy they all burst off again and all burst back again with Miss Buffle in another blanket, which again whisked in and carted out they all burst off again and all burst back again with Mr. Buffle's articled young gentleman in another blanket--him a holding round the necks of two men carrying him by the legs, similar to the picter of the disgraceful creetur who has lost the fight (but where the chair I do not know) and his hair having the appearance of newly played upon. When all four of a row, the Major rubs his hands and whispers me with what little hoarseness he can get together, "If our dear remarkable boy was only at home what a delightful treat this would be for him!" My dear we made them some hot tea and toast and some hot brandy-and-water with a little comfortable nutmeg in it, and at first they were scared and low in their spirits but being fully insured got sociable. And the first use Mr. Buffle made of his tongue was to call the Major his Preserver and his best of friends and to say "My for ever dearest sir let me make you known to Mrs. Buffle" which also addressed him as her Preserver and her best of friends and was fully as cordial as the blanket would admit of. Also Miss Buffle. The articled young gentleman's head was a little light and he sat a moaning "Robina is reduced to cinders, Robina is reduced to cinders!" Which went more to the heart on account of his having got wrapped in his blanket as if he was looking out of a violinceller case, until Mr. Buffle says "Robina speak to him!" Miss Buffle says "Dear George!" and but for the Major's pouring down brandy-and-water on the instant which caused a catching in his throat owing to the nutmeg and a violent fit of coughing it might have proved too much for his strength. When the articled young gentleman got the better of it Mr. Buffle leaned up against Mrs. Buffle being two bundles, a little while in confidence, and then says with tears in his eyes which the Major noticing wiped, "We have not been an united family, let us after this danger become so, take her George." The young gentleman could not put his arm out far to do it, but his spoken expressions were very beautiful though of a wandering class. And I do not know that I ever had a much pleasanter meal than the breakfast we took together after we had all dozed, when Miss Buffle made tea very sweetly in quite the Roman style as depicted formerly at Covent Garden Theatre and when the whole family was most agreeable, as they have ever proved since that night when the Major stood at the foot of the Fire- Escape and claimed them as they came down--the young gentleman head-foremost, which accounts. And though I do not say that we should be less liable to think ill of one another if strictly limited to blankets, still I do say that we might most of us come to a better understanding if we kept one another less at a distance. Why there's Wozenham's lower down on the other side of the street. I had a feeling of much soreness several years respecting what I must still ever call Miss Wozenham's systematic underbidding and the likeness of the house in Bradshaw having far too many windows and a most umbrageous and outrageous Oak which never yet was seen in Norfolk Street nor yet a carriage and four at Wozenham's door, which it would have been far more to Bradshaw's credit to have drawn a cab. This frame of mind continued bitter down to the very afternoon in January last when one of my girls, Sally Rairyganoo which I still suspect of Irish extraction though family represented Cambridge, else why abscond with a bricklayer of the Limerick persuasion and be married in pattens not waiting till his black eye was decently got round with all the company fourteen in number and one horse fighting outside on the roof of the vehicle,--I repeat my dear my ill- regulated state of mind towards Miss Wozenham continued down to the very afternoon of January last past when Sally Rairyganoo came banging (I can use no milder expression) into my room with a jump which may be Cambridge and may not, and said "Hurroo Missis! Miss Wozenham's sold up!" My dear when I had it thrown in my face and conscience that the girl Sally had reason to think I could be glad of the ruin of a fellow-creeter, I burst into tears and dropped back in my chair and I says "I am ashamed of myself!" Well! I tried to settle to my tea but I could not do it what with thinking of Miss Wozenham and her distresses. It was a wretched night and I went up to a front window and looked over at Wozenham's and as well as I could make it out down the street in the fog it was the dismallest of the dismal and not a light to be seen. So at last I save to myself "This will not do," and I puts on my oldest bonnet and shawl not wishing Miss Wozenham to be reminded of my best at such a time, and lo and behold you I goes over to Wozenham's and knocks. "Miss Wozenham at home?" I says turning my head when I heard the door go. And then I saw it was Miss Wozenham herself who had opened it and sadly worn she was poor thing and her eyes all swelled and swelled with crying. "Miss Wozenham" I says "it is several years since there was a little unpleasantness betwixt us on the subject of my grandson's cap being down your Airy. I have overlooked it and I hope you have done the same." "Yes Mrs. Lirriper" she says in a surprise, "I have." "Then my dear" I says "I should be glad to come in and speak a word to you." Upon my calling her my dear Miss Wozenham breaks out a crying most pitiful, and a not unfeeling elderly person that might have been better shaved in a nightcap with a hat over it offering a polite apology for the mumps having worked themselves into his constitution, and also for sending home to his wife on the bellows which was in his hand as a writing-desk, looks out of the back parlour and says "The lady wants a word of comfort" and goes in again. So I was able to say quite natural "Wants a word of comfort does she sir? Then please the pigs she shall have it!" And Miss Wozenham and me we go into the front room with a wretched light that seemed to have been crying too and was sputtering out, and I says "Now my dear, tell me all," and she wrings her hands and says "O Mrs. Lirriper that man is in possession here, and I have not a friend in the world who is able to help me with a shilling." It doesn't signify a bit what a talkative old body like me said to Miss Wozenham when she said that, and so I'll tell you instead my dear that I'd have given thirty shillings to have taken her over to tea, only I durstn't on account of the Major. Not you see but what I knew I could draw the Major out like thread and wind him round my finger on most subjects and perhaps even on that if I was to set myself to it, but him and me had so often belied Miss Wozenham to one another that I was shamefaced, and I knew she had offended his pride and never mine, and likewise I felt timid that that Rairyganoo girl might make things awkward. So I says "My dear if you could give me a cup of tea to clear my muddle of a head I should better understand your affairs." And we had the tea and the affairs too and after all it was but forty pound, and--There! she's as industrious and straight a creeter as ever lived and has paid back half of it already, and where's the use of saying more, particularly when it ain't the point? For the point is that when she was a kissing my hands and holding them in hers and kissing them again and blessing blessing blessing, I cheered up at last and I says "Why what a waddling old goose I have been my dear to take you for something so very different!" "Ah but I too" says she "how have _I_ mistaken _you_!" "Come for goodness' sake tell me" I says "what you thought of me?" "O" says she "I thought you had no feeling for such a hard hand-to-mouth life as mine, and were rolling in affluence." I says shaking my sides (and very glad to do it for I had been a choking quite long enough) "Only look at my figure my dear and give me your opinion whether if I was in affluence I should be likely to roll in it?" That did it? We got as merry as grigs (whatever _they_ are, if you happen to know my dear--_I_ don't) and I went home to my blessed home as happy and as thankful as could be. But before I make an end of it, think even of my having misunderstood the Major! Yes! For next forenoon the Major came into my little room with his brushed hat in his hand and he begins "My dearest madam--" and then put his face in his hat as if he had just come into church. As I sat all in a maze he came out of his hat and began again. "My esteemed and beloved friend--" and then went into his hat again. "Major," I cries out frightened "has anything happened to our darling boy?" "No, no, no" says the Major "but Miss Wozenham has been here this morning to make her excuses to me, and by the Lord I can't get over what she told me." "Hoity toity, Major," I says "you don't know yet that I was afraid of you last night and didn't think half as well of you as I ought! So come out of church Major and forgive me like a dear old friend and I'll never do so any more." And I leave you to judge my dear whether I ever did or will. And how affecting to think of Miss Wozenham out of her small income and her losses doing so much for her poor old father, and keeping a brother that had had the misfortune to soften his brain against the hard mathematics as neat as a new pin in the three back represented to lodgers as a lumber-room and consuming a whole shoulder of mutton whenever provided! And now my dear I really am a going to tell you about my Legacy if you're inclined to favour me with your attention, and I did fully intend to have come straight to it only one thing does so bring up another. It was the month of June and the day before Midsummer Day when my girl Winifred Madgers--she was what is termed a Plymouth Sister, and the Plymouth Brother that made away with her was quite right, for a tidier young woman for a wife never came into a house and afterwards called with the beautifullest Plymouth Twins--it was the day before Midsummer Day when Winifred Madgers comes and says to me "A gentleman from the Consul's wishes particular to speak to Mrs. Lirriper." If you'll believe me my dear the Consols at the bank where I have a little matter for Jemmy got into my head, and I says "Good gracious I hope he ain't had any dreadful fall!" Says Winifred "He don't look as if he had ma'am." And I says "Show him in." The gentleman came in dark and with his hair cropped what I should consider too close, and he says very polite "Madame Lirrwiper!" I says, "Yes sir. Take a chair." "I come," says he "frrwom the Frrwench Consul's." So I saw at once that it wasn't the Bank of England. "We have rrweceived," says the gentleman turning his r's very curious and skilful, "frrwom the Mairrwie at Sens, a communication which I will have the honour to rrwead. Madame Lirrwiper understands Frrwench?" "O dear no sir!" says I. "Madame Lirriper don't understand anything of the sort." "It matters not," says the gentleman, "I will trrwanslate." With that my dear the gentleman after reading something about a Department and a Marie (which Lord forgive me I supposed till the Major came home was Mary, and never was I more puzzled than to think how that young woman came to have so much to do with it) translated a lot with the most obliging pains, and it came to this:--That in the town of Sons in France an unknown Englishman lay a dying. That he was speechless and without motion. That in his lodging there was a gold watch and a purse containing such and such money and a trunk containing such and such clothes, but no passport and no papers, except that on his table was a pack of cards and that he had written in pencil on the back of the ace of hearts: "To the authorities. When I am dead, pray send what is left, as a last Legacy, to Mrs. Lirriper Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand London." When the gentleman had explained all this, which seemed to be drawn up much more methodical than I should have given the French credit for, not at that time knowing the nation, he put the document into my hand. And much the wiser I was for that you may be sure, except that it had the look of being made out upon grocery paper and was stamped all over with eagles. "Does Madame Lirrwiper" says the gentleman "believe she rrwecognises her unfortunate compatrrwiot?" You may imagine the flurry it put me into my dear to be talked to about my compatriots. I says "Excuse me. Would you have the kindness sir to make your language as simple as you can?" "This Englishman unhappy, at the point of death. This compatrrwiot afflicted," says the gentleman. "Thank you sir" I says "I understand you now. No sir I have not the least idea who this can be." "Has Madame Lirrwiper no son, no nephew, no godson, no frrwiend, no acquaintance of any kind in Frrwance?" "To my certain knowledge" says I "no relation or friend, and to the best of my belief no acquaintance." "Pardon me. You take Locataires?" says the gentleman. My dear fully believing he was offering me something with his obliging foreign manners,--snuff for anything I knew,--I gave a little bend of my head and I says if you'll credit it, "No I thank you. I have not contracted the habit." The gentleman looks perplexed and says "Lodgers!" "Oh!" says I laughing. "Bless the man! Why yes to be sure!" "May it not be a former lodger?" says the gentleman. "Some lodger that you pardoned some rrwent? You have pardoned lodgers some rrwent?" "Hem! It has happened sir" says I, "but I assure you I can call to mind no gentleman of that description that this is at all likely to be." In short my dear, we could make nothing of it, and the gentleman noted down what I said and went away. But he left me the paper of which he had two with him, and when the Major came in I says to the Major as I put it in his hand "Major here's Old Moore's Almanac with the hieroglyphic complete, for your opinion." It took the Major a little longer to read than I should have thought, judging from the copious flow with which he seemed to be gifted when attacking the organ-men, but at last he got through it, and stood a gazing at me in amazement. "Major" I says "you're paralysed." "Madam" says the Major, "Jemmy Jackman is doubled up." Now it did so happen that the Major had been out to get a little information about railroads and steamboats, as our boy was coming home for his Midsummer holidays next day and we were going to take him somewhere for a treat and a change. So while the Major stood a gazing it came into my head to say to him "Major I wish you'd go and look at some of your books and maps, and see whereabouts this same town of Sens is in France." The Major he roused himself and he went into the Parlours and he poked about a little, and he came back to me and he says, "Sens my dearest madam is seventy-odd miles south of Paris." With what I may truly call a desperate effort "Major," I says "we'll go there with our blessed boy." If ever the Major was beside himself it was at the thoughts of that journey. All day long he was like the wild man of the woods after meeting with an advertisement in the papers telling him something to his advantage, and early next morning hours before Jemmy could possibly come home he was outside in the street ready to call out to him that we was all a going to France. Young Rosycheeks you may believe was as wild as the Major, and they did carry on to that degree that I says "If you two children ain't more orderly I'll pack you both off to bed." And then they fell to cleaning up the Major's telescope to see France with, and went out and bought a leather bag with a snap to hang round Jemmy, and him to carry the money like a little Fortunatus with his purse. If I hadn't passed my word and raised their hopes, I doubt if I could have gone through with the undertaking but it was too late to go back now. So on the second day after Midsummer Day we went off by the morning mail. And when we came to the sea which I had never seen but once in my life and that when my poor Lirriper was courting me, the freshness of it and the deepness and the airiness and to think that it had been rolling ever since and that it was always a rolling and so few of us minding, made me feel quite serious. But I felt happy too and so did Jemmy and the Major and not much motion on the whole, though me with a swimming in the head and a sinking but able to take notice that the foreign insides appear to be constructed hollower than the English, leading to much more tremenjous noises when bad sailors. But my dear the blueness and the lightness and the coloured look of everything and the very sentry-boxes striped and the shining rattling drums and the little soldiers with their waists and tidy gaiters, when we got across to the Continent--it made me feel as if I don't know what--as if the atmosphere had been lifted off me. And as to lunch why bless you if I kept a man-cook and two kitchen-maids I couldn't got it done for twice the money, and no injured young woman a glaring at you and grudging you and acknowledging your patronage by wishing that your food might choke you, but so civil and so hot and attentive and every way comfortable except Jemmy pouring wine down his throat by tumblers-full and me expecting to see him drop under the table. And the way in which Jemmy spoke his French was a real charm. It was often wanted of him, for whenever anybody spoke a syllable to me I says "Non-comprenny, you're very kind, but it's no use--Now Jemmy!" and then Jemmy he fires away at 'em lovely, the only thing wanting in Jemmy's French being as it appeared to me that he hardly ever understood a word of what they said to him which made it scarcely of the use it might have been though in other respects a perfect Native, and regarding the Major's fluency I should have been of the opinion judging French by English that there might have been a greater choice of words in the language though still I must admit that if I hadn't known him when he asked a military gentleman in a gray cloak what o'clock it was I should have took him for a Frenchman born. Before going on to look after my Legacy we were to make one regular day in Paris, and I leave you to judge my dear what a day _that_ was with Jemmy and the Major and the telescope and me and the prowling young man at the inn door (but very civil too) that went along with us to show the sights. All along the railway to Paris Jemmy and the Major had been frightening me to death by stooping down on the platforms at stations to inspect the engines underneath their mechanical stomachs, and by creeping in and out I don't know where all, to find improvements for the United Grand Junction Parlour, but when we got out into the brilliant streets on a bright morning they gave up all their London improvements as a bad job and gave their minds to Paris. Says the prowling young man to me "Will I speak Inglis No?" So I says "If you can young man I shall take it as a favour," but after half-an-hour of it when I fully believed the man had gone mad and me too I says "Be so good as fall back on your French sir," knowing that then I shouldn't have the agonies of trying to understand him, which was a happy release. Not that I lost much more than the rest either, for I generally noticed that when he had described something very long indeed and I says to Jemmy "What does he say Jemmy?" Jemmy says looking with vengeance in his eye "He is so jolly indistinct!" and that when he had described it longer all over again and I says to Jemmy "Well Jemmy what's it all about?" Jemmy says "He says the building was repaired in seventeen hundred and four, Gran." Wherever that prowling young man formed his prowling habits I cannot be expected to know, but the way in which he went round the corner while we had our breakfasts and was there again when we swallowed the last crumb was most marvellous, and just the same at dinner and at night, prowling equally at the theatre and the inn gateway and the shop doors when we bought a trifle or two and everywhere else but troubled with a tendency to spit. And of Paris I can tell you no more my dear than that it's town and country both in one, and carved stone and long streets of high houses and gardens and fountains and statues and trees and gold, and immensely big soldiers and immensely little soldiers and the pleasantest nurses with the whitest caps a playing at skipping-rope with the bunchiest babies in the flattest caps, and clean table-cloths spread everywhere for dinner and people sitting out of doors smoking and sipping all day long and little plays being acted in the open air for little people and every shop a complete and elegant room, and everybody seeming to play at everything in this world. And as to the sparkling lights my dear after dark, glittering high up and low down and on before and on behind and all round, and the crowd of theatres and the crowd of people and the crowd of all sorts, it's pure enchantment. And pretty well the only thing that grated on me was that whether you pay your fare at the railway or whether you change your money at a money-dealer's or whether you take your ticket at the theatre, the lady or gentleman is caged up (I suppose by government) behind the strongest iron bars having more of a Zoological appearance than a free country. Well to be sure when I did after all get my precious bones to bed that night, and my Young Rogue came in to kiss me and asks "What do you think of this lovely lovely Paris, Gran?" I says "Jemmy I feel as if it was beautiful fireworks being let off in my head." And very cool and refreshing the pleasant country was next day when we went on to look after my Legacy, and rested me much and did me a deal of good. So at length and at last my dear we come to Sens, a pretty little town with a great two-towered cathedral and the rooks flying in and out of the loopholes and another tower atop of one of the towers like a sort of a stone pulpit. In which pulpit with the birds skimming below him if you'll believe me, I saw a speck while I was resting at the inn before dinner which they made signs to me was Jemmy and which really was. I had been a fancying as I sat in the balcony of the hotel that an Angel might light there and call down to the people to be good, but I little thought what Jemmy all unknown to himself was a calling down from that high place to some one in the town. The pleasantest-situated inn my dear! Right under the two towers, with their shadows a changing upon it all day like a kind of a sundial, and country people driving in and out of the courtyard in carts and hooded cabriolets and such like, and a market outside in front of the cathedral, and all so quaint and like a picter. The Major and me agreed that whatever came of my Legacy this was the place to stay in for our holiday, and we also agreed that our dear boy had best not be checked in his joy that night by the sight of the Englishman if he was still alive, but that we would go together and alone. For you are to understand that the Major not feeling himself quite equal in his wind to the height to which Jemmy had climbed, had come back to me and left him with the Guide. So after dinner when Jemmy had set off to see the river, the Major went down to the Mairie, and presently came back with a military character in a sword and spurs and a cocked hat and a yellow shoulder-belt and long tags about him that he must have found inconvenient. And the Major says "The Englishman still lies in the same state dearest madam. This gentleman will conduct us to his lodging." Upon which the military character pulled off his cocked hat to me, and I took notice that he had shaved his forehead in imitation of Napoleon Bonaparte but not like. We wont out at the courtyard gate and past the great doors of the cathedral and down a narrow High Street where the people were sitting chatting at their shop doors and the children were at play. The military character went in front and he stopped at a pork-shop with a little statue of a pig sitting up, in the window, and a private door that a donkey was looking out of. When the donkey saw the military character he came slipping out on the pavement to turn round and then clattered along the passage into a back yard. So the coast being clear, the Major and me were conducted up the common stair and into the front room on the second, a bare room with a red tiled floor and the outside lattice blinds pulled close to darken it. As the military character opened the blinds I saw the tower where I had seen Jemmy, darkening as the sun got low, and I turned to the bed by the wall and saw the Englishman. It was some kind of brain fever he had had, and his hair was all gone, and some wetted folded linen lay upon his head. I looked at him very attentive as he lay there all wasted away with his eyes closed, and I says to the Major-- "_I_ never saw this face before." The Major looked at him very attentive too, and he says "I never saw this face before." When the Major explained our words to the military character, that gentleman shrugged his shoulders and showed the Major the card on which it was written about the Legacy for me. It had been written with a weak and trembling hand in bed, and I knew no more of the writing than of the face. Neither did the Major. Though lying there alone, the poor creetur was as well taken care of as could be hoped, and would have been quite unconscious of any one's sitting by him then. I got the Major to say that we were not going away at present and that I would come back to-morrow and watch a bit by the bedside. But I got him to add--and I shook my head hard to make it stronger--"We agree that we never saw this face before." Our boy was greatly surprised when we told him sitting out in the balcony in the starlight, and he ran over some of those stories of former Lodgers, of the Major's putting down, and asked wasn't it possible that it might be this lodger or that lodger. It was not possible, and we went to bed. In the morning just at breakfast-time the military character came jingling round, and said that the doctor thought from the signs he saw there might be some rally before the end. So I says to the Major and Jemmy, "You two boys go and enjoy yourselves, and I'll take my Prayer Book and go sit by the bed." So I went, and I sat there some hours, reading a prayer for him poor soul now and then, and it was quite on in the day when he moved his hand. He had been so still, that the moment he moved I knew of it, and I pulled off my spectacles and laid down my book and rose and looked at him. From moving one hand he began to move both, and then his action was the action of a person groping in the dark. Long after his eyes had opened, there was a film over them and he still felt for his way out into light. But by slow degrees his sight cleared and his hands stopped. He saw the ceiling, he saw the wall, he saw me. As his sight cleared, mine cleared too, and when at last we looked in one another's faces, I started back, and I cries passionately: "O you wicked wicked man! Your sin has found you out!" For I knew him, the moment life looked out of his eyes, to be Mr. Edson, Jemmy's father who had so cruelly deserted Jemmy's young unmarried mother who had died in my arms, poor tender creetur, and left Jemmy to me. "You cruel wicked man! You bad black traitor!" With the little strength he had, he made an attempt to turn over on his wretched face to hide it. His arm dropped out of the bed and his head with it, and there he lay before me crushed in body and in mind. Surely the miserablest sight under the summer sun! "O blessed Heaven," I says a crying, "teach me what to say to this broken mortal! I am a poor sinful creetur, and the Judgment is not mine." As I lifted my eyes up to the clear bright sky, I saw the high tower where Jemmy had stood above the birds, seeing that very window; and the last look of that poor pretty young mother when her soul brightened and got free, seemed to shine down from it. "O man, man, man!" I says, and I went on my knees beside the bed; "if your heart is rent asunder and you are truly penitent for what you did, Our Saviour will have mercy on you yet!" As I leaned my face against the bed, his feeble hand could just move itself enough to touch me. I hope the touch was penitent. It tried to hold my dress and keep hold, but the fingers were too weak to close. I lifted him back upon the pillows and I says to him: "Can you hear me?" He looked yes. "Do you know me?" He looked yes, even yet more plainly. "I am not here alone. The Major is with me. You recollect the Major?" Yes. That is to say he made out yes, in the same way as before. "And even the Major and I are not alone. My grandson--his godson--is with us. Do you hear? My grandson." The fingers made another trial to catch my sleeve, but could only creep near it and fall. "Do you know who my grandson is?" Yes. "I pitied and loved his lonely mother. When his mother lay a dying I said to her, 'My dear, this baby is sent to a childless old woman.' He has been my pride and joy ever since. I love him as dearly as if he had drunk from my breast. Do you ask to see my grandson before you die?" Yes. "Show me, when I leave off speaking, if you correctly understand what I say. He has been kept unacquainted with the story of his birth. He has no knowledge of it. No suspicion of it. If I bring him here to the side of this bed, he will suppose you to be a perfect stranger. It is more than I can do to keep from him the knowledge that there is such wrong and misery in the world; but that it was ever so near him in his innocent cradle I have kept from him, and I do keep from him, and I ever will keep from him, for his mother's sake, and for his own." He showed me that he distinctly understood, and the tears fell from his eyes. "Now rest, and you shall see him." So I got him a little wine and some brandy, and I put things straight about his bed. But I began to be troubled in my mind lest Jemmy and the Major might be too long of coming back. What with this occupation for my thoughts and hands, I didn't hear a foot upon the stairs, and was startled when I saw the Major stopped short in the middle of the room by the eyes of the man upon the bed, and knowing him then, as I had known him a little while ago. There was anger in the Major's face, and there was horror and repugnance and I don't know what. So I went up to him and I led him to the bedside, and when I clasped my hands and lifted of them up, the Major did the like. "O Lord" I says "Thou knowest what we two saw together of the sufferings and sorrows of that young creetur now with Thee. If this dying man is truly penitent, we two together humbly pray Thee to have mercy on him!" The Major says "Amen!" and then after a little stop I whispers him, "Dear old friend fetch our beloved boy." And the Major, so clever as to have got to understand it all without being told a word, went away and brought him. Never never never shall I forget the fair bright face of our boy when he stood at the foot of the bed, looking at his unknown father. And O so like his dear young mother then! "Jemmy" I says, "I have found out all about this poor gentleman who is so ill, and he did lodge in the old house once. And as he wants to see all belonging to it, now that he is passing away, I sent for you." "Ah poor man!" says Jemmy stepping forward and touching one of his hands with great gentleness. "My heart melts for him. Poor, poor man!" The eyes that were so soon to close for ever turned to me, and I was not that strong in the pride of my strength that I could resist them. "My darling boy, there is a reason in the secret history of this fellow- creetur lying as the best and worst of us must all lie one day, which I think would ease his spirit in his last hour if you would lay your cheek against his forehead and say, 'May God forgive you!'" "O Gran," says Jemmy with a full heart, "I am not worthy!" But he leaned down and did it. Then the faltering fingers made out to catch hold of my sleeve at last, and I believe he was a-trying to kiss me when he died. * * * * * There my dear! There you have the story of my Legacy in full, and it's worth ten times the trouble I have spent upon it if you are pleased to like it. You might suppose that it set us against the little French town of Sens, but no we didn't find that. I found myself that I never looked up at the high tower atop of the other tower, but the days came back again when that fair young creetur with her pretty bright hair trusted in me like a mother, and the recollection made the place so peaceful to me as I can't express. And every soul about the hotel down to the pigeons in the courtyard made friends with Jemmy and the Major, and went lumbering away with them on all sorts of expeditions in all sorts of vehicles drawn by rampagious cart-horses,--with heads and without,--mud for paint and ropes for harness,--and every new friend dressed in blue like a butcher, and every new horse standing on his hind legs wanting to devour and consume every other horse, and every man that had a whip to crack crack-crack- crack-crack-cracking it as if it was a schoolboy with his first. As to the Major my dear that man lived the greater part of his time with a little tumbler in one hand and a bottle of small wine in the other, and whenever he saw anybody else with a little tumbler, no matter who it was,--the military character with the tags, or the inn-servants at their supper in the courtyard, or townspeople a chatting on a bench, or country people a starting home after market,--down rushes the Major to clink his glass against their glasses and cry,--Hola! Vive Somebody! or Vive Something! as if he was beside himself. And though I could not quite approve of the Major's doing it, still the ways of the world are the ways of the world varying according to the different parts of it, and dancing at all in the open Square with a lady that kept a barber's shop my opinion is that the Major was right to dance his best and to lead off with a power that I did not think was in him, though I was a little uneasy at the Barricading sound of the cries that were set up by the other dancers and the rest of the company, until when I says "What are they ever calling out Jemmy?" Jemmy says, "They're calling out Gran, Bravo the Military English! Bravo the Military English!" which was very gratifying to my feelings as a Briton and became the name the Major was known by. But every evening at a regular time we all three sat out in the balcony of the hotel at the end of the courtyard, looking up at the golden and rosy light as it changed on the great towers, and looking at the shadows of the towers as they changed on all about us ourselves included, and what do you think we did there? My dear, if Jemmy hadn't brought some other of those stories of the Major's taking down from the telling of former lodgers at Eighty-one Norfolk Street, and if he didn't bring 'em out with this speech: "Here you are Gran! Here you are godfather! More of 'em! I'll read. And though you wrote 'em for me, godfather, I know you won't disapprove of my making 'em over to Gran; will you?" "No, my dear boy," says the Major. "Everything we have is hers, and we are hers." "Hers ever affectionately and devotedly J. Jackman, and J. Jackman Lirriper," cries the Young Rogue giving me a close hug. "Very well then godfather. Look here. As Gran is in the Legacy way just now, I shall make these stories a part of Gran's Legacy. I'll leave 'em to her. What do you say godfather?" "Hip hip Hurrah!" says the Major. "Very well then," cries Jemmy all in a bustle. "Vive the Military English! Vive the Lady Lirriper! Vive the Jemmy Jackman Ditto! Vive the Legacy! Now, you look out, Gran. And you look out, godfather. _I'll_ read! And I'll tell you what I'll do besides. On the last night of our holiday here when we are all packed and going away, I'll top up with something of my own." "Mind you do sir" says I. CHAPTER II--MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES HOW JEMMY TOPPED UP Well my dear and so the evening readings of those jottings of the Major's brought us round at last to the evening when we were all packed and going away next day, and I do assure you that by that time though it was deliciously comfortable to look forward to the dear old house in Norfolk Street again, I had formed quite a high opinion of the French nation and had noticed them to be much more homely and domestic in their families and far more simple and amiable in their lives than I had ever been led to expect, and it did strike me between ourselves that in one particular they might be imitated to advantage by another nation which I will not mention, and that is in the courage with which they take their little enjoyments on little means and with little things and don't let solemn big-wigs stare them out of countenance or speechify them dull, of which said solemn big-wigs I have ever had the one opinion that I wish they were all made comfortable separately in coppers with the lids on and never let out any more. "Now young man," I says to Jemmy when we brought our chairs into the balcony that last evening, "you please to remember who was to 'top up.'" "All right Gran" says Jemmy. "I am the illustrious personage." But he looked so serious after he had made me that light answer, that the Major raised his eyebrows at me and I raised mine at the Major. "Gran and godfather," says Jemmy, "you can hardly think how much my mind has run on Mr. Edson's death." It gave me a little check. "Ah! it was a sad scene my love" I says, "and sad remembrances come back stronger than merry. But this" I says after a little silence, to rouse myself and the Major and Jemmy all together, "is not topping up. Tell us your story my dear." "I will" says Jemmy. "What is the date sir?" says I. "Once upon a time when pigs drank wine?" "No Gran," says Jemmy, still serious; "once upon a time when the French drank wine." Again I glanced at the Major, and the Major glanced at me. "In short, Gran and godfather," says Jemmy, looking up, "the date is this time, and I'm going to tell you Mr. Edson's story." The flutter that it threw me into. The change of colour on the part of the Major! "That is to say, you understand," our bright-eyed boy says, "I am going to give you my version of it. I shall not ask whether it's right or not, firstly because you said you knew very little about it, Gran, and secondly because what little you did know was a secret." I folded my hands in my lap and I never took my eyes off Jemmy as he went running on. "The unfortunate gentleman" Jemmy commences, "who is the subject of our present narrative was the son of Somebody, and was born Somewhere, and chose a profession Somehow. It is not with those parts of his career that we have to deal; but with his early attachment to a young and beautiful lady." I thought I should have dropped. I durstn't look at the Major; but I know what his state was, without looking at him. "The father of our ill-starred hero" says Jemmy, copying as it seemed to me the style of some of his story-books, "was a worldly man who entertained ambitious views for his only son and who firmly set his face against the contemplated alliance with a virtuous but penniless orphan. Indeed he went so far as roundly to assure our hero that unless he weaned his thoughts from the object of his devoted affection, he would disinherit him. At the same time, he proposed as a suitable match the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of a good estate, who was neither ill-favoured nor unamiable, and whose eligibility in a pecuniary point of view could not be disputed. But young Mr. Edson, true to the first and only love that had inflamed his breast, rejected all considerations of self-advancement, and, deprecating his father's anger in a respectful letter, ran away with her." My dear I had begun to take a turn for the better, but when it come to running away I began to take another turn for the worse. "The lovers" says Jemmy "fled to London and were united at the altar of Saint Clement's Danes. And it is at this period of their simple but touching story that we find them inmates of the dwelling of a highly-respected and beloved lady of the name of Gran, residing within a hundred miles of Norfolk Street." I felt that we were almost safe now, I felt that the dear boy had no suspicion of the bitter truth, and I looked at the Major for the first time and drew a long breath. The Major gave me a nod. "Our hero's father" Jemmy goes on "proving implacable and carrying his threat into unrelenting execution, the struggles of the young couple in London were severe, and would have been far more so, but for their good angel's having conducted them to the abode of Mrs. Gran; who, divining their poverty (in spite of their endeavours to conceal it from her), by a thousand delicate arts smoothed their rough way, and alleviated the sharpness of their first distress." Here Jemmy took one of my hands in one of his, and began a marking the turns of his story by making me give a beat from time to time upon his other hand. "After a while, they left the house of Mrs. Gran, and pursued their fortunes through a variety of successes and failures elsewhere. But in all reverses, whether for good or evil, the words of Mr. Edson to the fair young partner of his life were, 'Unchanging Love and Truth will carry us through all!'" My hand trembled in the dear boy's, those words were so wofully unlike the fact. "Unchanging Love and Truth" says Jemmy over again, as if he had a proud kind of a noble pleasure in it, "will carry us through all! Those were his words. And so they fought their way, poor but gallant and happy, until Mrs. Edson gave birth to a child." "A daughter," I says. "No," says Jemmy, "a son. And the father was so proud of it that he could hardly bear it out of his sight. But a dark cloud overspread the scene. Mrs. Edson sickened, drooped, and died." "Ah! Sickened, drooped, and died!" I says. "And so Mr. Edson's only comfort, only hope on earth, and only stimulus to action, was his darling boy. As the child grew older, he grew so like his mother that he was her living picture. It used to make him wonder why his father cried when he kissed him. But unhappily he was like his mother in constitution as well as in face, and lo, died too before he had grown out of childhood. Then Mr. Edson, who had good abilities, in his forlornness and despair, threw them all to the winds. He became apathetic, reckless, lost. Little by little he sank down, down, down, down, until at last he almost lived (I think) by gaming. And so sickness overtook him in the town of Sens in France, and he lay down to die. But now that he laid him down when all was done, and looked back upon the green Past beyond the time when he had covered it with ashes, he thought gratefully of the good Mrs. Gran long lost sight of, who had been so kind to him and his young wife in the early days of their marriage, and he left the little that he had as a last Legacy to her. And she, being brought to see him, at first no more knew him than she would know from seeing the ruin of a Greek or Roman Temple, what it used to be before it fell; but at length she remembered him. And then he told her, with tears, of his regret for the misspent part of his life, and besought her to think as mildly of it as she could, because it was the poor fallen Angel of his unchanging Love and Constancy after all. And because she had her grandson with her, and he fancied that his own boy, if he had lived, might have grown to be something like him, he asked her to let him touch his forehead with his cheek and say certain parting words." Jemmy's voice sank low when it got to that, and tears filled my eyes, and filled the Major's. "You little Conjurer" I says, "how did you ever make it all out? Go in and write it every word down, for it's a wonder." Which Jemmy did, and I have repeated it to you my dear from his writing. Then the Major took my hand and kissed it, and said, "Dearest madam all has prospered with us." "Ah Major" I says drying my eyes, "we needn't have been afraid. We might have known it. Treachery don't come natural to beaming youth; but trust and pity, love and constancy,--they do, thank God!" 
15630	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15630-h.htm or 15630-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/3/15630/15630-h/15630-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/3/15630/15630-h.zip) POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM by KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN With a Biographical Sketch, Portrait, and Illustrations Boston, New York, and Chicago Houghton, Mifflin & Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1896 [Frontispiece: Portrait of Mrs. Wiggin] KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. It is an advantage for an author to have known many places and different sorts of people, though the most vivid impressions are commonly those received in childhood and youth. Mrs. Wiggin, as she is known in literature, was Kate Douglas Smith; she was born in Philadelphia, and spent her young womanhood in California, but when a very young child she removed to Hollis in the State of Maine, and since her maturity has usually made her summer home there; her earliest recollections thus belong to the place, and she draws inspiration for her character and scene painting very largely from this New England neighborhood. Hollis is a quiet, secluded place, a picturesque but almost deserted village--if the few houses so widely scattered can be termed a village--located among the undulating hills that lie along the lower reaches of the Saco River. Here she plans to do almost all her actual writing--the story itself is begun long before--and she resorts to the place with pent-up energy. A quaint old house of colonial date and style, set in the midst of extensive grounds and shaded by graceful old trees,--this is "Quillcote,"--the summer home of Mrs. Wiggin. Quillcote is typical of many old New England homesteads; with an environment that is very close to the heart of nature, it combines all that is most desirable and beautiful in genuine country life. The old manor house is located on a sightly elevation commanding a varied view of the surrounding hills and fertile valleys; to the northwest are to be seen the foot-hills of Mt. Washington, and easterly a two hours' drive will bring one to Old Orchard Beach, and the broad, blue, delicious ocean whose breezes are generously wafted inland to Quillcote. Mrs. Wiggin is thoroughly in love with this big rambling house, from garret to cellar. A genuine historic air seems to surround the entire place, lending an added charm, and there are many impressive characteristics of the house in its dignity of architecture, which seem to speak of a past century with volumes of history in reserve. A few steps from these ample grounds, on the opposite side of the road, is a pretty wooden cottage of moderate size and very attractive, the early home of Mrs. Wiggin. These scenes have inspired much of the local coloring of her stories of New England life and character. "Pleasant River" in _Timothy's Quest_ is drawn from this locality, and in her latest book, _The Village Watch Tower_, many of her settings and descriptions are very close to existing conditions. Her own room and literary workshop is on the second floor of the house; it is distinctively a study in white, and no place could be more ideal for creative work. It has the cheeriest outlook from four windows with a southern exposure, overlooking a broad grass plat studded with trees, where birds from early dawn hold merry carnival, and squirrels find perfect and unmolested freedom. A peep into this sanctum is a most convincing proof that she is a woman who dearly loves order, as every detail plainly indicates, and it is also noticeable that any display of literary litter is most conspicuously absent. Interesting souvenirs and gifts of infinite variety are scattered all over the room, on the wainscoting, mantel, and in every available niche; very many are from children and all are dainty tributes. A picture of an irresistibly droll child face, of the African type and infectiously full of mirth, is one of a great company of children who look at you from every side and angle of the room. Dainty old pieces of china, rare bits of bric-a-brac, the very broad and old-time fireplaces filled with cut boughs of the spicy fir balsam, and various antique pieces of furniture lend to the inner atmosphere of Quillcote a fine artistic and colonial effect, while not a stone's throw away, at the foot of a precipitous bank, flows--in a very irregular channel--the picturesque Saco River. In this summer home Mrs. Wiggin has the companionship of her mother, and her sister, Miss Nora Smith, herself a writer, which renders it easy to abandon herself wholly to her creative work; this coupled with the fact that she is practically in seclusion banishes even a thought of interruption. And now, what was the beginning and the growth of the delightful literary faculty, which has already given birth to so many pleasant fancies and happy studies, especially of young life? A glimpse is given in the following playful letter and postscript from herself and her sister to a would-be biographer. MY DEAR BOSWELL,--I have asked my family for some incidents of my childhood, as you bade me,--soliciting any "anecdotes," "characteristics," or "early tendencies" that may have been, as you suggest, "foreshadowings" of later things. I have been much chagrined at the result. My younger sister states that I was a nice, well-mannered, capable child, nothing more; and that I never did anything nor said anything in any way remarkable. She affirms that, so far from spending my childhood days in composition, her principal recollection of me is that of a practical stirring little person, clad in a linsey woolsey gown, eternally dragging a red and brown sled called "The Artful Dodger." She adds that when called upon to part with this sled, or commanded to stop sliding, I showed certain characteristics that may perhaps have been "foreshadowings," but that certainly were not engaging ones. My mother was a good deal embarrassed when questioned, and finally confessed that I never said anything worthy of mention until I was quite "grown up;" a statement that is cheerfully corroborated by all the authorities consulted. . . . Do not seek, then, to pierce my happy obscurity. . . . Believe me, dear Bozzy, Sincerely your Johnson, (K. D. W.) Postscript by Johnson's Sister,-- The above report is substantially correct, though a few touches of local color were added which we see Johnson's modesty has moved her to omit. My sister was certainly a capable little person at a tender age, concocting delectable milk toast, browning toothsome buckwheats, and generally making a very good Parent's Assistant. I have also visions of her toiling at patchwork and oversewing sheets like a nice old-fashioned little girl in a story book; and in connection with the linsey woolsey frock and the sled before mentioned, I see a blue and white hood with a mass of shining fair hair escaping below it, and a pair of very pink cheeks. Further to illustrate her personality, I think no one much in her company at any age could have failed to note an exceedingly lively tongue and a general air of executive ability. If I am to be truthful, I must say that I recall few indications of budding authorship, save an engrossing diary (kept for six months only), and a devotion to reading. Her "literary passions" were the _Arabian Nights_, _Scottish Chiefs_, _Don Quixote_, _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, _Irving's Mahomet_, _Thackeray's Snobs_, _Undine_, and the _Martyrs of Spain_. These volumes, joined to an old green Shakespeare and a Plum Pudding edition of Dickens, were the chief of her diet. But stay! while I am talking of literary tendencies, I do remember a certain prize essay entitled "Pictures in the Clouds,"--not so called because it _took_ the prize, alas! but because it competed for it. There is also a myth in the household (doubtless invented by my mother) that my sister learned her letters from the signs in the street, and taught herself to read when scarcely out of long clothes. This may be cited as a bit of "corroborative detail," though personally I never believed in it. Johnson's Sister, N. A. S. Like many who have won success in literature, her taste and aptitude showed themselves early. It would be unfair to take _Polly Oliver's Problem_ as in any sense autobiographical, as regards a close following of facts, but it may be guessed to have some inner agreement with Mrs. Wiggin's history, for she herself when a girl of eighteen wrote a story, _Half a Dozen Housekeepers_, which was published in _St. Nicholas_ in the numbers for November and December, 1878. She was living at the time in California, and more to the purpose even than this bright little story was the preparation she was making for her later successes in the near and affectionate study of children whom she was teaching. She studied the kindergarten methods for a year under Emma Marwedel, and after teaching for a year in Santa Barbara College, she was called upon to organize in San Francisco the first free kindergarten west of the Rocky Mountains. She was soon joined in this work by her sister; and the enthusiasm and good judgment shown by the two inspired others, and made the famous "Silver Street Kindergarten" not only a great object lesson on the Pacific Coast, but an inspiration to similar efforts in Japan, Australia, New Zealand, British Columbia, and the Hawaiian Islands. This school was, and is at the present time, located in a densely inhabited and poverty-ridden quarter of the city. It was largely among the very poor that Mrs. Wiggin's full time and wealth of energy were devoted, for kindergartening was never a fad with her as some may have imagined; always philanthropic in her tendencies, she was, and is, genuinely and enthusiastically in earnest in this work. It is interesting to know that on the wall of one apartment at the Silver Street Kindergarten hangs a life-like portrait of its founder, underneath which you may read these words:-- KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. _In this room was born the first free Kindergarten west of the Rocky Mountains. Let me have the happiness of looking down upon many successive groups of children sitting in these same seats._ We are told that the children love that room the best; it is pictured as a bright, cheery spot, where the children used to gather with "Miss Kate" in the bygone days. By the window there is a bird-cage; the tiny occupant bearing the historical name of "Patsy." Connected with this kindergarten is a training-school, organized by Mrs. Wiggin in 1880, and conducted by Miss Nora Smith for several years afterward. The two sisters in collaboration have added much valuable matter to kindergarten literature, notably the three volumes entitled _The Republic of Childhood_, _Children's Sights_, and _The Story Hour_. On her marriage, Mrs. Wiggin gave up teaching, but continued to give two talks a week to the Training Class. She was also a constant visitor in the many kindergartens which had sprung up under the impulse of herself and her associates. She played with the children, sang to them, told them stories, and thus was all the while not only gathering material unconsciously, but practicing the art which she was to make her calling. The dozen years thus spent were her years of training, and, during this time she wrote and printed _The Story of Patsy_, merely to raise money for the kindergarten work. Three thousand copies were sold without the aid of a publisher, and the success was repeated when, not long after, _The Birds' Christmas Carol_ appeared. In 1888 Mrs. Wiggin removed to New York, and her friends urged her to come before the public with a regular issue of the last-named story. Houghton, Mifflin and Company at once brought out an edition, and the popularity which the book enjoyed in its first limited circle was now repeated on a very large scale. The reissue of _The Story of Patsy_ followed at the hands of the same publishers, and they have continued to bring out the successive volumes of her writing. It is not necessary to give a formal list of these books. Perhaps _The Birds' Christmas Carol_, which is so full of that sweet, tender pathos and wholesome humor which on one page moves us to tears, and the next sets us shaking with laughter, has been more widely enjoyed and read than her other stories, at least in America. It has been translated into Japanese, French, German, and Swedish, and has been put in raised type for the use of the blind. Patsy is a composite sketch taken from kindergarten life. For _Timothy's Quest_, one of the brightest and most cleverly written of character sketches, the author feels an especially tender sentiment. The story of how the book took form is old, but will bear repeating; it originated from the casual remark of a little child who said, regarding a certain house, "I think they need some babies there." Mrs. Wiggin at once jotted down in her note-book "needing babies," and from this nucleus the charming story of "Timothy" was woven into its present form. It is said that Rudyard Kipling considers Polly Oliver one of the most delightful of all girl-heroines; and Mrs. Wiggin really hopes some day to see the "Hospital Story Hour" carried out in real life. She owns a most interesting collection of her books in several languages. The illustrations of these are very unique, as most of them are made to correspond with the life of the country in which they are published. _Timothy's Quest_ is a favorite in Denmark with its Danish text and illustrations. It has also found its way into Swedish, and has appeared in the Tauchnitz edition, as has also _A Cathedral Courtship_. Her latest book, _The Village Watch Tower_, is composed of several short stories full of the very breath and air of New England. They are studies of humble life, interesting oddities and local customs, and are written in her usual bright vein. It was not long after her removal to the Atlantic coast that Mrs. Wiggin, now a widow and separated much of the year from her special work in California, threw herself eagerly into the kindergarten movement in New York, and it was in this interest that she was drawn into the semi-public reading of her own stories. Her interpretation of them is full of exquisite taste and feeling, but she has declared most characteristically that she would rather write a story for the love of doing it, than be paid by the public for reading it; hence her readings have always been given purely for philanthropic purposes, especially for the introduction of kindergartens, a cause which she warmly advocates, and with which she has most generously identified herself. I may say that there is an old meeting-house in Hollis in which she has been interested since her childhood. Each succeeding summer the whole countryside within a radius of many miles gathers there to hear her bright, sympathetic readings of her manuscript stories, sometimes before even her publishers have a peep at them. These occasions are rare events that are much talked over and planned for, as I learned soon after reaching that neighborhood. During the summer of 1895 she read one of her manuscript stories--_The Ride of the Midnight Cry_ (now published in _The Village Watch Tower_)--to a group of elderly ladies in the neighborhood of Quillcote, who are deeply interested in all she writes. The story takes its title from an ancient stage-coach well known throughout that region in its day, and known only by the suggestive if not euphonious name of "The Midnight Cry." Mrs. Wiggin possesses rare musical taste and ability, and enthusiastically loves music as an art. It is simply a recreation and delight to her to compose and adapt whatever pleases her fancy to her own flow of harmony. She is the possessor of some very rare and interesting foreign instruments; among this collection is a Hawaiian guitar, the tiniest of stringed instruments, and also one of curious Portuguese workmanship. In the early months of 1895 she was married to George C. Riggs, of New York, but she prefers to retain in literature the name with which she first won distinction. I will speak of her New York winter home only to say that it is the gathering-place of some of the most eminent authors and artists in the country. She goes abroad yearly, and Maine levies a heavy claim on her by right of home ties and affection, for the 'Pine Tree State' is proud to claim this gifted daughter, not only for her genius but her beauty of character and true womanliness. Mrs. Wiggin's work is characterized by a delicious flow of humor, depth of pathos, and a delicate play of fancy. Her greatest charm as a writer is simplicity of style. It enables us to come in perfect touch with her characterizations, which are so full of human nature that, as some one has said, "we feel them made of good flesh and blood like ourselves, with whom we have something, be it ever so little, that keeps us from being alien one to another." Her keen but sympathetic penetration attains some of the happiest results in the wholesome realism of her child characters; her children become real to us, creep into our hearts, and we love them, and in sympathy with this sentiment springs up a spontaneous reawakening of interest in the child-world about us. EMMA SHERMAN ECHOLS. POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM A STORY FOR GIRLS "_What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it_." GOETHE. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE II. FORECASTING THE FUTURE III. THE DOCTOR GIVES POLLY A PRESCRIPTION IV. THE BOARDERS STAY, AND THE OLIVERS GO V. TOLD IN LETTERS VI. POLLY TRIES A LITTLE MISSIONARY WORK VII. "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS" VIII. TWO FIRESIDE CHATS IX. HARD TIMES X. EDGAR GOES TO CONFESSION XI. THE LADY IN BLACK XII. THE GREAT SILENCE XIII. A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE XIV. EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS XV. LIFE IN THE BIRDS' NEST XVI. THE CANDLE CALLED PATIENCE XVII. POLLY LAUNCHES HER SHIPS XVIII. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR: REPORTED IN A LETTER BY AN EYE-WITNESS ILLUSTRATIONS PORTRAIT OF MRS. WIGGIN . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ MRS. OLIVER AND POLLY "IT IS SOME OF THE STUDENTS" "SHE OPENED THE BOOK AND READ" [Transcriber's note: The second illustration was missing from the original book.] POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM. "Pretty Polly Oliver, my hope and my fear, Pretty Polly Oliver, I've loved you so dear!" DINAH MARIA MULOCK. CHAPTER I. A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. "I have determined only one thing definitely," said Polly Oliver; "and that is, the boarders must go. Oh, how charming that sounds! I 've been thinking it ever since I was old enough to think, but I never cast it in such an attractive, decisive form before. 'The Boarders Must Go!' To a California girl it is every bit as inspiring as 'The Chinese Must Go.' If I were n't obliged to set the boarders' table, I 'd work the motto on a banner this very minute, and march up and down the plaza with it, followed by a crowd of small boys with toy drums." "The Chinese never did go," said Mrs. Oliver suggestively, from the sofa. "Oh, that's a trifle; they had a treaty or something, and besides, there are so many of them, and they have such an object in staying." "You can't turn people out of the house on a moment's warning." "Certainly not. Give them twenty-four hours, if necessary. We can choose among several methods of getting rid of them. I can put up a placard with BOARDERS, HO! printed on it in large letters, and then assemble them in the banquet-hall and make them a speech." "You would insult them," objected Mrs. Oliver feebly, "and they are perfectly innocent." "Insult them? Oh, mamma, how unworthy of you! I shall speak to them firmly but very gently. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' I shall begin, 'you have done your best to make palatable the class of human beings to which you belong, but you have utterly failed, and you must go! Board, if you must, ladies and gentlemen, but not here! Sap, if you must, the foundations of somebody else's private paradise, but not ours. In the words of the Poe-et, "Take thy beaks from off our door."' Then it will be over, and they will go out." "Slink out, I should say," murmured Polly's mother. "Very well, slink out," replied Polly cheerfully. "I should like to see them slink, after they 've been rearing their crested heads round our table for generations; but I think you credit them with a sensitiveness they do not, and in the nature of things cannot, possess. There is something in the unnatural life which hardens both the boarder and those who board her. However, I don't insist on that method. Let us try bloodless eviction,--set them quietly out in the street with their trunks; or strategy,--put one of them in bed and hang out the smallpox flag. Oh, I can get rid of them in a week, if I once set my mind on it." "There is no doubt of that," said Mrs. Oliver meekly. Polly's brain continued to teem with sinister ideas. "I shall make Mr. Talbot's bed so that the clothes will come off at the foot every night. He will remonstrate. I shall tell him that he kicks them off, and intimate that his conscience troubles him, or he would never be so restless. He will glare. I shall promise to do better, yet the clothes will come off worse and worse, and at last, perfectly disheartened, he will go. I shall tell Mr. Greenwood at the breakfast-table, what I have been longing for months to tell him, that we can hear him snore, distinctly, through the partition. He will go. I shall put cold milk in Mrs. Caldwell's coffee every morning. I shall mean well, you know, but I shall forget. She will know that I mean well, and that it is only girlish absent-mindedness, but she will not endure it very long; she will go. And so, by the exercise of a little ingenuity, they will depart one by one, remarking that Mrs. Oliver's boarding-house is not what it used to be; that Pauline is growing a little 'slack.'" "Polly!" and Mrs. Oliver half rose from the sofa, "I will not allow you to call this a boarding-house in that tone of voice." "A boarding-house, as I take it," argued Polly, "is a house where the detestable human vipers known as boarders are 'taken in and done for.'" "But we have always prided ourselves on having it exactly like a family," said her mother plaintively. "You know we have not omitted a single refinement of the daintiest home-life, no matter at what cost of labor and thought." "Certainly, that's the point,--and there you are, a sofa-invalid, and here am I with my disposition ruined for life; such a wreck in temper that I could blow up the boarders with dynamite and sleep peacefully after it." "Now be reasonable, little daughter. Think how kind and grateful the boarders have been (at least almost always), how appreciative of everything we have done for them." "Of course; it is n't every day they can secure an--an--elderly Juno like you to carve meat for them, or a--well, just for the sake of completing the figure of speech--a blooming Hebe like me (I 've always wondered why it was n't _She_be!) to dispense their tea and coffee; to say nothing of broma for Mr. Talbot, cocoa for Mr. Greenwood, cambric tea for Mrs. Hastings, and hot water for the Darlings. I have to keep a schedule, and refer to it three times a day. This alone shows that boarders are n't my vocation." A bit of conversation gives the clue to character so easily that Mrs. Oliver and her daughter need little more description. You can see the pretty, fragile mother resting among her pillows, and I need only tell you that her dress is always black, her smile patient, her eyes full of peace, and her hands never idle save in this one daily resting-hour prescribed by the determined Miss Polly, who mounts guard during the appointed time like a jailer who expects his prisoner to escape if he removes his eagle eye for an instant. The aforesaid impetuous Miss Polly has also told you something of herself in this brief interview. She is evidently a person who feels matters rather strongly, and who is wont to state them in the strongest terms she knows. Every word she utters shows you that, young as she looks, she is the real head of the family, and that her vigorous independence of thought and speech must be the result of more care and responsibility than ordinarily fall to the lot of a girl of sixteen. Certain of her remarks must be taken with a grain of salt. Her assertion of willingness to blow up innocent boarders in their beds would seem, for instance, to indicate a vixenish and vindictive sort of temper quite unwarranted by the circumstances; but a glance at the girl herself contradicts the thought. _Item_: A firm chin. She will take her own way if she can possibly get it; but _item_; a sweet, lovable mouth framed in dimples; a mouth that breaks into smiles at the slightest provocation, no matter how dreary the outlook; a mouth that quivers at the first tender word, and so the best of all correctives to the determined little chin below. _Item_: A distinctly saucy nose; an aggressive, impertinent, spirited little nose, with a few freckles on it; a nose that probably leads its possessor into trouble occasionally. _Item_: Two bright eyes, a trifle overproud and willful, perhaps, but candid and full of laughter. _Item_: A head of brilliant, auburn hair; lively, independent, frisky hair, each glittering thread standing out by itself and asserting its own individuality; tempestuous hair that never "stays put;" capricious hair that escapes hairpins and comes down unexpectedly; hoydenish hair that makes the meekest hats look daring. For the rest, a firm, round figure, no angles, everything, including elbows, in curves; blooming cheeks and smooth-skinned, taper-fingered hands tanned a very honest brown,--the hands of a person who loves beauty. Polly Oliver's love of beautiful things was a passion, and one that had little gratification; but luckily, though good music, pictures, china, furniture, and "purple and fine linen" were all conspicuous by their absence, she could feast without money and without price on the changeful loveliness of the Santa Ynez mountains, the sapphire tints of the placid Pacific, and the gorgeous splendor of the Californian wild-flowers, so that her sense of beauty never starved. Her hand was visible in the modest sitting-room where she now sat with her mother; for it was pretty and homelike, although its simple decorations and furnishings had been brought together little by little during a period of two years; so that the first installments were all worn out, Polly was wont to remark plaintively, before the last additions made their appearance. The straw matting had Japanese figures on it, while a number of rugs covered the worn places, and gave it an opulent look. The table-covers, curtains, and portières were of blue jean worked in outline embroidery, and Mrs. Oliver's couch had as many pillows as that of an oriental princess; for Polly's summers were spent camping in a cañon, and she embroidered sofa-cushions and draperies with frenzy during these weeks of out-of-door life. Upon the cottage piano was a blue Canton ginger-jar filled with branches of feathery bamboo that spread its lace-like foliage far and wide over the ceiling and walls, quite covering the large spot where the roof had leaked. Various stalks of tropical-looking palms, distributed artistically about, concealed the gaping wounds in the walls, inflicted by the Benton children, who had once occupied this same apartment. Mexican water-jars, bearing peacock feathers, screened Mr. Benton's two favorite places for scratching matches. The lounge was the sort of lounge that looks well only between two windows, but Polly was obliged to place it across the corner where she really needed the table, because in that position it shielded from the public view the enormous black spots on the wall where Reginald Benton had flung the ink-bottle at his angel sister Pansy Belle. Then there was an umbrella-lamp bestowed by a boarder whom Mrs. Oliver had nursed through typhoid fever; a banjo; plenty of books and magazines; and an open fireplace, with a great pitcher of yellow wild-flowers standing between the old-fashioned brass andirons. Little Miss Oliver's attitude on the question of the boarders must stand quite without justification. "It is a part of Polly," sighed her mother, "and must be borne with Christian fortitude." Colonel Oliver had never fully recovered from a wound received in the last battle of the civil war, and when he was laid to rest in a quiet New England churchyard, so much of Mrs. Oliver's heart was buried with him that it was difficult to take up the burden of life with any sort of courage. At last her delicate health prompted her to take the baby daughter, born after her husband's death, and go to southern California, where she invested her small property in a house in Santa Barbara. She could not add to her income by any occupation that kept her away from the baby; so the boarders followed as a matter of course (a house being suitable neither for food nor clothing), and a constantly changing family of pleasant people helped her to make both ends meet, and to educate the little daughter as she grew from babyhood into childhood. Now, as Polly had grown up among the boarders, most of whom petted her, no one can account for her slightly ungrateful reception of their good-will; but it is certain that the first time she was old enough to be trusted at the table, she grew very red in the face, slipped down from her high chair, and took her bowl of bread and milk on to the porch. She was followed and gently reasoned with, but her only explanation was that she did n't "yike to eat wiv so many peoples." Persuasion bore no fruit, and for a long time Miss Polly ate in solitary grandeur. Indeed, the feeling increased rather than diminished, until the child grew old enough to realize her mother's burden, when with passionate and protecting love she put her strong young shoulders under the load and lifted her share, never so very prettily or gracefully,--it is no use trying to paint a halo round Polly's head,--but with a proud courage and a sort of desperate resolve to be as good as she could, which was not very good, she would have told you. She would come back from the beautiful home of her friend, Bell Winship, and look about on her own surroundings, never with scorn, or sense of bitterness,--she was too sensible and sweet-natured for that,--but with an inward rebellion against the existing state of things, and a secret determination to create a better one, if God would only give her power and opportunity. But this pent-up feeling only showed itself to her mother in bursts of impulsive nonsense, at which Mrs. Oliver first laughed and then sighed. "Oh, for a little, little breakfast-table!" Polly would say, as she flung herself on her mother's couch, and punched the pillows desperately. "Oh, for a father to say 'Steak, Polly dear?' instead of my asking, 'Steakorchop?' over and over every morning! Oh, for a lovely, grown-up, black-haired sister, who would have hundreds of lovers, and let me stay in the room when they called! Oh, for a tiny baby brother, fat and dimpled, who would crow, and spill milk on the tablecloth, and let me sit on the floor and pick up the things he threw down! But instead of that, a new, big, strange family, different people every six months, people who don't like each other, and have to be seated at opposite ends of the table; ladies whose lips tremble with disappointment if they don't get the second joint of the chicken, and gentlemen who are sulky if any one else gets the liver. Oh, mamma, I am sixteen now, and it will soon be time for me to begin taking care of you; but I warn you, I shall never do it by means of the boarders!" "Are you so weak and proud, little daughter, as to be ashamed because I have taken care of you these sixteen years 'by means of the boarders,' as you say?" "No, no, mamma! Don't think so badly of me as that. That feeling was outgrown long ago. Do I not know that it is just as fine and honorable as anything else in the world, and do I not love and honor you with all my heart because you do it in so sweet and dignified a way that everybody respects you for it? But it is n't my vocation. I would like to do something different, something wider, something lovelier, if I knew how, and were ever good enough!" "It is easy to 'dream noble things,' dear, but hard to do them 'all day long.' My own feeling is, if one reaches the results one is struggling for, and does one's work as well as it lies in one to do it, that keeping boarders is as good service as any other bit of the world's work. One is not always permitted to choose the beautiful or glorious task. Sometimes all one can do is to make the humble action fine by doing it 'as it is done in heaven.' Remember, 'they also serve who only stand and wait.'" "Yes, mamma," said Polly meekly; "but," stretching out her young arms hopefully and longingly, "it must be that they also serve who stand and _dare_, and I 'm going to try that first,--then I 'll wait, if God wants me to." "What if God wants you to wait first, little daughter?" Polly hid her face in the sofa-cushions and did not answer. CHAPTER II. FORECASTING THE FUTURE. Two of Mrs. Oliver's sitting-room windows looked out on the fig-trees, and the third on a cosy piazza corner framed in passion-vines, where at the present moment stood a round table holding a crystal bowl of Gold of Ophir roses, a brown leather portfolio, and a dish of apricots. Against the table leaned an old Spanish guitar with a yellow ribbon round its neck, and across the corner hung a gorgeous hammock of Persian colored threads, with two or three pillows of canary-colored China silk in one end. A bamboo lounging-chair and a Shaker rocker completed the picture; and the passer-by could generally see Miss Anita Ferguson reclining in the one, and a young (but not Wise) man from the East in the other. It was not always the same young man any more than the decorations were always of the same color. "That's another of my troubles," said Polly to her friend Margery Noble, pulling up the window-shade one afternoon and pointing to the now empty "cosy corner." "I don't mind Miss Ferguson's sitting there, though it used always to be screened off for my doll-house, and I love it dearly; but she pays to sit there, and she ought to do it; besides, she looks prettier there than any one else. Isn't it lovely? The other day she had pink oleanders in the bowl, the cushions turned the pink side up,--you see they are canary and rose-color,--a pink muslin dress, and the guitar trimmed with a fringe of narrow pink ribbons. She was a dream, Margery! But she does n't sit there with her young men when I am at school, nor when I am helping Ah Foy in the dining-room, nor, of course, when we are at table. She sits there from four to six in the afternoon and in the evening, the only times I have with mamma in this room. We are obliged to keep the window closed, lest we should overhear the conversation. That is tiresome enough in warm weather. You see the other windows are shaded by the fig-trees, so here we sit, in Egyptian darkness, mamma and I, during most of the pleasant afternoons. And if anything ever came of it, we would n't mind, but nothing ever does. There have been so many young men,--I could n't begin to count them, but they have worn out the seats of four chairs,--and why does n't one of them take her away? Then we could have a nice, plain young lady who would sit quietly on the front steps with the old people, and who would n't want me to carry messages for her three times a day." At the present moment, however, Miss Anita Ferguson, clad in a black habit, with a white rose in her buttonhole, and a neat black derby with a scarf of white _crêpe de chine_ wound about it, had gone on the mesa for a horseback ride, so Polly and Margery had borrowed the cosy corner for a chat. Margery was crocheting a baby's afghan, and Polly was almost obscured by a rumpled, yellow dress which lay in her lap. "You observe my favorite yellow gown?" she asked. "Yes, what have you done to it?" "Gin Sing picked blackberries in the colander. I, supposing the said colander to be a pan with the usual bottom, took it in my lap and held it for an hour while I sorted the berries. Result: a hideous stain a foot and a half in diameter, to say nothing of the circumference. Mr. Greenwood suggested oxalic acid. I applied it, and removed both the stain and the dress in the following complete manner;" and Polly put her brilliant head through an immense circular hole in the front breadth of the skirt. "It 's hopeless, is n't it? for of course a patch won't look well," said Margery. "Hopeless? Not a bit. You see this pretty yellow and white striped lawn? I have made a long, narrow apron of it, and ruffled it all round. I pin it to my waist thus, and the hole is covered. But it looks like an apron, and how do I contrive to throw the public off the scent? I add a yoke and sash of the striped lawn, and people see simply a combination-dress. I do the designing, and my beloved little mother there will do the sewing; forgetting her precious Polly's carelessness in making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in covering it." "Capital!" said Margery; "it will be prettier than ever. Oh dear! that dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the cañon. Shall we ever go again, all together, I wonder? Just think how we are all scattered,--the Winships traveling in Europe (I 'll read you Bell's last letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack Howard at Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in Cambridge; Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here. We are so divided that it does n't seem possible that we can ever have a complete reunion, does it?" "No," said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over the honeysuckle; "and if we should, everything would be different. Bless dear old Bell's heart! What a lovely summer she must be having! I wonder what she will do." "Do?" echoed Margery. "Yes; it always seemed to me that Bell Winship would do something in the world; that she would never go along placidly like other girls, she has so many talents." "Yes; but so long as they have plenty of money, Dr. and Mrs. Winship would probably never encourage her in doing anything." "It would be all the better if she could do something because she loved it, and with no thought of earning a living by it. Is n't it odd that I who most need the talents should have fewer than any one of our dear little group? Bell can write, sing, dance, or do anything else, in fact; Elsie can play like an angel; you can draw; but it seems to me I can do nothing well enough to earn money by it; and that is precisely what I must do." "You 've never had any special instruction, Polly dear, else you could sing as well as Bell, or play as well as Elsie." "Well, I must soon decide. Mamma says next summer, when I am seventeen, she will try to spend a year in San Francisco and let me study regularly for some profession. The question is, what?--or whether to do something without study. I read in a magazine the other day that there are now three hundred or three thousand, I can't remember which, vocations open to women. If it were even three hundred I could certainly choose one to my liking, and there would be two hundred and ninety-nine left over for the other girls. Mrs. Weeks is trying to raise silkworms. That would be rather nice, because the worms would be silent partners in the business and do most of the work." "But you want something without any risks, you know," said Margery sagely. "You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along and devour the plants before the worms began spinning." "'Competition is the life of trade,'" said Polly. "No, that is n't what I mean--'Nothing venture, nothing have,' that's it. Then how would hens do? Ever so many women raise hens." "Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to sell the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,--you know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,--advertises in the 'Daily Press' for a 'live partner.' Now, there 's a chance on an established hen-ranch, if he does n't demand capital or experience." "It's a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n't like Mr. Jones, because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always bulging with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just invented. The other day, when he came to see her, she was out, and he handed me his card. It had a picture and advertisement of 'The Royal Dish-faced Berkshire Pig' on it; and I 'm sure, by her expression when she saw it, that she will never be his 'live partner.' No, I don't think I 'll have an out-of-door occupation, it's so trying to the complexion. Now, how about millinery? I could be an apprentice, and gradually rise until I imported everything direct from Paris." "But, Polly," objected Margery, "you know you never could tie a bow, or even put a ribbon on your sailor hat." "But I could learn. Do you suppose all the milliners were called to their work by a consciousness of genius? Perish the thought! If that were true, there wouldn't be so many hideous hats in the shop windows. However, I don't pine for millinery; it's always a struggle for me to wear a hat myself." "You 've done beautifully the last year or two, dear, and you 've reaped the reward of virtue, for you 've scarcely a freckle left." "Oh, that isn't hats," rejoined Polly, "that's the law of compensation. When I was younger, and did n't take the boarders so much to heart, I had freckles given to me for a cross; but the moment I grew old enough to see the boarders in their true light and note their effect on mamma, the freckles disappeared. Now, here 's an idea. I might make a complexion lotion for a living. Let me see what I 've been advised by elderly ladies to use in past years: ammonia, lemon-juice, cucumbers, morning dew, milk, pork rinds, kerosene, and a few other household remedies. Of course I 'm not sure which did the work, but why could n't I mix them all in equal parts,--if they would mix, you know, and let those stay out that would n't,--and call it the 'Olivera Complexion Lotion'? The trade-mark might be a cucumber, a lemon, and a morning dew-drop, _rampant_, and a frightened little brown spot _couchant_. Then on the neat label pasted on the bottles above the trade-mark there might be a picture of a spotted girl,--that's Miss Oliver before using her lotion,--and a copy of my last photograph,--that's Miss Oliver radiant in beauty after using her lotion." Margery laughed, as she generally did at Polly's nonsense. "That sounds very attractive, but if you are anxious for an elegant and dignified occupation which shall restore your mother to her ancestral position, it certainly has its defects." "I know everything has its defects, everything except one, and I won't believe that has a single weak point." "Oh, Polly, you deceiver! You have a secret leaning toward some particular thing, after all!" "Yes; though I have n't talked it over fully yet, even with mamma, lest she should think it one of my wild schemes; but, Margery, I want with all my heart to be a kindergartner like Miss Mary Denison. There would be no sting to me in earning my living, if only I could do it by working among poor, ragged, little children, as she does. I run in and stay half an hour with her whenever I can, and help the babies with their sewing or weaving, and I always study and work better myself afterward,--I don't know whether it's the children, or Miss Denison, or the place, or all three. And the other day, when I was excused from my examinations, I stayed the whole morning in the kindergarten. When it was time for the games, and they were all on the circle, they began with a quiet play they call 'Silent Greeting,' and oh, Margery, they chose me to come in, of their own accord! When I walked into the circle to greet that smallest Walker baby my heart beat like a trip-hammer, I was so afraid I should do something wrong, and they would never ask me in again. Then we played 'The Hen and Chickens,' and afterward something about the birds in the greenwood; and one of the make-believe birds flew to me (I was a tree, you know, a whispering elm-tree), and built its nest in my branches, and then I smoothed its feathers and sang to it as the others had done, and it was like heaven! After the play was over, we modeled clay birds; and just as we were making the tables tidy, Professor Hohlweg came in and asked Miss Denison to come into the large hall to play for the marching, as the music-teacher was absent. Then what did Miss Denison do but turn to me and say, 'Miss Oliver, you get on so nicely with the children, would you mind telling them some little story for me? I shall be gone only ten or fifteen minutes.' Oh, Margery, it was awful! I was more frightened than when I was asked to come into the circle; but the children clapped their hands and cried, 'Yes, yes, tell us a story!' I could only think of 'The Hen that Hatched Ducks,' but I sat down and began, and, as I talked, I took my clay bird and molded it into a hen, so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course, one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless, but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They listened so nicely,--you can hardly believe how nicely they listened! When I finished I looked at the clock. It had been nine minutes, and I could n't think what to do the other dreadful minutes till Miss Denison should come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave me an idea. I drew a hen's beak and then a duck's, a hen's foot and then a duck's, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight. There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, 'How charming of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?'" "Well, I should n't think you had patience enough for any sort of teaching," said Margery candidly. "Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n't any patience to spare, that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so dearly that they never try my patience as other things do." "You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I'm sure Miss Denison very often looks tired to death." "Of course!" cried Polly. "I know it 's hard work; but who cares whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don't mind work; I only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like. Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be dying with heat. It 's just the difference between us! You carry your easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison's children with their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?" "Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be tired and discouraged, it is worth while because it is Art I am working at; and for the sake of being an artist I ought to be willing to endure anything. You would n't have that feeling to inspire and help you." "I should like to know why I would n't," exclaimed Polly, with flashing eyes. "I should like to know why teaching may not be an art. I confess I don't know exactly what an artist is, or rather what the dictionary definition of art is; but sit down in Miss Burke's room at the college; you can't stay there half an hour without thinking that, rather than have her teach you anything, you would be an ignorant little cannibal on a desert island! She does n't know how, and there is nothing beautiful about it. But look at Miss Denison! When she comes into her kindergarten it is like the sunrise, and she makes everything blossom that she touches. It is all so simple and sweet that it seems as if anybody could do it; but when you try it you find that it is quite different. Whether she plays or sings, or talks or works with the children, it is perfect. 'It all seems so easy when you do it,' I said to her yesterday, and she pointed to the quotation for the day in her calendar. It was a sentence from George MacDonald: 'Ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil.' Now it may be that Miss Mary Denison is only an angel; but I think that she 's an artist." "On second thoughts, perhaps you are right in your meaning of the word, though it does n't follow that all teachers are artists." "No; nor that all the painters are," retorted Polly. "Think of that poor Miss Thomas in your outdoor class. Last week, when you were sketching the cow in front of the old barn, I sat behind her for half an hour. Her barn grew softer and softer and her cow harder and harder, till when she finished, the barn looked as if it were molded in jelly and the cow as if it were carved in red sandstone." "She ought not to be allowed to paint," said Margery decisively. "Of course she ought n't! That's just what I say; and I ought not to be allowed to keep boarders, and I won't!" "I must say you have wonderful courage, Polly. It seems so natural and easy for you to strike out for yourself in a new line that it must be you feel a sense of power, and that you will be successful." Polly's manner changed abruptly as she glanced in at her mother's empty chair before she replied. "Courage! Sometimes I think I have n't a morsel. I am a gilded sham. My knees tremble whenever I think of my future 'career,' as I call it. Mamma thinks me filled with a burning desire for a wider sphere of action, and so I am, but chiefly for her sake. Courage! There 's nothing like having a blessed, tired little mother to take care of,--a mother whom you want to snatch from the jaws of a horrible fate. That 's a trifle strong, but it's dramatic! You see, Margery, a woman like my mother is not going to remain forever in her present rank in her profession,--she is too superior; she is bound to rise. Now, what would become of her if she rose? Why, first, she would keep a country hotel, and sit on the front piazza in a red rocker, and chat with the commercial travelers; and then she would become the head of a summer resort, with a billiard-room and a bowling-alley. I must be self-supporting, and 'I will never desert Mr. Micawber,' so I should make beds and dust in Hotel Number One, and in Hotel Number Two entertain the guests with my music and my 'sprightly manners,'--that's what Mr. Greenwood calls them, and the only reason I am sorry we live in a republic is that I can't have him guillotined for doing it, but must swallow my wrath because he pays twenty dollars a week and seldom dines at home. Finally, in Hotel Number Three I should probably marry the ninepin-man or the head clerk, so as to consolidate the management and save salaries, and there would end the annals of the Olivers! No, Margery!" cried Polly, waving the scissors in the air, "everybody is down on the beach, and I can make the welkin ring if I like, so hear me: The boarders must go! How, when, and where they shall go are three problems I have n't yet solved; and what I shall find to take the place of them when they do go is a fourth problem, and the knottiest one of all!" CHAPTER III. THE DOCTOR GIVES POLLY A PRESCRIPTION. As the summer wore away, Mrs. Oliver daily grew more and more languid, until at length she was forced to ask a widowed neighbor, Mrs. Chadwick, to come and take the housekeeping cares until she should feel stronger. But beef-tea and drives, salt-water bathing and tonics, seemed to do no good, and at length there came a day when she had not sufficient strength to sit up. The sight of her mother actually in bed in the daytime gave Polly a sensation as of a cold hand clutching at her heart, and she ran for Dr. Edgerton in an agony of fear. But good "Dr. George" (as he was always called, because he began practice when his father, the old doctor, was still living) came home with her, cheered her by his hopeful view of the case, and asked her to call at his office that afternoon for some remedies. After dinner was over, Polly kissed her sleeping mother, laid a rose on her pillow for good-by, and stole out of the room. Her heart was heavy as she walked into the office where the doctor sat alone at his desk. "Good-day, my dear!" he said cordially, as he looked up, for she was one of his prime favorites. "Bless my soul, how you do grow, child! Why you are almost a woman!" "I am quite a woman," said Polly, with a choking sensation in her throat; "and you have something to say to me, Dr. George, or you would n't have asked me to leave mamma and come here this stifling day; you would have sent the medicine by your office-boy." Dr. George laid down his pen in mild, amazement. "You are a woman, in every sense of the word, my dear! Bless my soul, how you do hit it occasionally, you sprig of a girl! Now, sit by that window, and we 'll talk. What I wanted to say to you is this, Polly. Your mother must have an entire change. Six months ago I tried to send her to a rest-cure, but she refused to go anywhere without you, saying that you were her best tonic." Two tears ran down Polly's cheeks. "Tell me that again, please," she said softly, looking out of the window. "She said--if you will have the very words, and all of them--that you were sun and stimulant, fresh air, medicine, and nourishment, and that she could not exist without those indispensables, even in a rest-cure." Polly's head went down on the windowsill in a sudden passion of tears. "Hoity-toity! that 's a queer way of receiving a compliment, young woman!" She tried to smile through her April shower. "It makes me so happy, yet so unhappy, Dr. George. Mamma has been working her strength away so many years, and I 've been too young to realize it, and too young to prevent it, and now that I am grown up I am afraid it is too late." "Not too late, at all," said Dr. George cheerily; "only we must begin at once and attend to the matter thoroughly. Your mother has been in this southern climate too long, for one thing; she needs a change of air and scene. San Francisco will do, though it 's not what I should choose. She must be taken entirely away from her care, and from everything that will remind her of it; and she must live quietly, where she will not have to make a continual effort to smile and talk to people three times a day. Being agreeable, polite, and good-tempered for fifteen years, without a single lapse, will send anybody into a decline. You 'll never go that way, my Polly! Now, pardon me, but how much ready money have you laid away?" "Three hundred and twelve dollars." "Whew!" "It is a good deal," said Polly, with modest pride; "and it would have been more yet if we had not just painted the house." "'A good deal!' my poor lambkin! I hoped it was $1012, at least; but, however, you have the house, and that is as good as money. The house must be rented, at once, furniture, boarders, and all, as it stands. It ought to bring $85 or $95 a month, in these times, and you can manage on that, with the $312 as a reserve." "What if the tenant should give up the house as soon as we are fairly settled in San Francisco?" asked Polly, with an absolutely new gleam of caution and business in her eye. "Brava! Why do I attempt to advise such a capable little person? Well, in the first place, there are such things as leases; and in the second place, if your tenant should move out, the agent must find you another in short order, and you will live, meanwhile, on the reserve fund. But, joking aside, there is very little risk. It is going to be a great winter for Santa Barbara, and your house is attractive, convenient, and excellently located. If we can get your affairs into such shape that your mother will not be anxious, I hope, and think, that the entire change and rest, together with the bracing air, will work wonders. I shall give you a letter to a physician, a friend of mine, and fortunately I shall come up once a month during the winter to see an old patient who insists on retaining me just from force of habit." "And in another year, Dr. George, I shall be ready to take care of mamma myself; and then-- "She shall sit on a cushion, and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar, and cream." "Assuredly, my Polly, assuredly." The doctor was pacing up and down the office now, hands in pockets, eyes on floor. "The world is your oyster; open it, my dear,--open it. By the way," with a sharp turn, "with what do you propose to open it?" "I don't know yet, but not with boarders, Dr. George." "Tut, tut, child; must n't despise small things!" "Such as Mr. Greenwood," said Polly irrepressibly, "weight two hundred and ninety pounds; and Mrs. Darling, height six feet one inch; no, I 'll try not to despise small things, thank you!" "Well, if there 's a vocation, it will 'call,' you know, Polly. I 'd rather like you for an assistant, to drive my horse and amuse my convalescents. Bless my soul! you 'd make a superb nurse, except"-- "Except what, sir?" "You 're not in equilibrium yet, my child; you are either up or down, generally up. You bounce, so to speak. Now, a nurse must n't bounce; she must be poised, as it were, or suspended, betwixt and between, like Mahomet's coffin. But thank Heaven for your high spirits, all the same! They will tide you over many a hard place, and the years will bring the 'inevitable yoke' soon enough, Polly," and here Dr. George passed behind the girl's chair and put his two kind hands on her shoulders. "Polly, can you be really a woman? Can you put the little-girl days bravely behind you?" "I can, Dr. George." This in a very trembling voice. "Can you settle all these details for your mother, and assume responsibilities? Can you take her away, as if she were the child and you the mother, all at once?" "I can!" This more firmly. "Can you deny yourself for her, as she has for you? Can you keep cheerful and sunny? Can you hide your fears, if there should be cause for any, in your own heart? Can you be calm and strong, if"-- "No, no!" gasped Polly, dropping her head on the back of the chair and shivering like a leaf. "No, no; don't talk about fears, Dr. George. She will be better. She will be better very soon. I could not live"-- "It is n't so easy to die, my child, with plenty of warm young blood running pell-mell through your veins, and a sixteen-year-old heart that beats like a chronometer." "I could not bear life without mamma, Dr. George!" "A human being, made in the image of God, can bear anything, child; but I hope you won't have to meet that sorrow for many a long year yet. I will come in to-morrow and coax your mother into a full assent to my plans; meanwhile, fly home with your medicines. There was a time when you used to give my tonics at night and my sleeping-draught in the morning; but I believe in you absolutely from this day." Polly put her two slim hands in the kind doctor's, and looking up with brimming eyes into his genial face said, "Dear Dr. George, you may believe in me; indeed, indeed you may!" Dr. George looked out of his office window, and mused as his eyes followed Polly up the shaded walk under the pepper-trees. "Oh, these young things, these young things, how one's heart yearns over them!" he sighed. "There she goes, full tilt, notwithstanding the heat; hat swinging in her hand instead of being on her pretty head; her heart bursting with fond schemes to keep that precious mother alive. It's a splendid nature, that girl's; one that is in danger of being wrecked by its own impetuosity, but one so full and rich that it is capable of bubbling over and enriching all the dull and sterile ones about it. Now, if all the money I can rake and scrape together need not go to those languid, boneless children of my languid, boneless sister-in-law, I could put that brave little girl on her feet. I think she will be able to do battle with the world so long as she has her mother for a motive-power. The question is, how will she do it without?" CHAPTER IV. THE BOARDERS STAY, AND THE OLIVERS GO. Dr. George found Mrs. Oliver too ill to be anything but reasonable. After a long talk about her own condition and Polly's future, she gave a somewhat tearful assent to all his plans for their welfare, and agreed to make the change when a suitable tenant was found for the house. So Polly eased the anxiety that gnawed at her heart by incredible energy in the direction of house-cleaning; superintending all sorts of scrubbings, polishings, and renovating of carpets with the aid of an extra Chinaman, who was fresh from his native rice-fields and stupid enough to occupy any one's mind to the exclusion of other matters. Each boarder in turn was asked to make a trip to the country on a certain day, and on his return found his room in spotless order; while all this time the tired mother lay quietly in her bed, knowing little or nothing of her daughter's superhuman efforts to be "good." But a month of rest worked wonders, and Mrs. Oliver finally became so like her usual delicate but energetic self that Polly almost forgot her fears, although she remitted none of her nursing and fond but rigid discipline. At length something happened; and one glorious Saturday morning in October, Polly saddled Blanquita, the white mare which Bell Winship had left in Polly's care during her European trip, and galloped over to the Nobles' ranch in a breathless state of excitement. Blanquita was happy too, for Polly had a light hand on the rein and a light seat in the saddle. She knew there would be a long rest at the journey's end, and that, too, under a particularly shady pepper-tree; so both horse and rider were in a golden humor as they loped over the dusty road, the blue Pacific on the one hand, and the brown hills, thirsty for rain, on the other. Polly tied Blanquita to the pepper-tree, caught her habit in one hand, and ran up the walnut-tree avenue to the Nobles' house. There was no one in; but that was nothing unusual, since a house is chiefly useful for sleeping purposes in that lovely climate. No one on the verandas, no one in the hammocks; after seeking for some little time she came upon Margery and her mother at work in their orange-tree sitting-room, Mrs. Noble with her mending-basket, Margery painting as usual. The orange-tree sitting-room was merely a platform built under the trees, which in the season of blossoms shed a heavy fragrance in the warm air, and later on hung their branches of golden fruit almost into your very lap. "Here you are!" cried Polly, plunging through the trees as she caught sight of Margery's pink dress. "You have n't any hats to swing, so please give three rousing cheers! The house is rented and a lease signed for a year!" "That is good news, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Noble, laying down her needle. "And who is the tenant?" "Whom do you suppose? Mrs. Chadwick herself! She has been getting on very nicely with the housekeeping (part of the credit belongs to me, but no one would ever believe it), and the boarders have been gradually weaned from mamma and accustomed to the new order of things, so they are tolerably content. Ah Foy also has agreed to stay, and that makes matters still more serene, since he is the best cook in Santa Barbara. Mrs. Chadwick will pay eighty-five dollars a month. Dr. George thinks we ought to get more, but mamma is so glad to have somebody whom she knows, and so relieved to feel that there will be no general breaking up of the 'sweet, sweet home,' that she is glad to accept the eighty-five dollars; and I am sure that we can live in modest penury on that sum. Of course Mrs. Chadwick may weary in well-doing; or she may die; or she may even get married,--though that's very unlikely, unless one of the boarders can't pay his board and wants to make it up to her in some way. Heigho! I feel like a princess, like a capitalist, like a gilded society lady!" sighed Polly, fanning herself with her hat. "And now you and your mother will come to us for a week or two, as you promised, won't you?" asked Mrs. Noble. "That will give you time to make your preparations comfortably." Polly took a note from her pocket and handed it to Mrs. Noble: "Mrs. Oliver presents her compliments to Mrs. Noble, and says in this letter that we accept with pleasure Mrs. Noble's kind invitation to visit her. Said letter was not to be delivered, in case Mrs. Noble omitted to renew the invitation; but as all is right, I don't mind announcing that we are coming the day after to-morrow." "Oh, Polly, Polly! How am I ever to live without you!" sighed Margery. "First Elsie, then Bell, now you!" "Live for your Art with a big A, Peggy, but it's not forever. By and by, when you are a successful artist and I am a successful something, in short, when we are both 'careering,' which is my verb to express earning one's living by the exercise of some splendid talent, we will 'career' together in some great metropolis. Our mothers shall dress in Lyons velvet and point-lace. Their delicate fingers, no longer sullied by the vulgar dishcloth and duster, shall glitter with priceless gems, while you and I, the humble authors of their greatness, will heap dimes on dimes until we satisfy ambition." Mrs. Noble smiled. "I hope your 'career,' as you call it, will be one in which imagination will be of use, Polly." "I don't really imagine all the imaginations you imagine I imagine," said Polly soberly, as she gave Mrs. Noble's hand an affectionate squeeze. "A good deal of it is 'whistling to keep my courage up.' But everything looks hopeful just now. Mamma is so much better, everybody is so kind, and do you know, I don't loathe the boarders half so much since we have rented them with the house? "They grow in beauty side by side, They fill our home with glee. "Now that I can look upon them as personal property, part of our goods and chattels, they have ceased to be disagreeable. Even Mr. Greenwood--you remember him, Margery?" "The fat old man who calls you sprightly?" "The very same; but he has done worse since that. To be called sprightly is bad enough, but yesterday he said that he shouldn't be surprised _if I married well--in--course--of--time_!" Nothing but italics would convey the biting sarcasm of Polly's inflections, and no capitals in a printer's case could picture her flashing eyes, or the vigor with which she prodded the earth with her riding-whip. "I agree with him, that it is not impossible," said Mrs. Noble teasingly, after a moment of silence. "Now, dearest aunty Meg, don't take sides with that odious man! If, in the distant years, you ever see me on the point of marrying well, simply mention Mr. Greenwood's name to me, and I 'll draw back even if I am walking up the middle aisle with an ivory prayer-book in my hand!" "Just to spite Mr. Greenwood; that would be sensible," said Margery. "You could n't be so calm if you had to sit at the same table with him day after day. He belongs at the second table by--by every law of his nature! But, as I was saying, now that we have rented him to Mrs. Chadwick with the rest of the furniture, and will have a percentage on him just as we do on the piano which is far more valuable, I have been able to look at him pleasantly." "You ought to be glad that the boarders like you," said Margery reprovingly. "They don't, as a rule; only the horrors and the elderly gentlemen approve of me. But good-by for to-day, aunty Meg. Come to the gate, Peggy dear!" The two friends walked through the orange-grove, their arms wound about each other, girl-fashion. They were silent, for each was sorry to lose the other, and a remembrance of the dear old times, the unbroken circle, the peaceful schooldays and merry vacations, stole into their young hearts, together with visions of the unknown future. As Polly untied Blanquita and gave a heroic cinch to the saddle, she gave a last searching look at Margery, and said finally, "Peggy dear, I am very sure you are blue this morning; tell your faithful old Pollykins all about it." One word was enough for Margery in her present mood, and she burst into tears on Polly's shoulder. "Is it Edgar again?" whispered Polly. "Yes," she sobbed. "Father has given him three months more to stay in the university, and unless he does better he is to come home and live on the cattle-ranch. Mother is heart-broken over it; for you know, Polly, that Edgar will never endure such a life; and yet, dearly as he loves books, he is n't doing well with his studies. The president has written father that he is very indolent this term and often absent from recitations; and one of the Santa Barbara boys, a senior, writes Philip that he is not choosing good friends, nor taking any rank in his class. Mother has written him such a letter this morning! If he can read it without turning his back upon his temptations, whatever they may he, I shall never have any pride in him again; and oh, Polly, I have been so proud of him, my brilliant, handsome, charming brother!" "Poor Edgar! I can't believe it is anything that will last. He is so bright and lovable; every one thought he would take the highest honors. Why, Margery, he is, or was, the most ambitious boy I ever knew, and surely, surely he cannot have changed altogether! Surely he will come to himself when he knows he may have to leave college unless he does his best. I 'm so sorry, dear old Peggy! It seems heartless that my brighter times should begin just when you are in trouble. Perhaps mamma and I can do something for Edgar; we will try, you may lie sure. Good-by, dearest; I shall see you again very soon." Ten days later, Polly stood on the deck of the Orizaba just at dusk, looking back on lovely Santa Barbara as it lay in the lap of the foothills freshened by the first rains. The dull, red-tiled roofs of the old Spanish adobes gleamed through the green of the pepper-trees, the tips of the tall, straggling blue-gums stood out sharply against the sky, and the twin towers of the old Mission rose in dazzling whiteness above a wilderness of verdure. The friendly faces on the wharf first merged themselves into a blurred mass of moving atoms, then sank into nothingness. Polly glanced into her stateroom. Mrs. Oliver was a good sailor, and was lying snug and warm under her blankets. So Polly took a camp-chair just outside the door, wrapped herself in her fur cape, crowded her tam-o'-shanter tightly on, and sat there alone as the sunset glow paled in the western sky and darkness fell upon the face of the deep. The mesa faded from sight; and then the lighthouse, where she had passed so many happy hours in her childhood. The bright disk of flame shone clear and steady across the quiet ocean, seeming to say, _Let your light so shine! Let your light so shine! Good luck, Polly! Keep your own lamp filled and trimmed, like a wise little virgin!_ And her heart answered, "Good-by, dear light! I am leaving my little-girl days on the shore with you, and I am out on the open sea of life. I shall know that you are shining, though I cannot see you. Good-by! Shine on, dear light! I am going to seek my fortune!" CHAPTER V. TOLD IN LETTERS. _Extracts from Polly Oliver's Correspondence._ SAN FRANCISCO, November 1, 188--. DEAR MARGERY,--I have been able to write you only scraps of notes heretofore, but now that we are quite settled I can tell you about our new home. We were at a hotel for a week, as long as I, the family banker, felt that we could, afford it. At the end of that time, by walking the streets from morning till night, looking at every house with a sign "To Let" on it, and taking mamma to see only the desirable ones, we found a humble spot to lay our heads. It is a tiny upper flat, which we rent for thirty dollars a month. The landlady calls it furnished, but she has an imagination which takes even higher flights than mine. Still, with the help of the pretty things we brought with us, we are very cosy and comfortable. There is a tiny parlor, which, with our Santa Barbara draperies, table-covers, afternoon tea-table, grasses, and books, looks like a corner of the dear home sitting-room. Out of this parlor is a sunny bedroom with two single brass bedsteads, and space enough to spare for mamma's rocking-chair in front of a window that looks out on the Golden Gate. The dining-room just holds, by a squeeze, the extension-table and four chairs; and the dot of a kitchen, with an enchanting gas-stove, completes the suite. We are dining at a restaurant a short distance off, at present, and I cook the breakfasts and luncheons; but on Monday, as mamma is so well, I begin school from nine to twelve each day under a special arrangement, and we are to have a little Chinese boy who will assist in the work and go home at night to sleep. His wages will be eight dollars a month, and the washing probably four dollars more. This, with the rent, takes forty-two dollars from our eighty-five, and it remains to be seen whether it is too much. I shall walk one way to school, although it is sixteen squares and all up and down hill. . . . The rains thus far have been mostly in the night, and we have lovely days. Mamma and I take long rides on the cable-cars in the afternoon, and stay out at the Cliff House on the rocks every pleasant Saturday. Then we 've discovered nice sheltered nooks in the sand dunes beyond the park, and there we stay for hours, mamma reading while I study. We are so quiet and so happy; we were never alone together in our lives before. You, dear Peggy, who have always had your family to yourself, can hardly think how we enjoy being at table together, just we two. I take mamma's coffee to her and kiss her on the right cheek; then follows an egg, with another kiss on the left cheek; then a bit of toast, with a bear-hug, and so on. We have a few pleasant friends here, you know, and they come to see mamma without asking her to return the calls, as they see plainly she has no strength for society. . . . POLLY. P. S. We have a remarkable front door, which opens with a spring located in the wall at the top of the stairs. It is a modern improvement and I never tire of opening it, even though each time I am obliged to go downstairs to close it again. When Dr. George came last week, he rang the bell, and being tired with the long pull up the hill, leaned against the door to breathe. Of course I knew nothing of this, and as soon as I heard the bell I flew to open the door with my usual neatness and dispatch, when who should tumble in, full length, but poor dear Dr. George! He was so surprised, and the opposite neighbors were so interested, and I was so sorry, that I was almost hysterical. Dr. George insists that the door is a trap laid for unsuspecting country people. November 9. . . . The first week is over, and the finances did n't come out right at all. I have a system of bookkeeping which is original, simple, practical, and absolutely reliable. The house-money I keep in a cigar-box with three partitions (formerly used for birds' eggs), and I divide the month's money in four parts, and pay everything weekly. The money for car-fare, clothing, and sundries I keep in an old silver sugar-bowl, and the reserve fund, which we are never to touch save on the most dreadful provocation, in a Japanese ginger-jar with a cover. These, plainly marked, repose in my upper drawer. Mamma has no business cares whatever, and everything ought to work to a charm, as it will after a while. But this first week has been discouraging, and I have had to borrow enough from compartment two, cigar-box, to pay debts incurred by compartment one, cigar-box. This is probably because we had to buy a bag of flour and ten pounds of sugar. Of course this won't happen every week. . . . I wrote Ah Foy a note after we arrived, for he really seems to have a human affection for us. I inclose his answer to my letter. It is such a miracle of Chinese construction that it is somewhat difficult to get his idea; still I think I see that he is grateful for past favors; that he misses us; that the boarders are going on "very happy and joy;" that he is glad mamma is better, and pleased with the teacher I selected for him. But here it is; judge for yourself:-- SANTA BARBARA, November 5. DEAR MY FREND. I was joy pleased to received a letter from you how are Your getting along and my Dear if your leaves a go We but now I been it is here I am very sorry for are a your go to in San Francisco if any now did you been it is that here very happy and joy I am so glad for your are to do teachers for me but I am very much thank you dear my frend. Good-By. AH FOY. November 15, . . . The first compartment, cigar-box, could n't pay back the money it borrowed from the second compartment, and so this in turn had to borrow from the third compartment. I could have made everything straight, I think, if we had n't bought a feather duster and a gallon of kerosene. The first will last forever, and the second for six weeks, so it is n't fair to call compartment number two extravagant. At the end of this month I shall remove some of the partitions in the cigar-box and keep the house-money in two parts, balancing accounts every fortnight. . . . November 24. . . . My bookkeeping is in a frightful snarl. There is neither borrowing nor lending in the cigar-box now, for all the money for the month is gone at the end of the third week. The water, it seems, was not included in the thirty dollars for the rent, and compartment three had to pay two dollars for that purpose when compartment two was still deeply in its debt. If compartment two had only met its rightful obligations, compartment three need n't have "failed up," as they say in New England; but as it is, poor compartment four is entirely bankrupt, and will have to borrow of the sugar-bowl or the ginger-jar. As these banks are not at all in the same line of business, they ought not to be drawn into the complications of the cigar-box, for they will have their own troubles by and by; but I don't know what else to do. . . . December 2. . . . It came out better at the end of the month than I feared, for we spent very little last week, and have part of the ten pounds of sugar, kerosene, feather duster, scrubbing-brush, blanc-mange mould, tapioca, sago, and spices with which to begin the next month. I suffered so with the debts, losses, business embarrassments, and failures of the four compartments that when I found I was only four dollars behind on the whole month's expenses, I knocked out all the compartments, and am not going to keep things in weeks. I made up the deficit by taking two dollars out of the reserve fund, and two dollars out of my ten-dollar gold piece that Dr. George gave me on my birthday. I have given the ginger-jar a note of hand for two dollars from the cigar-box, and it has resumed business at the old stand. Compartment four, cigar-box, which is perfectly innocent, as it was borrowed out of house and home by compartment three, also had to give a note to the sugar-bowl, and I made the ginger-jar give me a note for my two dollars birthday-money. Whether all these obligations will be met without lawsuits, I cannot tell; but I know by the masterly manner in which I have fought my way through these intricate affairs with the loss of only four dollars in four weeks, that I possess decided business ability, and this gives me courage to struggle on. December 30, 188-. . . . We are having hard times, dear old Margery, though I do not regret coming to San Francisco, for mamma could not bear the slightest noise or confusion, nor lift her hand to any sort of work, in her present condition. At any rate, we came by Dr. George's orders, so my conscience is clear. . . . Mrs. Chadwick has sent us only sixty-five dollars this month, instead of eighty-five. Some of the boarders are behind in their payments. The Darlings have gone away, and "she hopes to do better next month." Mamma cannot bear to press her, she is so kind and well-meaning; so do not for the world mention the matter to Dr. George. I will write to him when I must, not before. Meanwhile I walk to school both ways, saving a dollar and a quarter a month. Have found a cheaper laundry; one dollar more saved. Cut down fruit bill; one dollar more. Blacked my white straw sailor with shoe-blacking, trimmed it with two neckties and an old blackbird badly molted; result perfectly hideous, but the sugar-bowl, clothing, and sundry fund are out of debt and doing well. Had my faded gray dress dyed black, and trimmed the jacket with pieces of my moth-eaten cock's-feather boa; perfectly elegant, almost too gorgeous for my humble circumstances. Mamma looks at me sadly when I don these ancient garments, and almost wishes I had n't such "a wealthy look." I tell her I expect the girls to say, when I walk into the school-yard on Monday, "Who is this that cometh with dyed garments from Bozrah?" Mamma has decided that I may enter a training-school for kindergartners next year; so I am taking the studies that will give me the best preparation, and I hope to earn part of my tuition fees, when the time comes, by teaching as assistant. . . . I go over to Berkeley once a week to talk Spanish with kind Professor Salazar and his wife. They insist that it is a pleasure, and will not allow mamma to pay anything for the lessons. I also go every Tuesday to tell stories at the Children's Hospital. It is the dearest hour of the week. When I am distracted about bills and expenses and mamma's health and Mrs. Chadwick's mismanagements and Yung Lee's mistakes (for he is beautiful as an angel and stupid as a toad), I put on my hat and go out to the children, poor little things! They always have a welcome for me, bless them! and I always come back ready to take up my trials again. Edgar is waiting to take this to the post-box, so I must say good-night. He is such a pleasure to us and such a comfort to mamma. I know for the first time in my life the fun of having a brother. Ever your affectionate POLLYKINS. The foregoing extracts from Polly's business letters give you an idea only of her financial difficulties. She was tempted to pour these into one sympathizing ear, inasmuch as she kept all annoyances from her mother as far as possible; though household economies, as devised by her, lost much of their terror. Mrs. Oliver was never able to see any great sorrow in a monthly deficit when Polly seated herself before her cash-boxes and explained her highly original financial operations. One would be indeed in dire distress of mind could one refrain from smiling when, having made the preliminary announcement,--"The great feminine financier of the century is in her counting-room: let the earth tremble!"--she planted herself on the bed, oriental fashion, took pencil and account-book in lap, spread cigar-box, sugar-bowl, and ginger-jar before her on the pillows, and ruffled her hair for the approaching contest. CHAPTER VI. POLLY TRIES A LITTLE MISSIONARY WORK. One change had come over their life during these months which, although not explained in Polly's correspondence, concerns our little circle of people very intimately. The Olivers had been in San Francisco over a month, but though Edgar Noble had been advised of the fact, he had not come over from Berkeley to see his old friends. Polly had at length written him a note, which still remained unanswered when she started one afternoon on a trip across the bay for her first Spanish conversation with Professor Salazar. She had once visited the university buildings, but Professor Salazar lived not only at some distance from the college, but at some distance from everything else. Still, she had elaborate written directions in her pocket, and hoped to find the place without difficulty. She had no sooner alighted at the station than she felt an uneasy consciousness that it was not the right one, and that she should have gone farther before leaving the railway. However, there was no certainty about it in her mind, so after asking at two houses half a mile apart, and finding that the inmates had never heard of Professor Salazar's existence, she walked down a shady road, hoping to find another household where his name and fame had penetrated. The appointed hour for the lessons was half past three on Fridays, but it was after four, and Polly seemed to be walking farther and farther away from civilization. "I shall have to give it up," she thought; "I will go back to the station where I got off and wait until the next train for San Francisco comes along, which will be nobody knows when. How provoking it is, and how stupid I am! Professor Salazar will stay at home for me, and very likely Mrs. Salazar has made butter-cakes and coffee, and here am I floundering in the woods! I 'll sit down under these trees and do a bit of Spanish, while I 'm resting for the walk back." Just at this moment a chorus of voices sounded in the distance, then some loud talking, then more singing. "It is some of the students," thought Polly, as she hastily retired behind a tree until they should pass. [Illustration: "It is some of the students."] But unfortunately they did not pass. Just as they came opposite her hiding-place, they threw themselves down in a sunny spot on the opposite side of the road and lighted their cigarettes. "No hurry!" said one. "Let 's take it easy; the train does n't leave till 4.50. Where are you going, Ned?" "Home, I suppose, where I was going when you met me. I told you I could only walk to the turn." "Home? No, you don't!" expostulated half a dozen laughing voices; "we 've unearthed the would-be hermit, and we mean to keep him." "Can't go with you to-night, boys, worse luck!" repeated the second speaker. "Got to cram for that examination or be plucked again; and one more plucking will settle this child's university career!" "Oh, let the examinations go to the dickens! What 's the use?--all the same a hundred years hence. The idea of cramming Friday night! Come on!" "Can't do it, old chaps; but next time goes. See you Monday. Ta-ta!" Polly peeped cautiously from behind her tree. "I believe that voice is Edgar Noble's, or else I 'm very much mistaken. I thought of it when I first heard them singing. Yes, it is! Now, those hateful boys are going to get him into trouble!" Just at this moment four of the boys jumped from the ground and, singing vociferously-- "He won't go home any more, He won't go home any more, He won't go home any more, Way down on the Bingo farm!" rushed after young Noble, pinioned him, and brought him back. "See here, Noble," expostulated one of them, who seemed to be a commanding genius among the rest,--"see here, don't go and be a spoil-sport! What 's the matter with you? We 're going to chip in for a good dinner, go to the minstrels, and then,--oh, then we 'll go and have a game of billiards. You play so well that you won't lose anything. And if you want money, Will's flush, he 'll lend you a 'tenner.' You know there won't be any fun in it unless you 're there! We 'll get the last boat back to-night, or the first in the morning." A letter from his mother lay in Edgar's pocket,--a letter which had brought something like tears to his eyes for a moment, and over which he had vowed better things. But he yielded, nevertheless,--that it was with reluctance did n't do any particular good to anybody, though the recording angels may have made a note of it,--and strolled along with the other students, who were evidently in great glee over their triumph. Meanwhile Polly had been plotting. Her brain was not a great one, but it worked very swiftly; Dr. George called it, chaffingly, a small mind in a very active state. Scarcely stopping to think, lest her courage should not be equal to the strain of meeting six or eight young men face to face, she stepped softly out of her retreat, walked gently down the road, and when she had come within ten feet of the group, halted, and, clearing her throat desperately, said, "I beg your pardon"-- The whole party turned with one accord, a good deal of amazement in their eyes, as there had not been a sign of life in the road a moment before, and now here was a sort of woodland sprite, a "nut-brown mayde," with a remarkably sweet voice. "I beg your pardon, but can you tell me the way to Professor Salazar's house? Why" (this with a charming smile and expression as of one having found an angel of deliverance),--"why, it is--is n't it?--Edgar Noble of Santa Barbara!" Edgar, murmuring "Polly Oliver, by Jove!" lifted his hat at once, and saying, "Excuse me, boys," turned back and, gallantly walked at Polly's side. "Why, Miss Polly, this is an unexpected way of meeting you!" ("Very unexpected," thought Polly.) "Is it not, indeed? I wrote you a note the other day, telling you that we hoped to see you soon in San Francisco." "Yes," said Edgar; "I did n't answer it because I intended to present myself in person to-morrow or Sunday. What are you doing in this vicinity?" he continued, "or, to put it poetically, "Pray why are you loitering here, pretty maid?" "No wonder you ask. I am 'floundering,' at present. I came over to a Spanish lesson at Professor Salazar's, and I have quite lost my way. If you will be kind enough to put me on the right road I shall be very much obliged, though I don't like to keep you from your friends," said Polly, with a quizzical smile. "You see the professor won't know why I missed my appointment, and I can't bear to let him think me capable of neglect; he has been so very kind." "But you can't walk there. You must have gotten off at the wrong station; it is quite a mile, even across the fields." "And what is a mile, sir? Have you forgotten that I am a country girl?" and she smiled up at him brightly, with a look that challenged remembrance. "I remember that you could walk with any of us," said Edgar, thinking how the freckles had disappeared from Polly's rose-leaf skin, and how particularly fetching she looked in her brown felt sailor-hat. "Well, if you really wish to go there, I 'll see you safely to the house and take you over to San Francisco afterward, as it will be almost dark. I was going over, at any rate, and one train earlier or later won't make any difference." ("Perhaps it won't and perhaps it will," thought Polly.) "If you are sure it won't be too much trouble, then"-- "Not a bit. Excuse me a moment while I run back and explain the matter to the boys." The boys did not require any elaborate explanation. Oh, the power of a winsome face! No better than many other good things, but surely one of them, and when it is united to a fair amount of goodness, something to be devoutly thankful for. It is to be feared that if a lumpish, dumpish sort of girl (good as gold, you know, but not suitable for occasions when a fellow's will has to be caught "on the fly," and held until it settles to its work),--if that lumpish, dumpish girl had asked the way to Professor Salazar's house, Edgar Noble would have led her courteously to the turn of the road, lifted his hat, and wished her a pleasant journey. But Polly was wearing her Sunday dress of brown cloth and a jaunty jacket trimmed with sable (the best bits of an old pelisse of Mrs. Oliver's). The sun shone on the loose-dropping coil of the waving hair that was only caught in place by a tortoise-shell arrow; the wind blew some of the dazzling tendrils across her forehead; the eyes that glanced up from under her smart little sailor-hat were as blue as sapphires; and Edgar, as he looked, suddenly feared that there might be vicious bulls in the meadows, and did n't dare as a gentleman to trust Polly alone! He had n't remembered anything special about her, but after an interval of two years she seemed all at once as desirable as dinner, as tempting as the minstrels, almost as fascinating as the billiards, when one has just money enough in one's pocket for one's last week's bills and none at all for the next! The boys, as I say, had imagined Edgar's probable process of reasoning. Polly was standing in the highroad where "a wayfaring man, though a fool," could look at her; and when Edgar explained that it was his duty to see her safely to her destination, they all bowed to the inevitable. The one called Tony even said that he would be glad to "swap" with him, and the whole party offered to support him in his escort duty if he said the word. He agreed to meet the boys later, as Polly's quick ear assured her, and having behaved both as a man of honor and knight of chivalry, he started unsuspectingly across the fields with his would-be guardian. She darted a searching look at him as they walked along. "Oh, how old and 'gentlemanly' you look, Edgar! I feel quite afraid of you!" "I 'm glad you do. There used to be a painful lack of reverence in your manners, Miss Polly." "There used to be a painful lack of politeness in yours, Mr. Edgar. Oh dear, I meant to begin so nicely with you and astonish you with my new grown-up manners! Now, Edgar, let us begin as if we had just been introduced; if you will try your best not to be provoking, I won't say a single disagreeable thing." "Polly, shall I tell you the truth?" "You might try; it would be good practice even if you did n't accomplish anything." "How does that remark conform with your late promises? However, I 'll be forgiving and see if I receive any reward; I 've tried every other line of action. What I was going to say when you fired that last shot was this: I agree with Jack Howard, who used to say that he would rather quarrel with you than be friends with any other girl." "It is nice," said Polly complacently. "I feel a sort of pleasant glow myself, whenever I 've talked to you a few minutes; but the trouble is that you used to fan that pleasant glow into a raging heat, and then we both got angry." "If the present 'raging heat' has faded into the 'pleasant glow,' I don't mind telling you that you are very much improved," said Edgar encouragingly. "Your temper seems much the same, but no one who knew you at fourteen could have foreseen that you would turn out so exceedingly well." "Do you mean that I am better looking?" asked Polly, with the excited frankness of sixteen years. "Exactly." "Oh, thank you, thank you, Edgar. I 'm a thousand times obliged. I 've thought so myself, lately; but it's worth everything to have your grown-up, college opinion. Of course red hair has come into vogue, that's one point in my favor, though I fear mine is a little vivid even for the fashion; Margery has done a water color of my head which Phil says looks like the explosion of a tomato. Then my freckles are almost gone, and that is a great help; if you examine me carefully in this strong light you can only count seven, and two of those are getting faint-hearted. Nothing can be done with my aspiring nose. I 've tried in vain to push it down, and now I 'm simply living it down." Edgar examined her in the strong light mischievously. "Turn your profile," he said. "That's right; now, do you know, I rather like your nose, and it's a very valuable index to your disposition. I don't know whether, if it were removed from your face, it would mean so much; but taken in connection with its surroundings, it's a very expressive feature; it warns the stranger to be careful. In fact, most of your features are danger signals, Polly; I 'm rather glad I 've been taking a course of popular medical lectures on First Aid to the Injured!" And so, with a great deal of nonsense and a good sprinkling of quiet, friendly chat, they made their way to Professor Salazar's house, proffered Polly's apologies, and took the train for San Francisco. CHAPTER VII. "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS." The trip from Berkeley to San Francisco was a brilliant success from Edgar's standpoint, but Polly would have told you that she never worked harder in her life. "I 'll just say 'How do you do?' to your mother, and then be off," said Edgar, as they neared the house. "Oh, but you surely will stay to dinner with us!" said Polly, with the most innocent look of disappointment on her face,--a look of such obvious grief that a person of any feeling could hardly help wishing to remove it, if possible. "You see, Edgar" (putting the latch-key in the door), "mamma is so languid and ill that she cannot indulge in many pleasures, and I had quite counted on you to amuse her a little for me this evening. But come up, and you shall do as you like after dinner." "I 've brought you a charming surprise, mamacita!" called Polly from the stairs: "an old friend whom I picked up in the woods like a wild-flower and brought home to you." ("Wild-flower is a good name for him," she thought.) Mrs. Oliver was delighted to see Edgar, but after the first greetings were over, Polly fancied that she had not closed the front door, and Edgar offered to go down and make sure. In a second Polly crossed the room to her mother's side, and whispered impressively, "Edgar _must_ be kept here until after midnight; I have good reasons that I will explain when we are alone. Keep him somehow,--anyhow!" Mrs. Oliver had not lived sixteen years with Polly without learning to leap to conclusions. "Run down and ask Mrs. Howe if she will let us have her hall-bedroom tonight," she replied; "nod your head for yes when you come back, and I 'll act accordingly; I have a request to make of Edgar, and am glad to have so early an opportunity of talking with him." "We did close the door, after all," said Edgar, coming in again. "What a pretty little apartment you have here! I have n't seen anything so cosy and homelike for ages." "Then make yourself at home in it," said Mrs. Oliver, while Polly joined in with, "Is n't that a pretty fire in the grate? I 'll give you one rose-colored lamp with your firelight. Here, mamacita, is the rocker for you on one side; here, Edgar, is our one 'man's chair' for you on the other. Stretch out your feet as lazily as you like on my new goatskin rug. You are our only home-friend in San Francisco; and oh, how mamma will spoil you whenever she has the chance! Now talk to each other cosily while the 'angel of the house' cooks dinner." It may be mentioned here that as Mrs. Chadwick's monthly remittances varied from sixty to seventy-five dollars, but never reached the promised eighty-five, Polly had dismissed little Yung Lee for a month, two weeks of which would be the Christmas vacation, and hoped in this way to make up deficiencies. The sugar-bowl and ginger-jar were stuffed copiously with notes of hand signed "Cigar-box," but held a painfully small amount of cash. "Can't I go out and help Polly?" asked Edgar, a little later. "I should never have agreed to stay and dine if I had known that she was the cook." "Go out, by all means; but you need n't be anxious. Ours is a sort of doll-house-keeping. We buy everything cooked, as far as possible, and Polly makes play of the rest. It all seems so simple and interesting to plan for two when we have been used to twelve and fourteen." "May I come in?" called Edgar from the tiny dining-room to Polly, who had laid aside her Sunday finery and was clad in brown Scotch gingham mostly covered with ruffled apron. "Yes, if you like; but you won't be spoiled here, so don't hope it. Mamma and I are two very different persons. Tie that apron round your waist; I 've just begun the salad-dressing; is your intelligence equal to stirring it round and round and pouring in oil drop by drop, while I take up the dinner?" "Fully. Just try me. I 'll make it stand on its head in three minutes!" Meanwhile Polly set on the table a platter of lamb-chops, some delicate potato chips which had come out of a pasteboard box, a dish of canned French peas, and a mound of currant-jelly. "That is good," she remarked critically, coming back to her apprentice, who was toiling with most unnecessary vigor, so that the veins stood out boldly on his forehead. "You're really not stupid, for a boy; and you have n't 'made a mess,' which is more than I hoped. Now, please pour the dressing over those sliced tomatoes; set them on the side-table in the banquet-hall; put the plate in the sink (don't stare at me!); open a bottle of Apollinaris for mamma,--dig out the cork with a hairpin, I 've lost the corkscrew; move three chairs up to the dining-table (oh, it's so charming to have three!); light the silver candlesticks in the centre of the table; go in and bring mamma out in style; see if the fire needs coal; and I'll be ready by that time." "I can never remember, but I fly! Oh, what an excellent slave-driver was spoiled in you!" said Edgar. The simple dinner was delicious, and such a welcome change from the long boarding-house table at which Edgar had eaten for over a year. The candles gave a soft light; there was a bowl of yellow flowers underneath them. Mrs. Oliver looked like an elderly Dresden-china shepherdess in her pale blue wrapper, and Polly did n't suffer from the brown gingham, with its wide collar and cuffs of buff embroidery, and its quaint full sleeves. She had burned two small blisters on her wrist: they were scarcely visible to the naked eye, but she succeeded in obtaining as much sympathy for them as if they had been mortal wounds. Her mother murmured 'Poor darling wrist' and 'kissed the place to make it well.' Edgar found a bit of thin cambric and bound up the injured member with cooling flour, Mistress Polly looking demurely on, thinking meanwhile how much safer he was with them than with the objectionable Tony. After the lamb-chops and peas had been discussed, Edgar insisted on changing the plates and putting on the tomato salad; then Polly officiated at the next course, bringing in coffee, sliced oranges, and delicious cake from the neighboring confectioner's. "Can't I wash the dishes?" asked Edgar, when the feast was ended. "They are not going to be washed, at least by us. This is a great occasion, and the little girl downstairs is coming up to clear away the dinner things." Then there was the pleasant parlor again, and when the candles were lighted in the old-fashioned mirror over the fireplace, everything wore a festive appearance. The guitar was brought out, and Edgar sang college songs till Mrs. Oliver grew so bright that she even hummed a faint second from her cosy place on the sofa. And then Polly must show Edgar how she had made Austin Dobson's "Milkmaid Song" fit "Nelly Ely," and she must teach him the pretty words. "Across the grass, I saw her pass, She comes with tripping pace; A maid I know, And March winds blow Her hair across her face. Hey! Dolly! Ho! Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May Or blooms the eglantine." By this time the bandage had come off the burned wrist, and Edgar must bind it on again, and Polly shrieked and started when he pinned the end over, and Edgar turned pale at the thought of his brutal awkwardness, and Polly burst into a ringing peal of laughter and confessed that the pin had n't touched her, and Edgar called her a deceitful little wretch. This naturally occupied some time, and then there was the second verse:-- "The March winds blow, I watch her go, Her eye is blue and clear; Her cheek is brown And soft as down To those who see it near. Hey! Dolly! Ho! Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May Or blooms the eglantine." After this singing-lesson was over it was nearly eleven o'clock, but up to this time Edgar had shown no realizing sense of his engagements. "The dinner is over, and the theatre party is safe," thought Polly. "Now comes the 'tug of war,' that mysterious game of billiards." But Mrs. Oliver was equal to the occasion. When Edgar looked at his watch, she said: "Polly, run and get Mrs. Noble's last letter, dear;" and then, when she was alone with Edgar, "My dear boy, I have a favor to ask of you, and you must be quite frank if it is not convenient for you to grant it. As to-morrow will be Saturday, perhaps you have no recitations, and if not, would it trouble you too much to stay here all night and attend to something for me in the morning? I will explain the matter, and then you can answer me more decidedly. I have received a letter from a Washington friend who seems to think it possible that a pension may be granted to me. He sends a letter of introduction to General M------, at the Presidio, who, he says, knew Colonel Oliver, and will be able to advise me in the matter. I am not well enough to go there for some days, and of course I do not like to send Polly alone. If you could go out with her, give him the letter of introduction, and ask him kindly to call upon us at his leisure, and find out also if there is any danger in a little delay just now while I am ill, it would be a very great favor." "Of course I will, with all the pleasure in life, Mrs. Oliver," replied Edgar, with the unspoken thought, "Confound it! There goes my game; I promised the fellows to be there, and they 'll guy me for staying away! However, there 's nothing else to do. I should n't have the face to go out now and come in at one or two o'clock in the morning." Polly entered just then with the letter. "Edgar is kind enough to stay all night with us, dear, and take you to the Presidio on the pension business in the morning. If you will see that his room is all right, I will say good-night now. Our guest-chamber is downstairs, Edgar; I hope you will be very comfortable. Breakfast at half past eight, please." When the door of Mrs. Howe's bedroom closed on Edgar, Polly ran upstairs, and sank exhausted on her own bed. "Now, mamma, 'listen to my tale of woe!' I got off at the wrong station,--yes, it was stupid; but wait: perhaps I was led to be stupid. I lost my way, could n't find Professor Salazar's house, could n't find anything else. As I was wandering about in a woodsy road, trying to find a house of some kind, I heard a crowd of boys singing vociferously as they came through the trees. I did n 't care to meet them, all alone as I was, though of course there was nothing to be afraid of, so I stepped off the road behind some trees and bushes until they should pass. It turned out to be half a dozen university students, and at first I did n't know that Edgar was among them. They were teasing somebody to go over to San Francisco for a dinner, then to the minstrels, and then to wind up with a game of billiards, and other gayeties which were to be prolonged indefinitely. What dreadful things may have been included I don't know. A wretch named 'Tony' did most of the teasing, and he looked equal to planning any sort of mischief. All at once I thought I recognized a familiar voice. I peeped out, and sure enough it was Edgar Noble whom they were coaxing. He did n't want to go a bit,--I 'll say that for him,--but they were determined that he should. I didn't mind his going to dinners and minstrels, of course, but when they spoke of being out until after midnight, or to-morrow morning, and when one beetle-browed, vulgar-looking creature offered to lend him a 'tenner,' I thought of the mortgage on the Noble ranch, and the trouble there would be if Edgar should get into debt, and I felt I must do something to stop him, especially as he said himself that everything depended on his next examinations." "But how did you accomplish it?" asked Mrs. Oliver, sitting up in bed and glowing with interest. "They sat down by the roadside, smoking and talking it over. There was n't another well-born, well-bred looking young man in the group. Edgar seemed a prince among them, and I was so ashamed of him for having such friends! I was afraid they would stay there until dark, but they finally got up and walked toward the station. I waited a few moments, went softly along behind them, and when I was near enough I cleared my throat (oh, it was a fearful moment!), and said, 'I beg your pardon, but can you direct me to Professor Salazar's house?' and then in a dramatic tone, 'Why, it is--is n't it?--Edgar Noble of Santa Barbara!' He joined me, of course. Oh, I can't begin to tell you all the steps of the affair, I am so exhausted. Suffice it to say that he walked to Professor Salazar's with me to make my excuses, came over to town with me, came up to the house, I trembling for fear he would slip through my fingers at any moment; then, you know, he stayed to dinner, I in terror all the time as the fatal hours approached and departed; and there he is, 'the captive of my bow and spear,' tucked up in Mrs. Howe's best bed, thanks to your ingenuity! I could never have devised that last plot, mamma; it was a masterpiece!" "You did a kind deed, little daughter," said Mrs. Oliver, with a kiss. "But poor Mrs. Noble! What can we do for her? We cannot play policemen all the time. We are too far from Edgar to know his plans, and any interference of which he is conscious would be worse than nothing. I cannot believe that he is far wrong yet. He certainly never appeared better; so polite and thoughtful and friendly. Well, we must let the morrow bring counsel." "I hope that smirking, odious Tony is disappointed!" said Polly viciously, as she turned out the gas. "I distinctly heard him tell Edgar to throw a handkerchief over my hair if we should pass any wild cattle! How I 'd like to banish him from this vicinity! Invite Edgar to dinner next week, mamma; not too soon, or he will suspect missionary work. Boys hate to be missionaried, and I 'm sure I don't blame them. I hope he is happy downstairs in his little prison! He ought to be, if ignorance is bliss!" CHAPTER VIII. TWO FIRESIDE CHATS. It was five o'clock Saturday afternoon, and Edgar Noble stood on the Olivers' steps, Mrs. Oliver waving her hand from an upper window, and Polly standing on the stairs saying good-by. "Come over to dinner some night, won't you, Edgar?" she asked carelessly; "any night you like, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday." "Wednesday, please, as it comes first!" said Edgar roguishly. "May I help cook it?" "You not only may, but you must. Good-by." Polly went upstairs, and, after washing the lunch-dishes in a reflective turn of mind which did away with part of the irksomeness of the task, went into the parlor and sat on a stool at her mother's feet. A soft rain had begun to fall; the fire burned brightly; the bamboo cast feathery shadows on the wall; from a house across the street came the sound of a beautiful voice singing,-- "Oh, holy night! the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth!" All was peaceful and homelike; if it would only last, thought Polly. "You are well to-night, mamacita." A look of repressed pain crossed Mrs. Oliver's face as she smoothed the bright head lying in her lap. "Very comfortable, dear, and very happy; as who would not be, with such a darling comfort of a daughter? Always sunny, always helpful, these last dear weeks,--cook, housekeeper, nurse, banker, all in one, with never a complaint as one burden after another is laid on her willing shoulders." "Don't, mamma!" whispered Polly, seeking desperately for her handkerchief. "I can stand scolding, but compliments always make me cry; you know they do. If Ferdinand and Isabella had told Columbus to discover my pocket instead of America, he would n't have been as famous as he is now; there, I 've found it. Now, mamma, you know your whole duty is to be well, well, well, and I 'll take care of everything else." "I 've been thinking about Edgar, Polly, and I have a plan, but I shall not think of urging it against your will; you are the mistress of the house nowadays." "I know what it is," sighed Polly. "You think we ought to take another boarder. A desire for boarders is like a taste for strong drink; once acquired, it is almost impossible to eradicate it from the system." "I do think we ought to take this boarder. Not because it will make a difference in our income, but I am convinced that if Edgar can have a pleasant home and our companionship just at this juncture, he will break away from his idle habits, and perhaps his bad associations, and take a fresh start. I feel that we owe it to our dear old friends to do this for them, if we can. Of course, if it proves too great a tax upon you, or if I should have another attack of illness, it will be out of the question; but who knows? perhaps two or three months will accomplish our purpose. He can pay me whatever he has been paying in Berkeley, less the amount of his fare to and fro. We might have little Yung Lee again, and Mrs. Howe will be glad to rent her extra room. It has a fireplace, and will serve for both bedroom and study, if we add a table and student-lamp." "I don't believe he will come," said Polly. "We are all very well as a diversion, but as a constancy we should pall upon him. I never could keep up to the level I have been maintaining for the last twenty-four hours, that is certain. It is nothing short of degradation to struggle as hard to amuse a boy as I have struggled to amuse Edgar. I don't believe he could endure such exhilaration week after week, and I am very sure it would kill me. Besides, he will fancy he is going to be watched and reported at headquarters in Santa Barbara!" "I think very likely you are right; but perhaps I can put the matter so that it will strike him in some other light." "Very well, mamacita; I 'm resigned. It will break up all our nice little two-ing, but we will be his guardian angel. I will be his guardian and you his angel, and oh, how he would dislike it if he knew it! But wait until odious Mr. Tony meets him to-night! What business is it of his if my hair is red! When he chaffs him for breaking his appointment, I dare say we shall never see him again." "You are so jolly comfortable here! This house is the next best thing to mother," said Edgar, with boyish heartiness, as he stood on the white goatskin with his back to the Olivers' cheerful fireplace. It was Wednesday evening of the next week. Polly was clearing away the dinner things, and Edgar had been arranging Mrs. Oliver's chair and pillows and footstool like the gentle young knight he was by nature. What wonder that all the fellows, even "smirking Tony," liked him and sought his company? He who could pull an oar, throw a ball, leap a bar, ride a horse, or play a game of skill as if he had been born for each particular occupation,--what wonder that the ne'er-do-wells and idlers and scamps and dullards battered at his door continually and begged him to leave his books and come out and "stir up things"! "If you think it is so 'jolly,'" said Mrs. Oliver, "how would you like to come here and live with us awhile?" This was a bombshell. The boy hesitated naturally, being taken quite by surprise. ("Confound it!" he thought rapidly, "how shall I get out of this scrape without being impolite! They would n't give me one night out a week if I came!") "I 'd like it immensely, you know," he said aloud, "and it's awfully kind of you to propose it, and I appreciate it, but I don't think--I don't see, that is, how I could come, Mrs. Oliver. In the first place, I 'm quite sure my home people would dislike my intruding on your privacy; and then,--well, you know I am out in the evening occasionally, and should n't like to disturb you, besides, I 'm sure Miss Polly has her hands full now." "Of course you would be often out in the evening, though I don't suppose you are a 'midnight reveler.' You would simply have a latch-key and go out and come in as you liked. Mrs. Howe's room is very pleasant, as you know; and you could study there before your open fire, and join us when you felt like it. Is it as convenient and pleasant for you to live on this side of the bay, and go back and forth?" "Oh yes! I don't mind that part of it." ("This is worse than the Inquisition; I don't know but that she will get me in spite of everything!") "Oh dear!" thought Mrs. Oliver, "he does n't want to come; and I don't want him to come, and I must urge him to come against his will. How very disagreeable missionary work is, to be sure! I sympathize with him, too. He is afraid of petticoat government, and fears that he will lose some of his precious liberty. If I had fifty children, I believe I should want them all girls." "Besides, dear Mrs. Oliver," continued Edgar, after an awkward pause, "I don't think you are strong enough to have me here. I believe you 're only proposing it for my good. You know that I 'm in a forlorn students' boarding-house, and you are anxious to give me 'all the comforts of a home' for my blessed mother's sake, regardless of your own discomforts." "Come here a moment and sit beside me on Polly's footstool. You were nearly three years old when Polly was born. You were all staying with me that summer. Did you know that you were my first boarders? You were a tiny fellow in kilts, very much interested in the new baby, and very anxious to hold her. I can see you now rocking the cradle as gravely as a man. Polly has hard times and many sorrows before her, Edgar! You are old enough to see that I cannot stay with her much longer." Edgar was too awed and too greatly moved to answer. "I should be very glad to have you with us, both because I think we could in some degree take the place of your mother and Margery, and because I should be glad to feel that in any sudden emergency, which I do not in the least expect, we should have a near friend to lean upon ever so little." Edgar's whole heart went out in a burst of sympathy and manly tenderness. In that moment he felt willing to give up every personal pleasure, if he might lift a feather's weight of care from the fragile woman who spoke to him with such sweetness and trust. For there is nothing hopeless save meanness and poverty of nature; and any demand on Edgar Noble's instinct of chivalrous protection would never be discounted. "I will come gladly, gladly, Mrs. Oliver," he said, "if only I can be of service; though I fear it will be all the other way. Please borrow me for a son, just to keep me in training, and I 'll try to bear my honors worthily." "Thank you, dear boy. Then it is settled, if you are sure that the living in the city will not interfere with your studies; that is the main thing. We all look to you to add fresh laurels to your old ones. Are you satisfied with your college life thus far?" ("They have n't told her anything. That 's good," thought Edgar.) "Oh yes; fairly well! I don't--I don't go in for being a 'dig,' Mrs. Oliver. I shall never be the valedictorian, and all that sort of thing; it does n't pay. Who ever hears of valedictorians twenty years after graduation? Class honors don't amount to much." "I suppose they can be overestimated; but they must prove some sort of excellence which will stand one in good stead in after years. I should never advise a boy or girl to work for honors alone; but if after doing one's very best the honors come naturally, they are very pleasant." "Half the best scholars in our class are prigs," said Edgar discontentedly. "Always down on the live fellows who want any sport. Sometimes I wish I had never gone to college at all. Unless you deny yourself every pleasure, and live the life of a hermit, you can't take any rank. My father expects me to get a hundred and one per cent. in every study, and thinks I ought to rise with the lark and go to bed with the chickens. I don't know whether he ever sowed any wild oats; if he did, it was so long ago that he has quite forgotten I must sow mine some time. He ought to be thankful they are such a harmless sort." "I don't understand boys very well," said Mrs. Oliver smilingly. "You see, I never have had any to study, and you must teach me a few things. Now, about this matter of wild oats. Why is it so necessary that they should be sown? Is Margery sowing hers? I don't know that Polly feels bound to sow any." "I dare say they are not necessities," laughed Edgar, coloring. "Perhaps they are only luxuries." Mrs. Oliver looked at the fire soberly. "I know there may be plenty of fine men who have a discreditable youth to look back upon,--a youth finally repented of and atoned for; but that is rather a weary process, I should think, and they are surely no stronger men _because_ of the 'wild oats,' but rather in _spite_ of them." "I suppose so," sighed Edgar; "but it's so easy for women to be good! I know you were born a saint, to begin with. You don't know what it is to be in college, and to want to do everything that you can't and ought n't, and nothing that you can and ought, and get all tangled up in things you never meant to touch. However, we 'll see!" Polly peeped in at the door very softly. "They have n't any light; that 's favorable. He 's sitting on my footstool; he need n't suppose he is going to have _that_ place! I think she has her hand on his arm,--yes, she has! And he is stroking it! Oh, you poor innocent child, you do not realize that that soft little hand of my mother's never lets go! It slips into a five and three-quarters glove, but you 'll be surprised, Mr. Edgar, when you discover you cannot get away from it. Very well, then; it is settled. I 'll go back and put the salt fish in soak for my boarder's breakfast. I seem to have my hands rather full!--a house to keep, an invalid mother, and now a boarder. The very thing I vowed that I never would have--another boarder; what grandmamma would have called an 'unstiddy boy boarder!" And as Polly clattered the pots and pans, the young heathen in the parlor might have heard her fresh voice singing with great energy: "Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high,-- Shall we to men benighted The lamp of life deny?" CHAPTER IX. HARD TIMES. The new arrangement worked exceedingly well. As to Edgar's innermost personal feelings, no one is qualified to speak with any authority. Whether he experienced a change of heart, vowed better things, prayed to be delivered from temptation, or simply decided to turn over a new leaf, no one knows; the principal fact in his life, at this period, seems to have been an unprecedented lack of time for any great foolishness. Certain unpleasant things had transpired on that eventful Friday night when he had missed his appointment with his fellow-students, which had resulted in an open scandal too disagreeable to be passed over by the college authorities; the redoubtable Tony had been returned with thanks to his fond parents in a distant part of the state, and two others had been temporarily suspended. Edgar Noble was not too blind to see the happy chance that interfered with his presence on that occasion, and was sensible enough to realize that, had he been implicated in the least degree (he scorned the possibility of his taking any active part in such scurrilous proceedings), he would probably have shared Tony's fate. Existence was wearing a particularly dismal aspect on that afternoon when Edgar had met Polly Oliver in the Berkeley woods. He felt "nagged," injured, blue, out of sorts with fate. He had not done anything very bad, he said to himself; at least, nothing half so bad as lots of other fellows, and yet everybody frowned on him. His father had, in his opinion, been unnecessarily severe; while his mother and sister had wept over him (by letter) as if he were a thief and a forger, instead of a fellow who was simply having a "little fling." He was annoyed at the conduct of Scott Burton,--"king of snobs and prigs," he named him,--who had taken it upon himself to inform Philip Noble of his (Edgar's) own personal affairs; and he was enraged at being preached at by that said younger brother. But of late everything had taken an upward turn, and by way of variety, existence turned a smiling face toward him. He had passed his examinations, most unexpectedly to himself, with a respectable percentage to spare. There was a time when he would have been ashamed of this meagre result. He was now, just a little, but the feeling was somewhat submerged in his gratitude at having "squeaked through" at all. A certain inspired Professor Hope, who wondered what effect encouragement would have on a fellow who did n't deserve any, but might possibly need it, came up to him after recitations, one day, and said:-- "Noble, I want to congratulate you on your papers in history and physics. They show signal ability. There is a plentiful lack of study evinced, but no want of grasp or power. You have talents that ought to put you among the first three men in the University, sir. I do not know whether you care to take the trouble to win such a place (it _is_ a good deal of trouble), but you can win it if you like. That's all I have to say, Noble. Good-morning!" This unlooked-for speech fell like balm on Edgar's wounded self-respect, and made him hold his head higher for a week; and, naturally, while his head occupied this elevated position, he was obliged to live up to it. He also felt obliged to make an effort, rather reluctantly, to maintain some decent standing in the classes of Professor Hope, even if he shirked in all the rest. And now life, on the whole, save for one carking care that perched on his shoulder by day and sat on his eyelids at night, was very pleasant; though he could not flatter himself that he was absolutely a free agent. After all ordinary engagements of concerts, theatres, lectures, or what not, he entered the house undisturbed, and noiselessly sought his couch. But one night, when he ventured to stay out till after midnight, just as he was stealing in softly, Mrs. Oliver's gentle voice came from the head of the stairs, saying, "Good-night, Edgar, the lamp is lighted in your room!" Edgar closed his door and sat down disconsolately on the bed, cane in hand, hat on the back of his head. The fire had burned, to a few glowing coals; his slippers lay on the hearth, and his Christmas "easy jacket" hung over the back of his great armchair; his books lay open under the student-lamp, and there were two vases of fresh flowers in the room: that was Polly's doing. "Mrs. Oliver was awake and listening for me; worrying about me, probably; I dare say she thought I 'd been waylaid by bandits," he muttered discontentedly. "I might as well live in the Young Women's Christian Association! I can't get mad with an angel, but I did n't intend being one myself! Good gracious! why don't they hire me a nurse and buy me a perambulator!" But all the rest was perfect; and his chief chums envied him after they had spent an evening with the Olivers. Polly and he had ceased to quarrel, and were on good, frank, friendly terms. "She is no end of fun," he would have told you; "has no nonsensical young-lady airs about her, is always ready for sport, sings all kinds of songs from grave to gay, knows a good joke when you tell one, and keeps a fellow up to the mark as well as a maiden aunt." All this was delightful to everybody concerned. Meanwhile the household affairs were as troublesome as they could well be. Mrs. Oliver developed more serious symptoms, and Dr. George asked the San Francisco physician to call to see her twice a week at least. The San Francisco physician thought "a year at Carlsbad, and a year at Nice, would be a good thing;" but, failing these, he ordered copious quantities of expensive drugs, and the reserve fund shrank, though the precious three hundred and twelve dollars was almost intact. Poor Mrs. Chadwick sent tearful monthly letters, accompanied by checks of fifty to sixty-five dollars. One of the boarders had died; two had gone away; the season was poor; Ah Foy had returned to China; Mr. Greenwood was difficult about his meals; the roof leaked; provisions were dear; Mrs. Holmes in the next street had decided to take boarders; Eastern people were grumbling at the weather, saying it was not at all as reported in the guide-books; real-estate and rents were very low; she hoped to be able to do better next month; and she was Mrs. Oliver's "affectionate Clementine Churchill Chadwick." Polly had held a consultation with the principal of her school, who had assured her that as she was so well in advance of her class, she could be promoted the next term, if she desired. Accordingly, she left school in order to be more with her mother, and as she studied with Edgar in the evening, she really lost nothing. Mrs. Howe remitted four dollars from the monthly rent, in consideration of Spanish lessons given to her two oldest children. This experiment proved a success, and Polly next accepted an offer to come three times a week to the house of a certain Mrs. Baer to amuse (instructively) the four little Baer cubs, while the mother Baer wrote a "History of the Dress-Reform Movement in English-Speaking Nations." For this service Polly was paid ten dollars a month in gold coin, while the amount of spiritual wealth which she amassed could not possibly be estimated in dollars and cents. The ten dollars was very useful, for it procured the services of a kind, strong woman, who came on these three afternoons of Polly's absence, put the entire house in order, did the mending, rubbed Mrs. Oliver's tired back, and brushed her hair until she fell asleep. So Polly assisted in keeping the wolf from the door, and her sacrifices watered her young heart and kept it tender. "Money may always be a beautiful thing. It is we who make it grimy." Edgar shared in the business conferences now. He had gone into convulsions of mirth over Polly's system of accounts, and insisted, much against her will, in teaching her book-keeping, striving to convince her that the cash could be kept in a single box, and the accounts separated in a book. These lessons were merry occasions, for there was a conspicuous cavity in Polly's brain where the faculty for mathematics should have been. "Your imbecility is so unusual that it 's a positive inspiration," Edgar would say. "It is n't like any ordinary stupidity; there does n't seem to be any bottom to it, you know; it 's abnormal, it 's fascinating, Polly!" Polly glowed under this unstinted praise. "I am glad you like it," she said. "I always like to have a thing first-class of its kind, though I can't pride myself that it compares with your Spanish accent, Edgar; that stands absolutely alone and unapproachable for badness. I don't worry about my mathematical stupidity a bit since I read Dr. Holmes, who says that everybody has an idiotic area in his mind." There had been very little bookkeeping to-night. It was raining in torrents. Mrs. Oliver was talking with General M---- in the parlor, while Edgar and Polly were studying in the dining-room. Polly laid down her book and leaned back in her chair. It had been a hard day, and it was very discouraging that a new year should come to one's door laden with vexations and anxieties, when everybody naturally expected new years to be happy, through January and February at least. "Edgar," she sighed plaintively, "I find that this is a very difficult world to live in, sometimes." Edgar looked up from his book, and glanced at her as she lay back with closed eyes in the Chinese lounging-chair. She was so pale, so tired, and so very, very pretty just then, her hair falling in bright confusion round her face, her whole figure relaxed with weariness, and her lips quivering a little, as if she would like to cry if she dared. Polly with dimples playing hide and seek in rosy cheeks, with dazzling eyes, and laughing lips, and saucy tongue, was sufficiently captivating; but Polly with bright drops on her lashes, with a pathetic droop in the corners of her mouth and the suspicion of a tear in her voice,--this Polly was irresistible. "What's the matter, pretty Poll?" "Nothing specially new. The Baer cubs were naughty as little demons to-day. One of them had a birthday-party yesterday, with four kinds of frosted cake. Mrs. Baer's system of management is n't like mine, and until I convince the children I mean what I say, they give me the benefit of the doubt. The Baer place is so large that Mrs. Baer never knows where disobedience may occur, and that she may be prepared she keeps one of Mr. Baer's old slippers on the front porch, one in the carriage-house, one in the arbor, one in the nursery, and one under the rose hedge at the front gate. She showed me all these haunts, and told me to make myself thoroughly at home. I felt tempted to-day, but I resisted." "You are working too hard, Polly. I propose we do something about Mrs. Chadwick. You are bearing all the brunt of other people's faults and blunders." "But, Edgar, everything is so mixed: Mrs. Chadwick's year of lease is n't over; I suppose she cannot be turned out by main force, and if we should ask her to leave the house it might go unrented for a month or two, and the loss of that money might be as much as the loss of ten or fifteen dollars a month for the rest of the year. I could complain of her to Dr. George, but there again I am in trouble. If he knew that we are in difficulties, he would offer to lend us money in an instant, and that would make mamma ill, I am sure; for we are under all sorts of obligations to him now, for kindnesses that can never be repaid. Then, too, he advised us not to let Mrs. Chadwick have the house. He said that she had n't energy enough to succeed; but mamma was so sorry for her, and so determined to give her a chance, that she persisted in letting her have it. We shall have to find a cheaper flat, by and by, for I 've tried every other method of economizing, for fear of making mamma worse with the commotion of moving." CHAPTER X. EDGAR GOES TO CONFESSION. "I 'm afraid I make it harder, Polly, and you and your mother must be frank with me, and turn me out of the Garden of Eden the first moment I become a nuisance. Will you promise?" "You are a help to us, Edgar; we told you so the other night. We could n't have Yung Lee unless you lived with us, and I could n't earn any money if I had to do all the housework." "I 'd like to be a help, but I 'm so helpless!" "We are all poor together just now, and that makes it easier." "I am worse than poor!" Edgar declared. "What can be worse than being poor?" asked Polly, with a sigh drawn from the depths of her boots. "To be in debt," said Edgar, who had not the slightest intention of making this remark when he opened his lips. Now the Olivers had only the merest notion of Edgar's college troubles; they knew simply what the Nobles had told them, that he was in danger of falling behind his class. This, they judged, was a contingency no longer to be feared; as various remarks dropped by the students who visited the house, and sundry bits of information contributed by Edgar himself, in sudden bursts of high spirits, convinced them that he was regaining his old rank, and certainly his old ambition. "To be in debt," repeated Edgar doggedly, "and to see no possible way out of it. Polly, I 'm in a peck of trouble! I 've lost money, and I 'm at my wits' end to get straight again!" "Lost money? How much? Do you mean that you lost your pocket-book?" "No, no; not in that way." "You mean that you spent it," said Polly. "You mean you overdrew your allowance." "Of course I did. Good gracious, Polly! there are other ways of losing money than by dropping it in the road. I believe girls don't know anything more about the world than the geography tells them,--that it's a round globe like a ball or an orange!" "Don't be impolite. The less they know about the old world the better they get on, I dare say. Your colossal fund of worldly knowledge does n't seem to make you very happy, just now. How could you lose your money, I ask? You 're nothing but a student, and you are not in any business, are you?" "Yes, I am in business, and pretty bad business it is, too." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I 've been winding myself up into a hard knot, the last six months, and the more I try to disentangle myself, the worse the thing gets. My allowance is n't half enough; nobody but a miser could live on it. I 've been unlucky, too. I bought a dog, and some one poisoned him before I could sell him; then I lamed a horse from the livery-stable, and had to pay damages; and so it went. The fellows all kept lending me money, rather than let me stay out of the little club suppers, and since I 've shut down on expensive gayeties they've gone back on me, and all want their money at once; so does the livery-stable keeper, and the owner of the dog, and a dozen other individuals; in fact, the debtors' prison yawns before me." "Upon my word, I 'm ashamed of you!" said Polly, with considerable heat. "To waste money in that way, when you knew perfectly well you could n't afford it, was--well, it was downright dishonest, that's what it was! To hear you talk about dogs, and lame horses, and club suppers, anybody would suppose you were a sporting man! Pray, what else do they do in that charming college set of yours?" "I might have known you would take that tone, but I did n't, somehow. I told you just because I thought you were the one girl in a thousand who would understand and advise a fellow when he knows he's made a fool of himself and acted like a cur! I did n't suppose you would call hard names, and be so unsympathizing, after all we have gone through together!" "I 'm not!--I did n't!--I won't do it again!" said Polly incoherently, as she took a straight chair, planted her elbows on the table, and leaned her chin in her two palms. "Now let's talk about it; tell me everything quickly. How much is it?" "Nearly two hundred dollars! Don't shudder so provokingly, Polly; that 's a mere bagatelle for a college man, but I know it's a good deal for me,--a good deal more than I know how to get, at all events." "Where is the debtors' prison?" asked Polly in an awestruck whisper. "Oh, there is n't any such thing nowadays! I was only chaffing; but of course, the men to whom I am in debt can apply to father, and get me in a regular mess. I 've pawned my watch to stave one of them off. You see, Polly, I would rather die than do it; nevertheless, I would write and tell father everything, and ask him for the money, but circumstances conspire just at this time to make it impossible. You know he bought that great ranch in Ventura county with Albert Harding of New York. Harding has died insolvent, and father has to make certain payments or lose control of a valuable property. It's going to make him a rich man some time, but for a year or two we shall have to count every penny. Of course the fruit crop this season has been the worst in ten years, and of course there has been a frost this winter, the only severe one within the memory of the oldest inhabitant,--that's the way it always is,--and there I am! I suppose you despise me, Polly?" "Yes, I do!" (hotly)--"No, I don't altogether, and I 'm not good enough myself to be able to despise people. Besides, you are not a despisable boy. You were born manly and generous and true-hearted, and these hateful things that you have been doing are not a part of your nature a bit; but I 'm ashamed of you for yielding to bad impulses when you have so many good ones, and--oh dear!--I do that very same thing myself, now that I stop to think about it. But how could you, _you_, Edgar Noble, take that evil-eyed, fat-nosed, common Tony Selling for a friend? I wonder at you!" "He is n't so bad in some ways. I owe him eighty dollars of that money, and he says he 'll give me six months to pay it." "I 'm glad he has some small virtues," Polly replied witheringly. "Now, what can we do, Edgar? Let us think. What can, what _can_ we do?" and she leaned forward reflectively, clasping her knee with her hands and wrinkling her brow with intense thought. That little "we" fell on Edgar's loneliness of spirit consolingly; for it adds a new pang to self-distrust when righteous people withdraw from one in utter disdain, even if they are "only girls" who know little of a boy's temptations. "If you can save something each month out of your allowance, Edgar," said Polly, finally, with a brighter look, "I can spare fifty or even seventy-five dollars of our money, and you may pay it back as you can. We are not likely to need it for several months, and your father and mother ought not to be troubled with this matter, now that it's over and done with." The blood rushed to Edgar's face as he replied stiffly: "I may be selfish and recklessly extravagant, but I don't borrow money from girls. If you wanted to add the last touch to my shame, you 've done it. Don't you suppose I have eyes, Polly Oliver? Don't you suppose I 've hated myself ever since I came under this roof, when I have seen the way you worked and planned and plotted and saved and denied yourself? Don't you suppose I 've looked at you twenty times a day, and said to myself, 'You miserable, selfish puppy, getting yourself and everybody who cares for you into trouble, just look at that girl and be ashamed of yourself down to the ground!' And now you offer to lend me money! Oh, Polly, I wouldn't have believed it of you!" Polly felt convicted of sin, although she was not very clear as to the reason. She blushed as she said hastily, "Your mother has been a very good friend to us, Edgar; why should n't we help you a little, just for once? Now, let us go in to see mamma and talk it all over together!" "If you pity me, Polly, don't tell her; I could not bear to have that saint upon earth worried over my troubles; it was mean enough to add a feather's weight to yours." "Well, we won't do it, then," said Polly, with maternal kindness in her tone. "Do stop pacing up and down like a caged panther. We 'll find some other way out of the trouble; but boys are such an anxiety! Do you think, Edgar, that you have reformed?" "Bless your soul! I 've kept within my allowance for two or three months. As Susan Nipper says, 'I may be a camel, but I 'm not a dromedary!' When I found out where I was, I stopped; I had to stop, and I knew it. I 'm all right now, thanks to--several things. In fact, I 've acquired a kind of appetite for behaving myself now, and if the rascally debts were only out of the way, I should be the happiest fellow in the universe." "You cannot apply to your father, so there is only one thing to do,--that is, to earn the money." "But how, when I 'm in the class-room three fourths of the day?" "I don't know," said Polly hopelessly. "I can tell you what to do, but not how to do it; I 'm nothing but a miserable girl." "I must stay in college, and I must dig and make up for lost time; so most of my evenings will be occupied." "You must put all your 'musts' together," said Polly decisively, "and then build a bridge over them, or tunnel through them, or span them with an arch. We 'll keep thinking about it, and I'm sure something will turn up; I 'm not discouraged a bit. You see, Edgar," and Polly's face flushed with feeling as she drew patterns on the tablecloth with her tortoise-shell hairpin,--"you see, of course, the good fairies are not going to leave you in the lurch when you 've turned your back on the ugly temptations, and are doing your very best. And now that we 've talked it all over, Edgar, I 'm not ashamed of you! Mamma and I have been so proud of your successes the last month. She believes in you!" "Of course," said Edgar dolefully; "because she knows only the best." "But I know the best and the worst too, and I believe in you! It seems to me the best is always the truest part of one, after all. No, we are not going to be naughty any more; we are going to earn that hateful Tony's money; we are going to take all the class honors, just for fun, not because we care for such trifles, and we are going home for the summer holidays in a blaze of glory!" Edgar rose with a lighter heart in his breast than he had felt there for many a week. "Good-night, Parson Polly," he said rather formally, for he was too greatly touched to be able to command his tones; "add your prayers to your sermons, and perhaps you 'll bring the black sheep safely into the fold." The quick tears rushed to Polly's eyes; for Edgar's stiff manner sat curiously on him, and she feared she had annoyed him by too much advice. "Oh, Edgar," she said, with a quivering lip, "I did n't mean to pose or to preach! You know how full of faults I am, and if I were a boy I should be worser I was only trying to help a little, eves if I am younger and a girl! Don't--don't think I was setting myself up as better than you; that's so mean and conceited and small! Edgar dear, I am so proud to think you told me your troubles; don't turn away from me, or I shall think you are sorry you trusted me!" and Polly laid a persuasive, disarming hand on the lad's shoulder. Suddenly Edgar's heart throbbed with a new feeling. He saw as in a vision the purity, fidelity, and tender yearning of a true woman's nature shining through a girl's eyes. In that moment he wished as never before to be manly and worthy. He seemed all at once to understand his mother, his sister, all women better, and with a quick impulsive gesture which he would not have understood a month before, he bent his head over astonished Polly's hand, kissed it reverently, then opened the door and went to his room without a word. CHAPTER XI. THE LADY IN BLACK. "I 've had a little adventure," said Polly to her mother one afternoon. "I went out, for the sake of the ride, on the Sutler Street cable-cars with Milly Foster. When we came to the end of the line, Milly walked down to Greary Street to take her car home. I went with her to the corner, and as I was coming back I saw a lady in black alighting from an elegant carriage. She had a coachman and a footman, both with weeds on their hats, and she seemed very sad and grave; but she had such a sweet, beautiful face that I was sorry for her the first moment I looked at her. She walked along in front of me toward the cemetery, and there we met those boys that stand about the gate with bouquets. She glanced at the flowers as if she would like to buy some, but you know how hideous they always are, every color of the rainbow crowded in tightly together, and she looked away, dissatisfied. I don't know why she had n't brought some with her,--she looked rich enough to buy a whole conservatory; perhaps she had n't expected to drive there. However, Milly Foster had given me a whole armful of beautiful flowers,--you know she has a 'white garden:' there were white sweet peas, Lamarque roses, and three stalks of snowy Eucharist lilies. I need n't tell my own mother that I did n't stop to think twice; I just stepped up to her and said, 'I should like to give you my flowers, please. I don't need them, and I am sure they are just sweet and lovely enough for the place you want to lay them.' "The tears came into her eyes,--she was just ready to cry at anything, you know,--and she took them at once, and said, squeezing my hand very tightly, 'I will take them, dear. The grave of my own, and my only, little girl lies far away from this,--the snow is falling on it to-day,--but whenever I cannot give the flowers to her, I always find the resting-places of other children, and lay them there. I know it makes her happy, for she was born on Christmas Day, and she was full of the Christmas spirit, always thinking of other people, never of herself.' "She did look so pale, and sad, and sweet, that I began to think of you without your troublesome Polly, or your troublesome Polly without you; and she was pleased with the flowers and glad that I understood, and willing to love anything that was a girl or that was young,--oh, you know, mamacita,--and so I began to cry a little, too; and the first thing I knew I kissed her, which was most informal, if not positively impertinent. But she seemed to like it, for she kissed me back again, and I ran and jumped on the car, and here I am! You will have to eat your dinner without any flowers, madam, for you have a vulgarly strong, healthy daughter, and the poor lady in black has n't." This was Polly's first impression of "the lady in black," and thus began an acquaintance which was destined before many months to play a very important part in Polly's fortunes and misfortunes. What the lady in black thought of Polly, then and subsequently, was told at her own fireside, where she sat, some six weeks later, chatting over an after-dinner cup of coffee with her brother-in-law. "Take the armchair, John," said Mrs. Bird; "for I have 'lots to tell you,' as the young folks say. I was in the Children's Hospital about five o'clock to-day. I have n't been there for three months, and I felt guilty about it. The matron asked me to go upstairs into the children's sitting-room, the one Donald and I fitted up in memory of Carol. She said that a young lady was telling stories to the children, but that I might go right up and walk in. I opened the door softly, though I don't think the children would have noticed if I had fired a cannon in their midst, and stood there, spellbound by the loveliest, most touching scene I ever witnessed. The room has an open fire, and in a low chair, with the firelight shining on her face, sat that charming, impulsive girl who gave me the flowers at the cemetery--I told you about her. She was telling stories to the children. There were fifteen or twenty of them in the room, all the semi-invalids and convalescents, I should think, and they were gathered about her like flies round a saucer of honey. Every child that could, was doing its best to get a bit of her dress to touch, or a finger of her hand to hold, or an inch of her chair to lean upon. They were the usual pale, weary-looking children, most of them with splints and weights and crutches, and through the folding-doors that opened into the next room I could see three more tiny things sitting up in their cots and drinking in every word with eagerness and transport. "And I don't wonder. There is magic in that girl for sick or sorrowing people. I wish you could have seen and heard her. Her hair is full of warmth and color; her lips and cheeks are pink; her eyes are bright with health and mischief, and beaming with love, too; her smile is like sunshine, and her voice as glad as a wild bird's. I never saw a creature so alive and radiant, and I could feel that the weak little creatures drank in her strength and vigor, without depleting her, as flowers drink in the sunlight. "As she stood up and made ready to go, she caught sight of me, and ejaculated, with the most astonished face, 'Why, it is my lady in black!' Then, with a blush, she added, 'Excuse me! I spoke without thinking--I always do. I have thought of you very often since I gave you the flowers; and as I did n't know your name, I have always called you my lady in black.' "'I should be very glad to be your "lady" in any color,' I answered, 'and my other name is Mrs. Bird.' Then I asked her if she would not come and see me. She said, 'Yes, with pleasure,' and told me also that her mother was ill, and that she left her as little as possible; whereupon I offered to go and see her instead. "Now, here endeth the first lesson, and here beginneth the second, namely, my new plan, on which I wish to ask your advice. You know that all the money Donald and I used to spend on Carol's nurses, physicians, and what not, we give away each Christmas Day in memory of her. It may be that we give it in monthly installments, but we try to plan it and let people know about it on that day. I propose to create a new profession for talented young women who like to be helpful to others as well as to themselves. I propose to offer this little Miss Oliver, say twenty-five dollars a month, if she will go regularly to the Children's Hospital and to the various orphan asylums just before supper and just before bedtime, and sing and tell stories to the children for an hour. I want to ask her to give two hours a day only, going to each place once or twice a week; but of course she will need a good deal of time for preparation. If she accepts, I will see the managers of the various institutions, offer her services, and arrange for the hours. I am confident that they will receive my protegee with delight, and I am sure that I shall bring the good old art of story-telling into fashion again, through this gifted girl. Now, John, what do you think?" "I heartily approve, as usual. It is a novelty, but I cannot see why it 's not perfectly expedient, and I certainly can think of no other way in which a monthly expenditure of twenty-five dollars will carry so much genuine delight and comfort to so many different children. Carol would sing for joy if she could know of your plan." "Perhaps she does know it," said Mrs. Bird softly. And so it was settled. Polly's joy and gratitude at Mrs. Bird's proposal baffles the powers of the narrator. It was one of those things pleasant to behold, charming to imagine, but impossible to describe. After Mrs. Bird's carriage had been whirled away, she watched at the window for Edgar, and, when she saw him nearing the steps, did not wait for him to unlock the door, but opened it from the top of the stairs, and flew down them to the landing as lightly as a feather. As for Edgar himself, he was coming up with unprecedented speed, and they nearly fell into each other's arms as they both exclaimed, in one breath, "Hurrah!" and then, in another, "Who told you?" "How did you know it?" asked Edgar. "Has Tom Mills been here?" "What is anybody by the name of Mills to me in my present state of mind!" exclaimed Polly. "Have you some good news, too? If so, speak out quickly." "Good news? I should think I had; what else were you hurrahing about? I 've won the scholarship, and I have a chance to earn some money! Tom Mills's eyes are in bad condition, and the oculist says he must wear blue goggles and not look at a book for two months. His father wrote to me to-day, and he asks if I will read over the day's lessons with Tom every afternoon or evening, so that he can keep up with the class; and says that if I will do him this great service he will be glad to pay me any reasonable sum. He 'ventured' to write me on Professor Hope's recommendation." "Oh, Edgar, that is too, too good!" cried Polly, jumping up and down in delight. "Now hear my news. What do you suppose has happened?" "Turned-up noses have come into style." "Insulting! That is n't the spirit I showed when you told me your good news." "You 've found the leak in the gas stove." "On the contrary, I don't care if all the gas in our establishment leaks from now to--the millennium. Guess again, stupid!" "Somebody has left you a million." "No, no!" (scornfully.) "Well, I can't wait your snail's pace. My lady in black, Mrs. Donald Bird, has been here all the afternoon, and she offers me twenty-five dollars a month to give up the Baer cubs and tell stories two hours a day in the orphan asylums and the Children's Hospital! Just what I love to do! Just what I always longed to do! Just what I would do if I were a billionaire! Is n't it heavenly?" "Well, well! We are in luck, Polly. Hurrah! Fortune smiles at last on the Noble-Oliver household. Let's have a jollification! Oh, I forgot. Tom Mills wants to come to dinner. Will you mind?" "Let him come, goggles and all, we 'll have the lame and the halt, as well as the blind, if we happen to see any. Mamma won't care. I told her we 'd have a feast to-night that should vie with any of the old Roman banquets! Here 's my purse; please go down on Sutter Street--ride both ways--and buy anything extravagant and unseasonable you can find. Get forced tomatoes; we'll have 'chops and tomato sauce' à la Mrs. Bardell; order fried oysters in a browned loaf; get a quart of ice cream, the most expensive variety they have, a loaf of the richest cake in the bakery, and two chocolate eclairs apiece. Buy hothouse roses, or orchids, for the table, and give five cents to that dirty little boy on the corner there. In short, as Frank Stockton says, 'Let us so live while we are up that we shall forget we have ever been down'!" and Polly plunged upstairs to make a toilet worthy of the occasion. The banquet was such a festive occasion that Yung Lee's Chinese reserve was sorely tried, and he giggled more than once, while waiting on the table. Polly had donned a trailing black silk skirt of her mother's, with a white chuddah shawl for a court train, and a white lace waist to top it. Her hair was wound into a knot on the crown of her head and adorned with three long black ostrich feathers, which soared to a great height, and presented a most magnificent and queenly appearance. Tom Mills, whose father was four times a millionaire, wondered why they never had such gay times at his home, and tried to fancy his sister Blanche sparkling and glowing and beaming over the prospect of earning twenty-five dollars a month. Then, when bedtime came, Polly and her mother talked it all over in the dark. "Oh, mamacita, I am so happy! It's such a lovely beginning, and I shall be so glad, so glad to do it! I hope Mrs. Bird did n't invent the plan for my good, for I have been frightfully shabby each time she has seen me, but she says she thinks of nothing but the children. Now we will have some pretty things, won't we? And oh! do you think, not just now, but some time in the distant centuries, I can have a string of gold beads?" "I do, indeed," sighed Mrs. Oliver. "You are certainly in no danger of being spoiled by luxury in your youth, my poor little Pollykins; but you will get all these things some time, I feel sure, if they are good for you, and if they belong to you. You remember the lines I read the other day:-- "'Hast not thy share? On winged feet, Lo! it rushes thee to meet; And all that Nature made thy own, Floating in air or pent in stone, Will rive the hills and swim the sea And, like thy shadow, follow thee.'" "Yes," said Polly contentedly; "I am satisfied. My share of the world's work is rushing to meet me. To-night I could just say with Sarah Jewett's Country Doctor, 'My God, I thank thee for my future.'" CHAPTER XII. THE GREAT SILENCE. The months of April and May were happy ones. The weather was perfect, as only California weather understands the art of being; the hills were at their greenest; the wind almost forgot to blow; the fields blazed in wild-flowers; day after day rose in cloudless splendor, and day after day the Golden Gate shone like a sapphire in the sun. Polly was inwardly nervous. She had the "awe of prosperity" in her heart, and everything seemed too bright to last. Both she and Edgar were very busy. But work that one loves is no hardship, especially when one is strong and young and hopeful, and when one has great matters at stake, such as the health and wealth of an invalid mother, or the paying off of disagreeable debts. Even the limp Mrs. Chadwick shared in the general joy; for Mr. Greenwood was so utterly discouraged with her mismanagement of the house, so determined not to fly to ills he knew not of, and so anxious to bring order out of chaos, that on the spur of the moment one day he married her. On the next day he discharged the cook, hired a better one the third, dunned the delinquent boarder the fourth, and collected from him on the fifth; so the May check (signed Clementine Chadwick Greenwood) was made out for eighty-five dollars. But in the midst of it all, when everything in the outside world danced with life and vigor, and the little house could hardly hold its sweet content,--without a glimmer of warning, without a moment's fear or dread, without the precious agony of parting, Mrs. Oliver slipped softly, gently, safely, into the Great Silence. Mercifully it was Edgar, not Polly, who found her in her accustomed place on the cushions, lying with closed eyelids and smiling lips. It was half past five. . . . Polly must have gone out at four, as usual, and would be back in half an hour. . . . Yung Lee was humming softly in the little kitchen. . . . In five minutes Edgar Noble had suffered, lived, and grown ten years. He was a man. . . . And then came Polly,--and Mrs. Bird with her, thank Heaven!--Polly breathless and glowing, looking up at the bay window for her mother's smile of welcome. In a few seconds the terrible news was broken, and Polly, overpowered with its awful suddenness, dropped before it as under a physical blow. It was better so. Mrs. Bird carried her home for the night, as she thought, but a merciful blur stole over the child's tired brain, and she lay for many weeks in a weary illness of delirium and stupor and fever. Meanwhile, Edgar acted as brother, son, and man of the house. He it was who managed everything, from the first sorrowful days up to the closing of the tiny upper flat where so much had happened: not great things of vast outward importance, but small ones,--little miseries and mortifications and struggles and self-denials and victories, that made the past half year a milestone in his life. A week finished it all! It takes a very short time, he thought, to scatter to the winds of heaven all the gracious elements that make a home. Only a week; and in the first days of June, Edgar went back to Santa Barbara for the summer holidays without even a sight of his brave, helpful girl-comrade. He went back to his brother's congratulations, his sister's kisses, his mother's happy tears, and his father's hearty hand-clasp, full of renewed pride and belief in his eldest son. But there was a shadow on the lad's high spirits as he thought of gay, courageous, daring Polly, stripped in a moment of all that made life dear. "I wish we could do something for her, poor little soul," he said to his mother in one of their long talks in the orange-tree sitting-room. "Tongue cannot tell what Mrs. Oliver has been to me, and I 'm not a bit ashamed to own up to Polly's influence, even if she is a girl and two or three years younger than I am. Hang it! I 'd like to see the fellow that could live under the same roof as those two women, and not do the best that was in him! Has n't Polly some relatives in the East?" "No near ones, and none that she has ever seen. Still, she is not absolutely alone, as many girls would be under like circumstances. We would be only too glad to have her here; the Howards have telegraphed asking her to spend the winter with them in Cambridge; I am confident Dr. Winship will do the same when the news of Mrs. Oliver's death reaches Europe; and Mrs. Bird seems to have constituted herself a sort of fairy Godmother in chief. You see everybody loves Polly; and she will probably have no less than four homes open to her. The fact is, if you should put Polly on a desert island, the bees and the butterflies and the birds would gather about her; she draws everything and everybody to her magically. Then, too, she is not penniless. Rents are low, and she cannot hope to get quite as much for the house as before, but even counting repairs, taxes, and furnishings, we think she is reasonably certain of fifty dollars a month." "She will never be idle, unless this sorrow makes a great change in her. Polly seems to have been created to 'become' by 'doing.'" "Yet she does not in the least relish work, Edgar. I never knew a girl with a greater appetite for luxury. One cannot always see the deepest reasons in God's providence as applied to one's own life and character; but it is often easy to understand them as one looks at other people and notes their growth and development. For instance, Polly's intense love for her invalid mother has kept her from being selfish. The straitened circumstances in which she has been compelled to live have prevented her from yielding to self-indulgence or frivolity. Even her hunger for the beautiful has been a discipline; for since beautiful things were never given to her ready-made, she has been forced to create them. Her lot in life, which she has always lamented, has given her a self-control, a courage, a power, which she never would have had in the world had she grown up in luxury. She is too young to see it, but it is very clear to me that Polly Oliver is a glorious product of circumstances." "But," objected Edgar, "that is not fair. You are giving all the credit to circumstances, and none to Polly's own nature." "Not at all. If there had not been the native force to develop, experience would have had nothing to work upon. As it is, her lovely childish possibilities have become probabilities, and I look to see the girlish probabilities blossom into womanly certainties." Meanwhile Polly, it must be confessed, was not at the present time quite justifying the good opinion of her friends. She had few of the passive virtues. She could bear sharp stabs of misfortune, which fired her energy and pride, but she resented pin pricks. She could carry heavy, splendid burdens cheerfully, but she fretted under humble cares. She could serve by daring, but not by waiting. She would have gone to the stake or the scaffold, I think, with tolerable grace; but she would probably have recanted any article of faith if she had been confronted with life-imprisonment. Trouble that she took upon herself for the sake of others, and out of love, she accepted sweetly. Sorrows that she did not choose, which were laid upon her without her consent, and which were "just the ones she did _not_ want, and did _not_ need, and would _not_ have, and could _not_ bear,"--these sorrows found her unwilling, bitter, and impatient. Yet if life is a school and we all have lessons to learn in it, the Great Teacher will be unlikely to set us tasks which we have already finished. Some review there must be, for certain things are specially hard to keep in mind, and have to be gone over and over, lest they fade into forgetfulness. But there must be continued progress in a life school. There is no parrot repetition, sing-song, meaningless, of words that have ceased to be vital. New lessons are to be learned as fast as the old ones are understood. Of what use to set Polly tasks to develop her bravery, when she was already brave? Courage was one of the little jewels set in her fairy crown when she was born, but there was a round, empty space beside it, where Patience should have been. Further along was Daring, making a brilliant show, but again there was a tiny vacancy waiting for Prudence. The crown made a fine appearance, on the whole, because the large jewels were mostly in place, and the light of these blinded you to the lack of the others; but to the eye of the keen observer there was a want of symmetry and completeness. Polly knew the unfinished state of her fairy crown as well as anybody else. She could not plead ignorance as an excuse; but though she would have gone on polishing the great gems with a fiery zeal, she added the little jewels very slowly, and that only on compulsion. There had been seven or eight weeks of partial unconsciousness, when the sorrow and the loneliness of life stole into her waking dreams only vaguely and at intervals; when she was unhappy, and could not remember why; and slept, to wake and wonder and sleep again. Then there were days and weeks when the labor of living was all that the jaded body could accomplish; when memory was weak; when life began at the pillow, and ended at the foot of the bed, and the universe was bounded by the chamber windows. But when her strength came back, and she stood in the middle of the floor, clothed and in her right mind, well enough to remember,--oh! then indeed the deep waters of bitterness rolled over poor Polly's head and into her heart, and she sank beneath them without a wish or a struggle to rise. "If it had been anything else!" she sobbed. "Why did God take away my most precious, my only one to live for, when I was trying to take care of her, trying to be good, trying to give back the strength that had been poured out on me,--miserable, worthless me! Surely, if a girl was willing to do without a father and sisters and brothers, without good times and riches, willing to work like a galley slave, willing to 'scrimp' and plan and save for ever and ever; surely 'they' might be willing that she should keep her mother!" Poor Polly! Providence at this time seemed nothing more than a collection of demons which she classified under the word "they," and which she felt certain were scourging her pitilessly and needlessly. She could not see any reason or justification in "their" cruelties,--for that was the only term she could apply to her afflictions. Mrs. Bird had known sorrow, and she did her best to minister to the troubled and wrong little heart; but it was so torn that it could be healed only by the soft balm of Time. Perhaps, a long while after such a grief,--it is always "perhaps" in a great crisis, though the certainty is ours if we will but grasp it,--perhaps the hidden meaning of the sorrow steals gently into our softened hearts. We see, as in a vision, a new light by which to work; we rise, cast off the out-grown shell, and build us a more stately mansion, in which to dwell till God makes that home also too small to hold the ever-growing soul! CHAPTER XIII. A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE. In August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the Nobles' ranch in Santa Barbara, in the hope that the old scenes and old friends might soothe her, and give her strength to take up the burden of life with something of her former sunshiny spirit. Edgar was a junior now, back at his work, sunburned and strong from his summer's outing. He had seen Polly twice after his return to San Francisco; but the first meeting was an utter failure, and the second nearly as trying. Neither of them could speak of the subject that absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage enough to begin other topics of conversation. The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the girl now, it brought to mind so much that was dear, so much that was past and gone. In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long drives with Margery and Philip, the quiet chats with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in strength; but the old "spring," vitality, and enthusiasm had vanished for the time, and the little circle of friends marveled at this Polly without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her dancing dimples, her extravagances of speech. Once a week, at least, Dr. George would steal an hour or two, and saddle his horse to take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through the cañons, or on the beach. His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these rides did her much good. He sympathized and understood and helped, even when he chided, and Polly sometimes forgot her own troubles in wondering whether Dr. George had not suffered and overcome a good many of his own. "You make one great error, my child," he once said, in response to one of Polly's outbursts of grief; "and it is an error young people very naturally fall into. You think that no one was ever chastened as you are. You say, with Jeremiah, 'No prophet is afflicted like unto this prophet!' Now you are simply bearing your own share of the world's trouble. How can you hope to escape the universal lot? There are dozens of people within sight of this height of land who have borne as much, and must bear as much again. I know this must seem a hard philosophy, and I should not preach it to any but a stout little spirit like yours, my Polly. These things come to all of us; they are stern facts; they are here, and they must be borne; but it makes all the difference in the world how we bear them. We can clench our fists, close our lips tightly, and say, 'Since I must, I can;' or we can look up and say cheerfully, 'I will!' The first method is philosophical and strong enough, but there is no sweetness in it. If you have this burden to carry, make it as light, not as heavy, as you can; if you have this grief to endure, you want at least to come out of it sweeter and stronger than ever before. It seems a pity to let it go for nothing. In the largest sense of the word, you can live for your mother now as truly as you did in the old times; you know very well how she would have had you live." Polly felt a sense of shame steal over her as she looked at Dr. George's sweet, strong smile and resolute mouth, and she said, with the hint of a new note in her voice:-- "I see, and I will try; but how does one ever learn to live without loving,--I mean the kind of loving I had in my life? I know I can live for my mother in the largest sense of the word, but to me all the comfort and sweetness seems to tuck itself under the word in its 'little' sense. I shall have to go on developing and developing until I am almost developed to death, and go on growing and growing in grace until I am ready to be caught up in a chariot of fire, before I can love my mother 'in the largest sense of the word.' I want to cuddle my head on her shoulder, that's what I want. Oh, Dr. George, how does one contrive to be good when one is not happy? How can one walk in the right path when there does n't seem to be any brightness to go by?" "My dear little girl," and Dr. George looked soberly out on the ocean, dull and lifeless under the gray October sky, "when the sun of one's happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that!" "If only I were not a rich heiress," said Polly next morning, "I dare say I should be better off; for then I simply could n't have gone to bed for two or three months, and idled about like this for another. But there seems to be no end to my money. Edgar paid all the bills in San Francisco, and saved twenty out of our precious three hundred and twelve dollars. Then Mrs. Greenwood's rent-money has been accumulating four months, while I have been visiting you and Mrs. Bird; and the Greenwoods are willing to pay sixty dollars a month for the house still, even though times are dull; so I am hopelessly wealthy,--but on the whole I am very glad. The old desire to do something, and be something, seems to have faded out of my life with all the other beautiful things. I think I shall go to a girls' college and study, or find some other way of getting through the hateful, endless years that stretch out ahead! Why, I am only a little past seventeen, and I may live to be ninety! I do not see how I can ever stand this sort of thing for seventy-three years!" Mrs. Noble smiled in spite of herself. "Just apply yourself to getting through this year, Polly dear, and let the other seventy-two take care of themselves. They will bring their own cares and joys and responsibilities and problems, little as you realize it now. This year, grievous as it seems, will fade by and by, until you can look back at it with resignation and without tears." "I don't want it to fade!" cried Polly passionately. "I never want to look back at it without tears! I want to be faithful always; I want never to forget, and never to feel less sorrow than I do this minute!" "Take that blue-covered Emerson on the table, Polly; open it at the essay on 'Compensation,' and read the page marked with the orange leaf." The tears were streaming down Polly's cheeks, but she opened the book, and read with a faltering voice:-- "We cannot part with our f--fr--friends. We cannot let our angels go. [Sob.] We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come in. . . . We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or re-create that beautiful yesterday. [Sob.] We linger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had shelter. . . . We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. [Sob.] But we sit and weep in vain. We cannot stay amid the ruins. The voice of the Almighty saith, 'Up and onward for evermore!' . . . The sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all sorrow. . . . The man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men." [Illustration: "She opened the book and read."] "Do you see, Polly?" "Yes, I see; but oh, I was so happy being a garden flower with the sunshine on my head, and I can't seem to care the least little bit for being a banian-tree!" "Well," said Mrs. Noble, smiling through her own tears, "I fear that God will never insist on your 'yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men' unless you desire it. Not all sunny garden flowers become banian-trees by the falling of the walls. Some of them are crushed beneath the ruins, and never send any more color or fragrance into the world." "The garden flower had happiness before the walls fell," said Polly. "It is happiness I want." "The banian-tree had blessedness after the walls fell, and it is blessedness I want; but then, I am forty-seven, and you are seventeen!" sighed Mrs. Noble, as they walked through the orange orchard to the house. CHAPTER XIV. EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS. One day, in the middle of October, the mail brought Polly two letters: the first from Edgar, who often dashed off cheery scrawls in the hope of getting cheery replies, which never came; and the second from Mrs. Bird, who had a plan to propose. Edgar wrote:-- . . . "I have a new boarding-place in San Francisco, a stone's throw from Mrs. Bird's, whose mansion I can look down upon from a lofty height reached by a flight of fifty wooden steps,--good training in athletics! Mrs. Morton is a kind landlady and the house is a home, in a certain way,-- "But oh, the difference to me 'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee! "There is a Morton girl, too; but she neither plays nor sings nor jokes, nor even looks,--in fine, she is not Polly! I have come to the conclusion, now, that girls in a house are almost always nuisances,--I mean, of course, when, they are not Pollies. Oh, why are you so young, and so loaded with this world's goods, that you will never need me for a boarder again? Mrs. Bird is hoping to see you soon, and I chose my humble lodging on this hill-top because, from my attic's lonely height, I can watch you going in and out of your 'marble halls;' and you will almost pass my door as you take the car. In view of this pleasing prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send you a scrap of newspaper verse which prophesies my sentiments. It is signed 'M. E. W.,' and Tom Mills says whoever wrote it knows you." WHEN POLLY GOES BY. 'T is but poorly I 'm lodged in a little side-street, Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet, For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray; And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh At the buffets of fortune--till Polly goes by. There 's a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace, And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face, A glance from two eyes so deliriously blue The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue; And once in a while, if the wind 's blowing high, The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by. Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast. "She 's coming!" it whispers. "She 's here! She has passed!" While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown, Excited, delighted, yet wondering why My senses desert me if Polly goes by. Ah! she must be a witch, and the magical spell She has woven about me has done its work well, For the morning grows brighter, and gayer the air That my landlady sings as she sweeps down the stair; And my poor lonely garret, up close to the sky, Seems something like heaven when Polly goes by. "P. S. Tony has returned to the university. He asked after the health of the 'sunset-haired goddess' yesterday. You 'd better hurry back and take care of me! No, joking aside, don't worry about me, little missionary; I 've outgrown Tony, and I hope I don't need to be reformed oftener than once a year. "Yours ever, EDGAR. "P. S. No. II. I saw you twice after--you know--and I was dumb on both occasions. Of all people in the world I ought to have been able to say something helpful to you in your trouble, I, who lived with you and your dear mother through all those happy months before she left us. It will be just the same when I see you again: I shall never be able to speak, partly, I suppose, because I am a man, or on the road to becoming one. I know this is making you cry; I can see the tears in your eyes across all the distance; but it is better even that you should cry than that you should think me cold or unmindful of your sorrow. Do you know one of the sacred memories of my life? It is that, on that blessed night when your mother asked me to come and live under her roof, she said she should be glad to feel that in any sudden emergency you and she would, have a near friend to lean upon. There was a 'royal accolade,' if you like! I felt in an instant as if she had bestowed the order of knighthood upon me, and as if I must live more worthily in order to deserve her trust. How true it is, Polly, that those who believe in us educate us! "Do you remember (don't cry, dear!) that night by the fireside,--the night when we brought her out of her bedroom after three days of illness,--when we sat on either side of her, each holding a hand while she told us the pretty romance of her meeting and loving your father? I slipped the loose wedding ring up and down her finger, and stole a look at her now and then. She was like a girl when she told that story, and I could not help thinking it was worth while to be a tender, honorable, faithful man, to bring that look into a woman's face after eighteen years. Well, I adored her, that is all I can say; and I can't _say_ even that, I have to write it. Don't rob me, Polly, of the right she gave me, that of being a 'near friend to lean upon.' I am only afraid, because you, more than any one else, know certain weaknesses and follies of mine, and, indeed, pulled me out of the pit and held me up till I got a new footing. I am afraid you will never have the same respect for me, nor believe that a fellow so weak as I was could be strong enough to lean upon. Try me once, Polly, just to humor me, won't you? Give me something to do,--something _hard_! Lean just a little, Polly, and see how stiff I 'll be,--no, bother it, I won't be stiff, I'll be firm! To tell the truth, I can never imagine you as 'leaning;' though they say you are pale and sad, and out of sorts with life. You remind me of one of the gay scarlet runners that climb up the slender poles in the garden below my window. The pole holds up the vine at first, of course, but the vine keeps the pole straight; not in any ugly and commonplace fashion, but by winding round, and round about it, and hanging its blossoms in and out and here and there, till the poor, serviceable pole is forgotten in the beauty that makes use of it. "Good-by, little scarlet runner! You will bloom again some day, when the storm that has beaten you down has passed over and the sky is clear and the sun warm. Don't laugh at me, Polly! "Always yours, whether you laugh or not, "EDGAR." "P. S. No. III. I should n't dare add this third postscript if you were near enough to slay me with the lightning of your eye, but I simply wish to mention that a wise gardener chooses young, strong timber for _poles_,--saplings, in fact! _Mr. John Bird is too old for this purpose_. Well seasoned he is, of course, and suitable as a prop for a century-plant, but not for a scarlet runner! I like him, you know, but I 'm sure he 'd crack if you leaned on him; in point of fact, he 's a little cracked now! E. N." The ghost of a smile shone on Polly's April face as she folded Edgar's letter and laid it in its envelope; first came a smile, then a tear, then a dimple, then a sob, then a wave of bright color. "Edgar is growing up so fast," she thought, "I shall soon be afraid to scold him or advise him, and "'What will poor Robin do then, poor thing?' "Upon my word, if I caught him misbehaving nowadays, I believe I should hesitate to remonstrate with him. He will soon be capable of remonstrating with me, at this rate. He is a goose,--oh, there 's no shadow of doubt as to that, but he 's an awfully nice goose." Mrs. Bird's letter ran thus:-- "MY DEAREST POLLYKINS:----We have lived without you just about as long as we can endure it. The boys have returned to school and college. Mr. Bird contemplates one more trip to Honolulu, and brother John and I need some one to coddle and worry over. I have not spoken to you of your future, because I wished to wait until you opened the subject. It is too late for you to begin your professional training this year, and I think you are far too delicate just now to undertake so arduous a work; however, you are young, and that can wait for a bit. As to the story-telling in the hospitals and asylums, I wish you could find courage and strength to go on with that, not for your own sake alone, but for the sake of others. "As I have told you before, the money is set aside for that special purpose, and the work will be carried on by somebody. Of course I can get a substitute if you refuse, and that substitute may, after a little time, satisfy the impatient children, who flatten their noses against the window-panes and long for Mias Pauline every day of their meagre lives. But I fear the substitute will never be Polly! She may 'rattle round in your place' (as somebody said under different circumstances), but she can never fill it! Why not spend the winter with us, and do this lovely work, keeping up other studies if you are strong enough? It will be so sweet for you to feel that out of your own sadness you can comfort and brighten the lives of these lonely, suffering children and these motherless or fatherless ones. It will seem hard to begin, no doubt; but new life will flow in your veins when you take up your active, useful work again. The joyousness that God put into your soul before you were born, my Polly, is a sacred trust. You must not hide it in a napkin, dear, or bury it, or lose it. It was given to you only that you should share it with others. It was intended for the world at large, though it was bestowed upon you in particular. Come, dear, to one who knows all about it,--one whom you are sweet enough to call "YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER." "Mrs. Noble," said Polly, with a sober smile, "the Ancon sails on the 20th, and I am going to sail with her." "So soon? What for, dear?" "I am going to be a banian-tree, if you please," answered Polly. CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN THE BIRDS' NEST. Polly settled down in the Birds' Nest under the protecting wing of Mrs. Bird, and a very soft and unaccustomed sort of shelter it was. A room had been refurnished expressly for the welcome guest, and as Mrs. Bird pushed her gently in alone, the night of her arrival, she said, "This is the Pilgrim Chamber, Polly. It will speak our wishes for us." It was not the room in which Polly had been ill for so many weeks; for Mrs. Bird knew the power of associations, and was unwilling to leave any reminder of those painful days to sadden the girl's new life. As Polly looked about her, she was almost awed by the dazzling whiteness. The room was white enough for an angel, she thought. The straw matting was almost concealed by a mammoth rug made of white Japanese goatskins sewed together; the paint was like snow, and the furniture had all been painted white, save for the delicate silver lines that relieved it. There were soft, full curtains of white bunting fringed with something that looked like thistle-down, and the bedstead had an overhanging canopy of the same. An open fire burned in the little grate, and a big white and silver rattan chair was drawn cosily before it. There was a girlish dressing-table with its oval mirror draped in dotted muslin; a dainty writing-desk with everything convenient upon it; and in one corner was a low bookcase of white satinwood. On the top of this case lay a card, "With the best wishes of John Bird," and along the front of the upper shelf were painted the words: "Come, tell us a story!" Below this there was a rich array of good things. The Grimms, Laboulaye, and Hans Christian Andersen were all there. Mrs. Ewing's "Jackanapes" and Charles Kingsley's "Water-Babies" jostled the "Seven Little Sisters" series; Hawthorne's "Wonder-Book" lay close to Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare;" and Whittier's "Child-Life in Prose and Poetry" stood between Mary Howitt's "Children's Year" and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses." Polly sat upon the floor before the bookcase and gloated over her new treasures, each of which bore her name on the fly-leaf. As her eye rose to the vase of snowy pampas plumes and the pictured Madonna and Child above the bookcase, it wandered still higher until it met a silver motto painted on a blue frieze that finished the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. Polly walked slowly round the room, studying the illuminated letters: "_And they laid the Pilgrim in an upper chamber, and the name of the chamber was Peace_." This brought the ready tears to Polly's eyes. "God seems to give me everything but what I want most," she thought; "but since He gives me so much, I must not question any more: I must not choose; I must believe that He wants me to be happy, after all, and I must begin and try to be good again." She did try to be good. She came down to breakfast the next morning, announcing to Mrs. Bird, with her grateful morning kiss, that she meant to "live up to" her room. "But it's going to be difficult," she confessed. "I shall not dare to have a naughty thought in it; it seems as if it would be written somewhere on the whiteness!" "You can come and be naughty in my bachelor den, Polly," said Mr. Bird, smiling. "Mrs. Bird does n't waste any girlish frills and poetic decorations and mystical friezes on her poor brother-in-law! He is done up in muddy browns, as befits his age and sex." Polly insisted on beginning her work the very next afternoon; but she had strength only for three appointments a week, and Mrs. Bird looked doubtfully after her as she walked away from the house with a languid gait utterly unlike her old buoyant step. Edgar often came in the evenings, as did Tom and Blanche Mills, and Milly Foster; but though Polly was cheerful and composed, she seldom broke into her old flights of nonsense. On other nights, when they were alone, she prepared for her hours of story-telling, and in this she was wonderfully helped by Mr. Bird's suggestions and advice; for he was a student of literature in many languages, and delighted in bringing his treasures before so teachable a pupil. "She has a sort of genius that astonishes me," said he one morning, as he chatted with Mrs. Bird over the breakfast-table. Polly had excused herself, and stood at the farther library window, gazing up the street vaguely and absently, as if she saw something beyond the hills and the bay. Mrs. Bird's heart sank a little as she looked at the slender figure in the black dress. There were no dimples about the sad mouth, and was it the dress, or was she not very white these latter days?--so white that her hair encircled her face with absolute glory, and startled one with its color. "It is a curious kind of gift," continued Mr. Bird, glancing at his morning' papers. "She takes a long tale of Hans Andersen's, for instance, and after an hour or two, when she has his idea fully in mind, she shows me how she proposes to tell it to the younger children at the Orphan Asylum. She clasps her hands over her knees, bends forward toward the firelight, and tells the story with such simplicity and earnestness that I am always glad she is looking the other way and cannot see the tears in my eyes. I cried like a school-girl last night over 'The Ugly Duckling.' She has natural dramatic instinct, a great deal of facial expression, power of imitation, and an almost unerring taste in the choice of words, which is unusual in a girl so young and one who has been so imperfectly trained. I give her an old legend or some fragment of folk-lore, and straight-way she dishes it up for me as if it had been bone of her bone and marrow of her marrow; she knows just what to leave out and what to put in, somehow. You had one of your happy inspirations about that girl, Margaret,--she is a born story-teller. She ought to wander about the country with a lute under her arm. Is the Olivers' house insured?" "Good gracious, Jack! you have a kangaroo sort of mind! How did you leap to that subject? I'm sure I don't know, but what difference does it make, anyway?" "A good deal of difference," he answered nervously, looking into the library (yes, Polly had gone out); "because the house, the furniture, and the stable were burned to the ground last night,--so the morning paper says." Mrs. Bird rose and closed the doors. "That does seem too dreadful to be true," she said. "The poor child's one bit of property, her only stand-by in case of need! Oh, it can't be burned; and, if it is, it must be insured. I 'm afraid a second blow would break her down completely just now, when she has not recovered from the first." Mr. Bird went out and telegraphed to Dr. George Edgerton;-- Is Oliver house burned? What was the amount of insurance, if any? Answer. JOHN BIRD. At four o'clock the reply came:-- House and outbuildings burned. No insurance. Have written particulars. Nothing but piano and family portraits saved. GEORGE EDGERTON. In an hour another message, marked "Collect," followed the first one:-- House burned last night. Defective flue. No carelessness on part of servants or family. Piano, portraits, ice-cream freezer, and wash-boiler saved by superhuman efforts of husband. Have you any instructions? Have taken to my bed. Accept love and sympathy. CLEMENTINE CHADWICK GEEENWOOD. So it was true. The buildings were burned, and there was no insurance. I know you will say there never is, in stories where the heroine's courage is to be tested, even if the narrator has to burn down the whole township to do it satisfactorily. But to this objection I can make only this answer: First, that this house really did burn down; secondly, that there really was no insurance; and thirdly, if this combination of circumstances did not sometimes happen in real life, it would never occur to a story-teller to introduce it as a test for heroes and heroines. "Well," said Mrs. Bird despairingly, "Polly must be told. Now, will you do it, or shall I? Of course you want me to do it! Men never have any courage about these things, nor any tact either." At this moment the subject of conversation walked into the room, hat and coat on, and an unwonted color in her cheeks. Edgar Noble followed behind. Polly removed her hat and coat leisurely, sat down on a hassock on the hearth rug, and ruffled her hair with the old familiar gesture, almost forgotten these latter days. Mrs. Bird looked warningly at the tell-tale yellow telegrams in Mr. Bird's lap, and strove to catch his eye and indicate to his dull masculine intelligence the necessity of hiding them until they could devise a plan of breaking the sad news. Mrs. Bird's glance and Mr. Bird's entire obliviousness were too much for Polly's gravity. To their astonishment she burst into a peal of laughter. "'My lodging is on the cold, cold ground, And hard, very hard is my fare!'" she sang, to the tune of "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms." "So you know all about it, too?" "How did you hear it?" gasped Mrs. Bird. "I bought the evening paper to see if that lost child at the asylum had been found. Edgar jumped on the car, and seemed determined that I should not read the paper until I reached home. He was very kind, but slightly bungling in his attentions. I knew then that something was wrong, but just what was beyond my imagination, unless Jack Howard had been expelled from Harvard, or Bell Winship had been lost at sea on the way home; so I persisted in reading, and at last I found the fatal item. I don't know whether Edgar expected me to faint at sight! I 'm not one of the fainting sort!" "I 'm relieved that you can take it so calmly. I have been shivering with dread all day, and Jack and I have been quarreling as to which should break it to you." "Break it to me!" echoed Polly, in superb disdain. "My dear Fairy Godmother, you must think me a weak sort of person! As if the burning down of one patrimonial estate could shatter my nerves! What is a passing home or so? Let it burn, by all means, if it likes. 'He that is down need fear no fall.'" "It is your only property," said Mr. Bird, trying to present the other side of the case properly, "and it was not insured." "What of that?" she asked briskly. "Am I not housed and fed like a princess at the present moment? Have I not two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and am I not earning twenty-five dollars a month with absolute regularity? Avaunt, cold Fear!" "How was it that the house was not insured?" asked Mr. Bird. "I 'm sure I don't know. It was insured once upon a time, if I remember right; when it got uninsured, I can't tell. How do things get uninsured, Mr. Bird?" "The insurance lapses, of course, if the premium is n't regularly paid." "Oh, that would account for it!" said Polly easily. "There were quantities of things that were n't paid regularly, though they were always paid in course of time. You ought to have asked me if we were insured, Edgar,--you were the boy of the house,--insurance is n't a girl's department. Let me see the telegrams, please." They all laughed heartily over Mrs. Greenwood's characteristic message. "Think of 'husband' bearing that aged ice-cream freezer and that leaky boiler to a place of safety!" exclaimed Polly. "'All that was left of them, left of six hundred!' Well, my family portraits, piano, freezer, and boiler will furnish a humble cot very nicely in my future spinster days. By the way, the land did n't burn up, I suppose, and that must be good for something, is n't it?" "Rather," answered Edgar; "a corner lot on the best street in town, four blocks from the new hotel site! It's worth eighteen hundred or two thousand dollars, at least." "Then why do you worry about me, good people? I 'm not a heroine. If I were sitting on the curbstone without a roof to my head, and did n't know where I should get my dinner, I should cry! But I smell my dinner" (here she sniffed pleasurably), "and I think it 's chicken! You see, it's so difficult for me to realize that I 'm a pauper, living here, a pampered darling in the halls of wealth, with such a large income rolling up daily that I shall be a prey to fortune-hunters by the time I am twenty! Pshaw! don't worry about me! This is just the sort of diet I have been accustomed to from my infancy! I rather enjoy it!" Whereupon Edgar recited an impromptu nonsense verse:-- "There 's a queer little maiden named Polly, Who always knows when to be jolly. When ruined by fire Her spirits rise higher. This most inconsistent Miss Polly." CHAPTER XVI. THE CANDLE CALLED PATIENCE. The burning of the house completely prostrated Mrs. Clementine Churchill Chadwick Greenwood, who, it is true, had the actual shock of the conflagration to upset her nervous system, though she suffered no financial loss. Mr. Greenwood was heard to remark that he wished he could have foreseen that the house would burn down, for now he should have to move anyway, and if he had known that a few months before, why-- Here the sentence always ended mysteriously, and the neighbors finished it as they liked. The calamity affected Polly, on the other hand, very much like a tonic. She felt the necessity of "bracing" to meet the fresh responsibilities that seemed waiting for her in the near future; and night and day, in sleeping and waking, resting and working, a plan was formulating itself in the brain just roused from its six months' apathy,--a novel, astonishing, enchanting, revolutionary plan, which she bided her time to disclose. The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library. The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice, or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage of Concord looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps. Mr. Bird, as was his wont, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table, idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth rug, leaned cosily back against her Fairy Godmother's knees. The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her only daughter. Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such delightful silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the last comer rises with embarrassment and thinks he must be going, and you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a perfect tact and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull man can always poke the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater? Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze. "I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I want to tell it to you and see if you all approve and think me equal to it. It used to come to me in flashes, after this Fairy Godmother of mine opened an avenue for my surplus energy by sending me out as a story-teller; but lately I have n't had any heart for it. Work grew monotonous and disagreeable and hopeless, and I 'm afraid I had no wish to be useful or helpful to myself or to anybody else. But now everything is different. I am not so rich as I was (I wish, Mr. Bird, you would not smile so provokingly when I mention my riches!), and I must not be idle any longer; so this is my plan, I want to be a story-teller by profession. Perhaps you will say that nobody has ever done it; but surely that is an advantage; I should have the field to myself for a while, at least. I have dear Mrs. Bird's little poor children as a foundation. Now, I would like to get groups of other children together in somebody's parlor twice a week and tell them stories,--the older children one day in the week and the younger ones another. Of course I have n't thought out all the details, because I hoped my Fairy Godmother would help me there, if she approved of my plan; but I have ever so many afternoons all arranged, and enough stories and songs at my tongue's end for three months. Do you think it impossible or nonsensical, Mr. Bird?" "No," said he thoughtfully, after a moment's pause. "It seems on the first hearing to be perfectly feasible. In fact, in one sense it will not be an experiment at all. You have tried your powers, gained self-possession and command of your natural resources; developed your ingenuity, learned the technicalities of your art, so to speak, already. You propose now, as I understand, to extend your usefulness, widen your sphere of action, address yourself to a larger public, and make a profession out of what was before only a side issue in your life. It's a new field, and it 's a noble one, taken in its highest aspect, as you have always taken it. My motto for you, Polly, is Goethe's couplet:-- "'What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.'" "Make way for the story-teller!" cried Edgar. "I will buy season tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age include me. I am only five feet ten, and I 'll sit very low if you 'll admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would suggest 'The Seraphic Sapphira.'" "Now, don't tease," said Polly, with dignity; "this is in sober earnest. What do you think, Fairy Godmother? I 've written to my dear Miss Mary Denison in Santa Barbara, and she likes the idea." "I think it is charming. In fact, I can hardly wait to begin. I will be your business manager, my Pollykins, and we 'll make it a success, if it is possible. If you 'll take me into your confidence and tell me what you mean to do, I will plan the hows and whens and wheres." "You see, dear people," continued Polly, "it is really the only thing that I know how to do; and I have had several months' experience, so that I 'm not entirely untrained. I 'm not afraid any more, so long as it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me tongue-tied. Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and they make you more conscious of yourself. But when the children gaze up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,--the smiles just longing to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to glisten,--I don't know what there is about it, but it makes you wish you could go on forever and never break the spell. And it makes you tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong. You seem so close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a little, little silken thread spun itself out from one side of your heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your best and the children are pleased and grateful." For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling on a mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the earth. She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to be written of Polly Oliver!). The past which she had regretted with such passionate fervor still fought for a place among present plans and future hopes. But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world. It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers. She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly. The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna's gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple. Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her. A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones. The glory of her hair swept about her knees. Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent. Above stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door, which was about to unclose and admit him. He reached up his hand fearlessly ("and that is faith," thought Polly), and at the same time he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, "Look up, mother dear! I am safely in." Just then the choir burst into a grand hymn which was new to Polly, and which came to her with the force of a personal message:-- "The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain; His blood-red banner streams afar-- Who follows in His train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, He follows in His train." Verse after verse rang in splendid strength through the solemn aisles of the church, ending with the lines:-- "O God, to us may strength be given To follow in His train!" Dr. George's voice came to Polly as it sounded that gray October afternoon beside the sea; "When the sun of one's happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that." She leaned her head on the pew in front of her, and breathed a prayer. The minister was praying for the rest of the people, but she needed to utter her own thought just then. "Father in heaven, I will try to follow; I have lighted my little candle, help me to keep it burning! I shall stumble often in the darkness, I know, for it was all so clear when I could walk by my darling mother's light, which was like the sun, so bright, so pure, so strong! Help me to keep the little candle steady, so that it may throw its beams farther and farther into the pathway that now looks so dim." * * * * * Polly sank to sleep that night in her white bed in the Pilgrim Chamber; and the name of the chamber was Peace indeed, for she had a smile on her lips,--a smile that looked as if the little candle had in truth been lighted in her soul, and was shining through her face as though it were a window. CHAPTER XVII. POLLY LAUNCHES HER SHIPS. There were great doings in the Birds Nest. A hundred dainty circulars, printed in black and scarlet on Irish linen paper, had been sent to those ladies on Mrs. Bird's calling-list who had children between the ages of five and twelve, that being Polly's chosen limit of age. These notes of invitation read as follows:-- "Come, tell us a story!" THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Mrs. Donald Bird requests the pleasure of your company from 4.30 to 5.30 o'clock on Mondays or Thursdays from November to March inclusive. FIRST GROUP: Mondays. Children from 5 to 8 years. SECOND GROUP: Thursdays. " " 8 " 12 years. Each group limited in number to twenty-four. Miss Pauline Oliver will tell stories suitable to the ages of the children, adapted to their prevailing interests, and appropriate to the special months of the year. These stories will be chosen with the greatest care, and will embrace representative tales of all classes,--narrative, realistic, scientific, imaginative, and historical. They will be illustrated by songs and black-board sketches. Terms for the Series (Twenty Hours), Five Dollars. R.S.V.P. Polly felt an absolute sense of suffocation as she saw Mrs. Bird seal and address the last square envelope. "If anybody does come," she said, somewhat sadly, "I am afraid it will be only that the story hour is at your lovely house." "Don't be so foolishly independent, my child. If I gather the groups, it is only you who will be able to hold them together. I am your manager, and it is my duty to make the accessories as perfect as possible. When the scenery and costumes and stage-settings are complete, you enter and do the real work, I retire, and the sole responsibility for success or failure rests upon your shoulders; I should think that would be enough to satisfy the most energetic young woman. I had decided on the library as the scene of action; an open fire is indispensable, and that room is delightfully large when the centre-table is lifted out: but I am afraid it is hardly secluded enough, and that people might trouble you by coming in; so what do you think of the music-room upstairs? You will have your fire, your piano, plenty of space, and a private entrance for the chicks, who can lay their wraps in the hall as they pass up. I will take the large Turkish rug from the red guest-chamber,--that will make the room look warmer,--and I have a dozen other charming devices which I will give you later as surprises." "If I were half as sure of my part as I am of yours, dear Fairy Godmother, we should have nothing to fear. I have a general plan mapped out for the stories, but a great deal of the work will have to be done from week to week, as I go on. I shall use the same programme in the main for both groups, but I shall simplify everything and illustrate more freely for the little ones, telling the historical and scientific stories with much more detail to the older group. This is what Mr. Bird calls my 'basic idea,' which will be filled out from week to week according to inspiration. For November, I shall make autumn, the harvest, and Thanksgiving the starting-point. I am all ready with my historical story of 'The First Thanksgiving,' for I told it at the Children's Hospital last year, and it went beautifully. "I have one doll dressed in Dutch costume, to show how the children looked that the little Pilgrims played with in Holland; and another dressed like a Puritan maiden, to show them the simple old New England gown. Then I have two fine pictures of Miles Standish and the Indian chief Massasoit. "For December and January I shall have Christmas and winter, and frost and ice and snow, with the contrasts of eastern and Californian climates." "I can get the Immigration Bureau to give you a percentage on that story, Polly," said Uncle Jack Bird, who had strolled in and taken a seat. "Just make your facts strong enough, and you can make a handsome thing out of that idea." "Don't interrupt us, Jack," said Mrs. Bird; "and go directly out, if you please. You were not asked to this party." "Where was I?" continued Polly. "Oh yes,--the contrast between Californian and eastern winters; and January will have a moral story or two, you know,--New Year's resolutions, and all that. February will be full of sentiment and patriotism,--St. Valentine's Day and Washington's Birthday,--I can hardly wait for that, there are so many lovely things to do in that month. March will bring in the first hint of spring. The winds will serve for my science story; and as it chances to be a presidential year, we will celebrate Inauguration Day, and have some history, if a good many subscribers come in." "Why do you say 'if,' Polly? Multitudes of names are coming in. I have told you so from the beginning." "Very well, then; when a sufficient number of names are entered, I should like to spend ten dollars on a very large sand-table, which I can use with the younger group for illustrations. It is perfectly clean work, and I have helped Miss Denison and her children to do the loveliest things with it. She makes geography lessons,--plains, hills, mountains, valleys, rivers, and lakes; or the children make a picture of the story they have just heard. I saw them do 'Over the River and through the Wood to Grandfather's House we go,' 'Washington's Winter Camp at Valley Forge,' and 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.' I have ever so many songs chosen, and those for November and December are almost learned without my notes. I shall have to work very hard to be ready twice a week!" "Too hard, I fear," said Mrs. Bird anxiously. "Oh, no; not a bit too hard! If the children are only interested, I shall not mind any amount of trouble. By the way, dear Mrs. Bird, you won't let the nurses or mothers stand in the doorways? You will please see that I am left quite alone with the children, won't you?" "Certainly; no mothers shall be admitted, if they make you nervous; it is the children's hour. But after two or three months, when you have all become acquainted, and the children are accustomed to listening attentively, I almost hope you will allow a few nurses to come in and sit in the corners,--the ones who bring the youngest children, for example; it would be such a means of education to them. There 's another idea for you next year,--a nurses' class in story-telling." "It would be rather nice, would n't it?--and I should be older then, and more experienced. I really think I could do it, if Miss Denison would help me by talks and instructions. She will be here next year. Oh, how the little plan broadens out!" "And, Polly, you have chosen to pay for your circulars, and propose to buy your sand-table. This I agree to, if you insist upon it; though why I shouldn't help my godchild I cannot quite understand. But knowing you were so absorbed in other matters that you would forget the frivolities, and remembering that you have been wearing the same two dresses for months, I have ventured to get you some pretty gowns for the 'story hours,' and I want you to accept them for your Christmas present. They will serve for all your 'afternoons' and for our home dinners, as you will not be going out anywhere this winter." "Oh, how kind you are, Mrs. Bird! You load me with benefits, and how can I ever repay you?" "You do not have to repay them to me necessarily, my child; you can pass them over, as you will be constantly doing, to all these groups of children, day after day. I am a sort of stupid, rich old lady who serves as a source of supply. My chief brilliancy lies in devising original methods of getting rid of my surplus in all sorts of odd and delightful ways, left untried, for the most part, by other people. I 've been buying up splendid old trees in the outskirts of certain New England country towns,--trees that were in danger of being cut down for wood. Twenty-five to forty dollars buys a glorious tree, and it is safe for ever and ever to give shade to the tired traveler and beauty to the landscape. Each of my boys has his pet odd scheme for helping the world to 'go right.' Donald, for instance, puts stamps on the unstamped letters displayed in the Cambridge post-office, and sends them spinning on their way. He never receives the thanks of the careless writers, but he takes pleasure in making things straight. Paul writes me from Phillips Academy that this year he is sending the nine Ruggles children (a poor family of our acquaintance) to some sort of entertainment once every month. Hugh has just met a lovely girl who has induced him to help her maintain a boarding establishment for sick and deserted cats and dogs; and there we are!" "But I 'm a young, strong girl, and I fear I 'm not so worthy an object of charity as a tree, an unstamped letter, an infant Ruggles, or a deserted cat! Still, I know the dresses will be lovely, and I had quite forgotten that I must be clothed in purple and fine linen for five months to come. It would have been one of my first thoughts last year, I am afraid; but lately this black dress has shut everything else from my sight." "It was my thought that you should give up your black dress just for these occasions, dear, and wear something more cheerful for the children's sake. The dresses are very simple, for I 've heard you say you can never tell a story when you are 'dressed up,' but they will please you, I know. They will be brought home this evening, and you must slip them all on, and show yourself to us in each." They would have pleased anybody, even a princess, Polly thought, as she stood before her bed that evening patting the four pretty new waists, and smoothing with childlike delight the folds of the four pretty skirts. It was such an odd sensation to have four dresses at a time! They were of simple and inexpensive materials, as was appropriate; but Mrs. Bird's exquisite taste and feeling for what would suit Polly's personality made them more attractive than if they had been rich or expensive. There was a white China silk, with belt and shoulder-knots of black velvet; a white Japanese crepe, with purple lilacs strewed over its surface, and frills of violet ribbon for ornament; a Christmas dress of soft, white camel's hair, with bands of white-fox fur round the slightly pointed neck and elbow-sleeves; and, last of all, a Quaker gown of silver-gray nun's cloth, with a surplice and full undersleeves of white crêpe-lisse. "I 'm going to be vain, Mrs. Bird!" cried Polly, with compunction in her voice. "I 've never had a real beautiful, undyed, un-made-over dress in my whole life, and I shall never have strength of character to own four at once without being vain!" This speech was uttered through the crack of the library door, outside of which Polly stood, gathering courage to walk in and be criticised. "Think of your aspiring nose, Sapphira!" came from a voice within. "Oh, are you there too, Edgar?" "Of course I am, and so is Tom Mills. The news that you are going to 'try on' is all over the neighborhood! If you have cruelly fixed the age limit so that we can't possibly get in to the performances, we are going to attend all the dress rehearsals. Oh, ye little fishes! what a seraphic Sapphira! I wish Tony were here!" She was pretty, there was no doubt about it, as she turned around like a revolving wax figure in a show-window, and assumed absurd fashion-plate attitudes; and pretty chiefly because of the sparkle, intelligence, sunny temper, and vitality that made her so magnetic. Nobody could decide which was the loveliest dress, even when she had appeared in each one twice. In the lilac and white crepe, with a bunch of dark Parma violets thrust in her corsage, Uncle Jack called her a poem. Edgar asserted openly that in the Christmas toilet he should like to have her modeled in wax and put in a glass case on his table; but Mrs. Bird and Tom Mills voted for the Quaker gray, in which she made herself inexpressibly demure by braiding her hair in two discreet braids down her back. "The dress rehearsal is over. Good-night all!" she said, as she took her candle. "I will say 'handsome is as handsome does' fifty times before I go to sleep, and perhaps--I only say perhaps--I may be used to my beautiful clothes in a week or two, so that I shall be my usual modest self again." "Good-night, Polly," said the boys; "we will see you to-morrow." "'Pauline,' if you please, not 'Polly.' I ceased to be Polly this morning when the circulars were posted. I am now Miss Pauline Oliver, story-teller by profession." CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR: REPORTED IN A LETTER BY AN EYE-WITNESS. It was the last Monday in March, and I had come in from my country home to see if I could find my old school friend, Margaret Crosby, who is now Mrs. Donald Bird, and who is spending a few years in California. The directory gave me her address, and I soon found myself on the corner of two beautiful streets and before a very large and elegant house. This did not surprise me, as I knew her husband to be a very wealthy man. There seemed to be various entrances, for the house stood with its side to the main street; but when I had at last selected a bell to ring, I became convinced that I had not, after all, gone to the front door. It was too late to retreat, however, and very soon the door was opened by a pretty maid-servant in a white cap and apron. "You need n't have rung, 'm; they goes right in without ringing to-day," she said pleasantly. "Can I see Mrs. Bird?" I asked. "Well, 'm," she said hesitatingly, "she 's in Paradise." "Lovely Margaret Crosby dead! How sudden it must have been," I thought, growing pale with the shock of the surprise; but the pretty maid, noticing that something had ruffled my equanimity, went on hastily:-- "Excuse me, 'm. I forgot you might be a stranger, but the nurses and mothers always comes to this door, and we 're all a bit flustered on account of its bein' Miss Pauline's last 'afternoon,' and the mothers call the music-room 'Paradise,' 'm, and Mr. John and the rest of us have took it up without thinkin' very much how it might sound to strangers." "Oh, I see," I said mechanically, though I did n't see in the least; but although the complicated explanation threw very little light on general topics, it did have the saving grace of assuring me that Margaret Bird was living. "Could you call her out for a few minutes?" I asked. "I am an old friend, and shall be disappointed not to see her." "I 'm sorry, 'm, but I could n't possibly call her out; it would be as much as my place is worth. Her strict orders is that nobody once inside of Paradise door shall be called out." "That does seem reasonable," I thought to myself. "But," she continued, "Mrs. Bird told me to let young Mr. Noble up the stairs so 't he could peek in the door, and as you 're an old friend I hev n't no objections to your goin' up softly and peekin' in with him till Miss Pauline 's through,--it won't be long, 'm." My curiosity was aroused by this time, and I came to the conclusion that "peekin' in the door" of Paradise with "young Mr. Noble" would be better than nothing; so up I went, like a thief in the night. The room was at the head of the stairs, and one of the doors was open, and had a heavy portiere hanging across it. Behind this was young Mr. Noble, "peekin'" most greedily, together with a middle-aged gentleman not described by the voluble parlor maid. They did n't seem to notice me; they were otherwise occupied, or perhaps they thought me one of the nurses or mothers. I had heard the sound of a piano as I crossed the hall, but it was still now. I crept behind young Mr. Noble, and took a good "peek" into Paradise. It was a very large apartment, one that looked as if it might have been built for a ball-room; at least, there was a wide, cushioned bench running around three sides of it, close to the wall. On one side, behind some black and gold Japanese screens, where they could hear and not be seen, sat a row of silent, capped and aproned nurse-maids and bonneted mammas. Mrs. Bird was among them, lovely and serene as an angel still, though she has had her troubles. There was a great fireplace in the room, but it was banked up with purple and white lilacs. There was a bowl of the same flowers on the grand piano, and a clump of bushes sketched in chalk on a blackboard. Just then a lovely young girl walked from the piano and took a low chair in front of the fireplace. Before her there were grouped ever so many children, twenty-five or thirty, perhaps. The tots in the front rows were cosy and comfortable on piles of cushions, and the seven or eight year olds in the back row were in seats a little higher. Each child had a sprig of lilac in its hand. The young girl wore a soft white dress with lavender flowers scattered all over it, and a great bunch of the flowers in her belt. She was a lovely creature! At least, I believe she was. I have an indistinct remembrance that her enemies (if she has any) might call her hair red; but I could n't stop looking at her long enough at the time to decide precisely what color it was. And I believe, now that several days have passed, that her nose turned up; but at the moment, whenever I tried to see just how much it wandered from the Grecian outline, her eyes dazzled me and I never found out. As she seated herself in their midst, the children turned their faces expectantly toward her, like flowers toward the sun. "You know it 's the last Monday, dears," she said; "and we 've had our good-by story." "Tell it again! Sing it again!" came from two kilted adorers in the back row. "Not to-day;" and she shook her head with a smile. "You know we always stop within the hour, and that is the reason we are always eager to come again; but this sprig of lilac that you all hold in your hands has something to tell; not a long story, just a piece of one for another good-by. I think when we go home, it we all press the flowers in heavy books, and open the books sometimes while we are away from each other this summer, that the sweet fragrance will come to us again, and the faded blossom will tell its own story to each one of us. And this is the story," she said, as she turned her spray of lilac in her fingers. * * * * * There was once a little lilac-bush that grew by a child's window. There was no garden there, only a tiny bit of ground with a few green things in it; and because there were no trees in the crowded streets, the birds perched on the lilac-bush to sing, and two of them even built a nest in it once, for want of something larger. It had been a very busy lilac-bush all its life: drinking up moisture from the earth and making it into sap; adding each year a tiny bit of wood to its slender trunk; filling out its leaf-buds; making its leaves larger and larger; and then--oh, happy, happy time!--hanging purple flowers here and there among its branches. It always felt glad of its hard work when Hester came to gather some of its flowers just before Easter Sunday. For one spray went to the table where Hester and her mother ate together; one to Hester's teacher; one to the gray stone church around the corner, and one to a little lame girl who sat, and sat, quite still, day after day, by the window of the next house. But one year--this very last year, children--the lilac-bush grew tired of being good and working hard; and the more it thought about it, the sadder and sorrier and more discouraged it grew. The winter had been dark and rainy; the ground was so wet that its roots felt slippery and uncomfortable; there was some disagreeable moss growing on its smooth branches; the sun almost never shone; the birds came but seldom; and at last the lilac-bush said, "I will give up: I am not going to bud or bloom or do a single thing for Easter this year! I don't care if my trunk does n't grow, nor my buds swell, nor my leaves grow larger! If Hester wants her room shaded, she can pull the curtain down; and the lame girl can"--_do without_, it was going to say, but it did n't dare--oh, it did n't dare to think of the poor little lame girl without any comforting flowers; so it stopped short and hung its head. Six or eight weeks ago Hester and her mother went out one morning to see the lilac-bush. "It does n't look at all as it ought," said Hester, shaking her head sadly. "The buds are very few, and they are all shrunken. See how limp and flabby the stems of the leaves look!" "Perhaps it is dead," said Hester's mother, "or perhaps it is too old to bloom." "I like that!" thought the lilac-bush. "I 'm not dead and I 'm not dying, though I 'd just as lief die as to keep on working in this dark, damp, unpleasant winter, or spring, or whatever they call it; and as for being past blooming, I would just like to show her, if it was n't so much trouble! How old does she think I am, I wonder? There is n't a thing in this part of the city that is over ten years old, and I was n't planted first, by any means!" And then Hester said, "My darling, darling lilac-bush! Easter won't be Easter without it; and lame Jenny leans out of her window every day as I come from school, and asks, 'Is the lilac budding?'" "Oh dear!" sighed the little bush. "I wish she would n't talk that way; it makes me so nervous to have Jenny asking questions about me! It starts my sap circulating, and I shall grow in spite of me!" "Let us see what we can do to help it," said Hester's mother. "Take your trowel and dig round the roots first." "They 'll find a moist and sticky place and be better able to sympathize with me," thought the lilac. "Then put in some new earth, the richest you can get, and we 'll snip off all the withered leaves and dry twigs, and see if it won't take a new start." "I shall have to, I believe, whether I like it or not, if they make such a fuss about me!" thought the lilac-bush. "It seems a pity if a thing can't stop growing and be let alone and die if it wants to!" But though it grumbled a trifle at first, it felt so much better after Hester and her mother had spent the afternoon caring for it, that it began to grow a little just out of gratitude,--and what do you think happened? "George Washington came and chopped it down with his little hatchet," said an eager person in front. "The lame girl came to look at it," sang out a small chap in the back row. No, (the young girl answered, with an irrepressible smile), it was a cherry-tree that George Washington chopped, Lucy; and I told you, Horatio, that the poor lame girl could n't walk a step. But the sun began to shine,--that is the first thing that happened. Day after day the sun shone, because everything seems to help the people and the things that help themselves. The rich earth gave everything it had to give for sap, and the warm air dried up the ugly moss that spoiled the beauty of its trunk. Then the lilac-bush was glad again, and it could hardly grow fast enough, because it knew it would be behind time, at any rate; for of course it could n't stand still, grumbling and doing nothing for weeks, and get its work done as soon as the other plants. But it made sap all clay long, and the buds grew into tiny leaves, and the leaves into larger ones, and then it began to group its flower-buds among the branches. By this time it was the week before Easter, and it fairly sat up nights to work. Hester knew that it was going to be more beautiful than it ever was in its life before (that was because it had never tried so hard, though of course Hester could n't know that), but she was only afraid that it would n't bloom soon enough, it was so very late this spring. But the very morning before Easter Sunday, Hester turned in her sleep and dreamed that a sweet, sweet fragrance was stealing in at her open window. A few minutes later she ran across her room, and lo! every cluster of buds on the lilac-bush had opened into purple flowers, and they were waving in the morning sunshine as if to say, "We are ready, Hester! We are ready, after all!" And one spray was pinned in the teacher's dress,--it was shabby and black,--and she was glad of the flower because it reminded her of home. And one spray stood in a vase on Hester's dining-table. There was never very much dinner in Hester's house, but they did not care that day, because the lilac was so beautiful. One bunch lay on the table in the church, and one, the loveliest of all, stood in a cup of water on the lame girl's window-sill; and when she went to bed that night she moved it to the table beside her head, and put her thin hand out to touch it in the dark, and went to sleep smiling. And each of the lilac flowers was glad that the bush had bloomed. * * * * * The children drew a deep breath. They smoothed their flower-sprays gently, and one pale boy held his up to his cheek as if it had been a living thing. "Tell it again," cried the tomboy. "Is it true?" asked the boy in kilts. "I think it is," said the girl gently. "Of course, Tommy, the flowers never tell us their secrets in words; but I have watched that lilac-bush all through the winter and spring, and these are the very blossoms you are holding to-day. It seems true, doesn't it?" "Yes," they said thoughtfully. "Shall you press yours, Miss Polly, and will it tell you a story, too, when you look at it?" asked one little tot as they all crowded about her for a good-by kiss. Miss Polly caught her up in her arms, and I saw her take the child's apron and wipe away a tear as she said, "Yes, dear, it will tell me a story, too,--a long, sad, sweet, helpful story!" 
35302	----	THE GENIAL IDIOT HIS VIEWS AND REVIEWS BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMVIII BOOKS BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS THE GENIAL IDIOT. 16mo $1.25 THREE WEEKS IN POLITICS. 32mo .50 COFFEE AND REPARTEE, AND THE IDIOT. Illustrated. (In One Vol.) 16mo 1.25 COFFEE AND REPARTEE. 32mo .50 THE WATER GHOST. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 MR. BONAPARTE OF CORSICA. Ill'd. 16mo 1.25 A REBELLIOUS HEROINE. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. Ill'd. 16mo 1.25 THE BICYCLERS, A DRAMATIC EVENING, THE FATAL MESSAGE, A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES. (In One Vol.) 16mo 1.25 A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 16mo .50 PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE-BOAT. Ill'd. 16mo 1.25 PASTE JEWELS. Illustrated. 16mo 1.00 GHOSTS I HAVE MET. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 PEEPS AT PEOPLE. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 THE DREAMERS. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 ENCHANTED TYPE-WRITER. Ill'd. 16mo 1.25 BOOMING OF ACRE HILL. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER. 16mo .50 THE IDIOT AT HOME. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 OVER THE PLUM-PUDDING. Post 8vo, net 1.15 BIKEY THE SKICYCLE. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.50 THE WORSTED MAN. Illustrated. 32mo .50 MRS. RAFFLES. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 R. HOLMES & CO. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.25 OLYMPIAN NIGHTS. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 INVENTIONS OF THE IDIOT. 16mo 1.25 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. Copyright, 1908, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ Published October, 1908. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. HE DISCUSSES MAXIMS AND PROVERBS 3 II. HE DISCUSSES THE IDEAL HUSBAND 14 III. THE IDIOT'S VALENTINE 27 IV. HE DISCUSSES FINANCE 39 V. HE SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA 52 VI. HE DISCUSSES FAME 64 VII. ON THE DECADENCE OF APRIL-FOOL'S-DAY 77 VIII. SPRING AND ITS POETRY 88 IX. ON FLAT-HUNTING 100 X. THE HOUSEMAID'S UNION 112 XI. THE GENTLE ART OF BOOSTING 123 XII. HE MAKES A SUGGESTION TO THE POET 135 XIII. HE DISCUSSES THE MUSIC CURE 147 XIV. HE DEFENDS CAMPAIGN METHODS 159 XV. ON SHORT COURSES AT COLLEGE 170 XVI. THE HORSE-SHOW 182 XVII. SUGGESTION TO CHRISTMAS SHOPPERS 194 XVIII. FOR A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 205 THE GENIAL IDIOT I HE DISCUSSES MAXIMS AND PROVERBS "Good!" cried the Idiot, from behind the voluminous folds of the magazine section of his Sunday newspaper. "Here's a man after my own heart. Professor Duff, of Glasgow University, has come out with a public statement that the maxims and proverbs of our forefathers are largely hocus-pocus and buncombe. I've always maintained that myself from the moment I had my first copy-book lesson in which I had to scrawl the line, 'It's a long lane that has no turning,' twenty-four times. And then that other absurd statement, 'A stitch in the side is worth two in the hand'--or something like it--I forget just how it goes--what Tommy-rot that is." "Well, I don't know about that, Mr. Idiot," said Mr. Whitechoker, tapping his fingers together reflectively. "Certain great moral principles are instilled into the minds of the young by the old proverbs and maxims that remain with them forever, and become a potent influence in the formation of character." "I should like to agree with you, but I can't," said the Idiot. "I don't believe anything that is noble in the way of character was ever fostered by such a statement as that it's a long lane that has no turning. In the first place, it isn't necessarily true. I know a lane on my grandfather's farm that led from the hen-coop to the barn. There wasn't a turn nor a twist in it, and I know by actual measurement that it wasn't sixty feet long. You've got just as much right to say to a boy that it's a long nose that has no twisting, or a long leg that has no pulling, or a long courtship that has no kissing. There's infinitely more truth in those last two than in the original model. The leg that's never pulled doesn't go short in a stringent financial market, and a courtship without a kiss, even if it lasted only five minutes, would be too long for any self-respecting lover." "I never thought of it in that way," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Perhaps, after all, the idea is ill-expressed in the original." "Perfectly correct," said the Idiot. "But even then, what? Suppose they had put the thing right in the beginning and said 'it's a long lane that has no ending.' What's the use of putting a thing like that in a copy-book? A boy who didn't know that without being told ought to be spanked and put to bed. Why not tell him it's a long well that has no bottom, or a long dog that has no wagging, or a long railroad that has no terminal facilities?" "Oh, well," interposed the Bibliomaniac, "what's the use of being captious? Out of a billion and a half wise saws you pick out one to jump on. Because one is weak, all the rest must come down with a crash." "There are plenty of others, and the way they refute one another is to me a constant source of delight," said the Idiot. "There's 'Procrastination is the thief of time,' for instance. That's a clear injunction to youth to get up and hustle, and he starts in with all the impulsiveness of youth, and the first thing he knows--bang! he runs slap into 'Look before you leap,' or 'Second thoughts are best.' That last is what Samuel Johnson would have called a beaut. What superior claims the second thought has over the first or the seventy-seventh thought, that it should become axiomatic, I vow I can't see. If it's morality you're after I am dead against the teachings of that proverb. The second thought is the open door to duplicity when it comes to a question of morals. You ask a small boy, who has been in swimming when he ought to have been at Sunday-school, why his shirt is wet. His first thought is naturally to reply along the line of fact and say, 'Why, because it fell into the pond.' But second thought comes along with visions of hard spanking and a supperless bed in store for him, and suggests the idea that 'There was a leak in the Sunday-school roof right over the place where I was sitting,' or, 'I sat down on the teacher's glass of water.' That's the sort of thing second thought does in the matter of morals. "I admit, of course, that there are times when second thoughts are better than first ones--for instance, if your first thought is to name the baby Jimmie and Jimmie turns out to be a girl, it is better to obey your second thought and call her Gladys or Samantha--but it is not always so, and I object to the nerve of the broad, general statement that it _is_ so. Sometimes fifth thoughts are best. In science I guess you'll find that the man who thinks the seven hundred and ninety-seventh thought along certain lines has got the last and best end of it. And so it goes--out of the infinitesimal number of numbers, every mother's son of 'em may at the psychological moment have a claim to the supremacy, but your self-sufficient old proverb-maker falls back behind the impenetrable wall of his own conceit, and announces that because he has nothing but second-hand thoughts, therefore the second thought is best, and we, like a flock of sheep, follow this leader, and go blatting that sentiment down through the ages as if it were proved beyond peradventure by the sum total of human experience." "Well, you needn't get mad about it," said the Lawyer. "I never said it--so you can't blame me." "Still, there are some proverbs," said Mr. Whitechoker, blandly, "that we may not so summarily dismiss. Take, for instance, 'You never miss the water till the well runs dry.'" "One of the worst of the lot, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot. "I've missed the water lots of times when the well was full as ever. You miss the water when the pipes freeze up, don't you? You--or rather I--I sometimes miss the water like time at five o'clock in the morning after a pleasant evening with some jovial friends, when there's no end of it in the well, but not a drop within reach of my fevered hand, and I haven't the energy to grope my way down-stairs to the ice-pitcher. There's more water in that proverb than tangible assets. From the standpoint of veracity that's one of the most immoral proverbs of the lot--and if you came to apply it to the business world--oh, Lud! As a rule, these days, you never _find_ the water till the well has been pumped dry and put in the hands of a receiver for the benefit of the bond-holders. Fact is, all these water proverbs are to be regarded with suspicion." "I don't recall any other," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Well," said the Idiot, "there's one, and it's the nerviest of 'em all--'Water never runs up hill.' Ask any man in Wall Street how high the water has run up in the last five years and see what he tells you. And then, 'You may drive a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink,' is another choice specimen of the Waterbury School of Philosophy. I know a lot of human horses who have been driven to water lately, and such drinkers as they have become! It's really awful. If I knew the name of that particular Maximilian who invented those water proverbs I'd do my best to have him indicted for doing business without a license." "It's very unfortunate," said Mr. Whitechoker, "that modern conditions should so have upset the wisdom of the ancients." "It is too bad," said the Idiot. "And I am just as sorry about it as you are; but, after all, the wisdom of the ancients, wise and wisdomatic as it was, should not be permitted to put at nought all modern thought. Why not adapt the wisdom of the ancients to modern conditions? You can't begin too soon, for new generations are constantly springing up, and I know of no better outlet for reform than in these self-same Spencerian proverbs which the poor kids have to copy, copy, copy, until they are sick and tired of them. Now, in the writing-lessons, why not adapt your means to your ends? Why make a beginner in penmanship write over and over again, 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?'--which it isn't, by-the-way, to a man who is a good shot--when you can bear in on his mind that 'A dot on the I is worth two on the T'; or, for the instruction of your school-teachers, why don't you get up a proverb like 'It's a long lesson that has no learning'? Or if you are interested in having your boy brought up to the strenuous life, why don't you have him make sixty copies of the aphorism, 'A punch in the solar is worth six on the nose?' You tell your children never to whistle until they are out of the woods. Now, where in the name of all that's lovely should a boy whistle if not in the woods? That's where birds whistle. That's where the wind whistles. If nature whistles anywhere, it is in the woods. Woods were made for whistling, and any man who ever sat over a big log-fire in camp or in library who has not noticed that the logs themselves whistle constantly--well, he is a pachyderm." "Well, as far as I can reach a conclusion from all that you have said," put in Mr. Whitechoker, "the point seems to be that the proverbs of the ancients are not suited to modern conditions, and that you think they should be revised." "Exactly," said the Idiot. "It's a splendid idea," said Mr. Brief. "But, after all, you've got to have something to begin on. Possibly," he added, with a wink at the Bibliomaniac, "you have a few concrete examples to show us what can be done." "Certainly," said the Idiot. "Here is a list of them." And as he rose up to depart he handed Mr. Brief a paper on which he had written as follows: "You never find the water till the stock falls off twenty points." "A stitch in time saves nothing at all at present tailors' rates." "You look after the pennies. Somebody else will deposit the pounds." "It's a long heiress that knows no yearning." "Second thoughts are always second." "Procrastination is the theme of gossips." "Never put off to-day what you can put on day after to-morrow." "Sufficient unto the day are the obligations of last month." "One good swat deserves another." * * * * * "By Jove!" said Mr. Brief, as he read them off, "you can't go back on any of 'em, can you?" "No," said the Bibliomaniac; "that's the great trouble with the Idiot. Even with all his idiocy he is not always a perfect idiot." II HE DISCUSSES THE IDEAL HUSBAND "Well, I see the Ideal Husband has broken out again," said the Idiot, after reading a short essay on that interesting but rare individual by Gladys Waterbury Shrivelton of the Woman's Page of the Squehawkett _Gazoo_. "I'd hoped they had him locked up for good, he's been so little in evidence of late years." "Why should you wish so estimable an individual to be locked up?" demanded Mr. Pedagog, who, somehow or other, seemed to take the Idiot's suggestion as personal. "To keep his idealness from being shattered," said the Idiot. "Nothing against the gentleman himself, I can assure you. It would be a pity, I think, once you have really found an Ideal Husband, to subject him to the coarse influences of the world; to let him go forth into the madding crowd and have the sweet idyllic bloom rubbed off by the attritions of the vulgar. I feel about the Ideal Husband just as I do about a beautiful peachblow vase which is too fragile, too delicate to be brought into contact with the ordinary earthen-ware of society. The earthen-ware isn't harmed by bumping into the peachblow, but the peachblow will inevitably turn up with a crack here and a nick there and a hole somewhere else after such an encounter. If I were a woman and suddenly discovered that I had an Ideal Husband, I think at my personal sacrifice I'd present him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art or immure him in some other retreat where his perfection would remain forever secure--say, up among the Egyptian mummies of the British Museum. We cannot be too careful, Mr. Pedagog, of these rarely beautiful things that are now and again vouchsafed to us." "What is an Ideal Husband, anyhow?" asked Mr. Brief. "Has the recipe for such an individual at last been discovered?" "Yes," put in Mrs. Pedagog, before the Idiot had a chance to reply, and here the dear old landlady fixed her eyes firmly and affectionately upon her spouse, the school-master. "I can tell you the recipe for the Ideal Husband. Years, sixty-three--" "Sixty-two, my dear," smiled Mr. Pedagog, "and--er--a fraction--verging on sixty-three." "Years, verging on sixty-three," said Mrs. Pedagog, accepting the correction. "Character developed by time and made secure. Eyes, blue; disposition when vexed, vexatious; disposition when pleased, happy; irritable from just cause; considerate always; calm exterior, heart of gold; prompt in anger and quick in forgiveness; and only one old woman in the world for him." "A trifle bald-headed, but a true friend when needed, eh?" said the Idiot. "I try to be," said Mr. Pedagog, pleasantly complacent. "Well, you succeed in both," said the Idiot. "For your trifling baldness is evident when you remove your hat, which, like a true gentleman, you never fail to do at the breakfast-table, and, after a fifteen years' experience with you, I for one can say that I have found you always the true friend when I needed you--I never told how, without my solicitation and entirely upon your own initiative, you once loaned me the money to pay Mrs. Pedagog's bill over which she was becoming anxious." "John," cried Mrs. Pedagog, severely, "did you ever do that?" "Well, my dear--er--only once, you know, and you were so relieved--" began Mr. Pedagog. "You should have lent the money to me, John," said Mrs. Pedagog, "and then I should not have been compelled to dun the Idiot." "I know, my dear, but you see I knew the Idiot would pay me back, and perhaps--well, only perhaps, my love--you might not have thought of it," explained the school-master, with a slight show of embarrassment. "The Ideal Husband is ever truthful, too," said the landlady, with a smile as broad as any. "Well, it's too bad, I think," said the Lawyer, "that a man has to be verging on sixty-three to be an Ideal Husband. I'm only forty-four, and I should hate to think that if I should happen to get married within the next two or three years my wife would have to wait at least fifteen years before she could find me all that I ought to be. Moreover, I have been told that I have black eyes." "With the unerring precision of a trained legal mind," said the Idiot, "you have unwittingly put your finger on the crux of the whole matter, Mr. Brief. Mrs. Pedagog has been describing _her_ Ideal Husband, and I am delighted to know that what I have always suspected to be the case is in fact the truth: that _her_ husband in her eyes is an ideal one. That's the way it ought to be, and that is why we have always found her the sweetest of landladies, but because Mrs. Pedagog prefers Mr. Pedagog in this race for supremacy in the domain of a woman's heart is no reason why you who are only bald-headed in your temper, like most of us, should not prove to be equally the ideal of some other woman--in fact, of several others. Women are not all alike. As a matter of fact, a gentleman named Balzac, who was the Marie Corelli of his age in France, once committed himself to the inference that no two women ever were alike, so that, if you grant the truth of old Balzac's inference, the Ideal Husband will probably vary to the extent of the latest count of the number of women in the world. So why give up hope because you are only forty-nine?" "Forty-four," corrected the Lawyer. "Pardon me--forty-four," said the Idiot. "When you are in the roaring forties, five or six years more or less do not really count. Lots of men who are really only forty-two behave like sixty, and I know one old duffer of forty-nine who has the manners of eighteen. The age question does not really count." "No--you are proof of that," said the Bibliomaniac. "You have been twenty-four years old for the last fifteen years." "Thank you, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot. "You are one of the few people in the world who really understand me. I have tried to be twenty-four for the past fifteen years, and if I have succeeded, so much the better for me. It's a beautiful age. You feel that you know so much when you're twenty-four. If it should turn out to be the answer to 'How old is Ann?' the lady should be congratulated. But, as a matter of fact, you can be an Ideal Husband at any old age." "Humph! At seven, for instance?" drawled Mr. Brief. "Seven is not any old age," retorted the Idiot. "It is a very certain old youth. Nor does it depend upon the color of the eyes, so long as they are neither green nor red. Nobody could ever make an Ideal Husband out of a green-eyed man, or a chap given to the red eye, either--" "It all depends upon the kind of a man you are, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac. "Not a bit of it," said the Idiot. "It depends on the kind of wife you've got, and that's why I say that the Ideal Husband varies to the extent of the latest count of the women in the world. Take the case of Mr. Pedagog here. Mrs. Pedagog accuses him of being an Ideal Husband, and he, without any attempt at evasion, acknowledges the corn, like the honorable gentleman he is. But can you imagine Mr. Pedagog being an Ideal Husband to some lady in the Four Hundred, with a taste for grand opera that strikes only on the box; with a love for Paris gowns that are worth a fortune; with the midnight supper and cotillion after habit firmly intrenched in her character; with an ambition to shine all summer at Newport, all autumn at Lenox, all winter at New York, with a dash to England and France in the merry, merry springtime? Do you suppose our friend John Pedagog here would be in it with Tommie Goldilocks Van Varick as the Ideal Husband of such a woman? Not on your life. Well, then, take Tommie Goldilocks Van Varick, who'd be the Ideal Spouse of this brilliant social light Mrs. Van Varick. How would he suit Mrs. Pedagog, rising at eleven-thirty every day and yelling like mad for the little blue bottle which clears the head from the left-over cobwebs of yesterday; eating his egg and drinking his coffee with a furrow in his brow almost as deep as the pallor of his cheek, and now and then making a most awful grimace because the interior of his mouth feels like a bargain day at the fur-counter of a department store; spending his afternoon sitting in the window of the Hunky Dory Club ogling the passers-by and making bets on such important questions as whether more hansoms pass up the Avenue than down, or whether the proportion of red-haired girls to white horses is as great between three and four P.M. as between five and six--" "I don't see how a woman could stand a man like that," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Indeed, I don't see where his ideal qualities come in, anyhow, Mr. Idiot. I think you are wrong in putting him among the Ideal Husbands even for Mrs. Van Varick." "No, I am not wrong, for he is indeed the very essence of her ideal because he doesn't make her stand him," said the Idiot. "He never bothers Mrs. Van Varick at all. On the first of every month he sends her a check for a good round sum with which she can pay her bills. He presents her with a town house and a country house, and a Limousine car, and all the furs she can possibly want; provides her with an opera-box, and never fails, when he himself goes to the opera, to call upon her and pay his respects like a gentleman. If she sustains heavy losses at bridge, he makes them good, and when she gives a dinner to her set, or to some distinguished social lion from other zoos, Van Varick is always on hand to do the honors of his house, and what is supposed to be his table. He and Mrs. Van Varick are on the most excellent terms; in fact, he treats her with more respect than he does any other woman he knows, never even suggesting the idea of a flirtation with her. In other words, he does not interfere with her in any way, which is the only kind of man in the world she could be happy with." "It's perfectly awful!" cried Mrs. Pedagog. "If they never see each other, what on earth did they ever get married for?" "Protection," said the Idiot. "And it is perfectly splendid in its results. Mrs. Van Varick, being married to so considerate an absentee, is able to go about very much as she pleases backed with the influence and affluence of the Van Varick name. This as plain little Miss Floyd Poselthwaite she was unable to do. She has now an assured position, and is protected against the chance of marrying a man who, unlike Van Varick, would growl at her expenditures, object to her friends, and insist upon coming home to dinner every night, and occasionally turn up at breakfast." "Sweet life," said the Bibliomaniac. "And what does the Willieboy husband get out of it?" "Pride, protection, and freedom," said the Idiot. "He's as proud as Punch when he sees Mrs. Van V. swelling about town with her name kept as standing matter in every society column in the country. His freedom he enjoys, just as she enjoys hers. If he doesn't turn up for six weeks she never asks any questions, and so Van Varick can live on easy terms with the truth. If he sits up all night over a game of cards, there's nobody to chide him for doing so, and--" "But where does his protection come in? That's what I can't see," said the Bibliomaniac. "It's as plain as a pike-staff," said the Idiot. "With Mrs. Van Varick on the _tapis_, Tommie is safe from designing ladies who might marry him for his money." "Well, he's a mighty poor ideal!" cried Mr. Pedagog. "He certainly would not do for Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "But you would yourself be no better for Mrs. Van Varick. The red Indian makes an Ideal Husband for the squaw, but he'd never suit a daughter of the British nobility any more than the Duke of Lacklands would make a good husband for dusky little Minnehaha. So I say what's the use of discussing the matter any further with the purpose of arbitrarily settling on what it is that constitutes an Ideal Husband? We may all hope to be considered such if we only find the girl that likes our particular kind." "Then," said Mr. Brief, with a smile, "your advice to me is not to despair, eh?" "That's it," said the Idiot. "I wouldn't give up, if I were you. There's no telling when some one will come along to whom you appear to be the perfect creature." "Good!" cried Mr. Brief. "You are mighty kind. I don't suppose you can give me a hint as to how soon I may expect to meet the lady?" "Well--no, I can't," said the Idiot. "I don't believe even Edison could tell you about when to look for arrivals from Mars." III THE IDIOT'S VALENTINE "Well, old man," said the Poet, as the Idiot entered the breakfast-room on the morning of Valentine's day, "how did old St. Valentine treat you? Any results worth speaking of?" "Oh, the usual lay-out," returned the Idiot, languidly. "Nine hundred and forty-two passionate declarations of undying affection from unknown lady friends in all parts of the civilized world; one thousand three hundred and twenty-four highly colored but somewhat insulting intimations that I had better go 'way back and sit down from hitherto unsuspected gentlemen friends scattered from Maine to California; one small can of salt marked 'St. Valentine to the Idiot,' with sundry allusions to the proper medical treatment of the latter's freshness, and a small box containing a rubber bottle-stopper labelled 'Cork up and bust.' I can't complain." "Well, you did come in for your share of it, didn't you?" said Mr. Brief. "Yes," said the Idiot, "I think I got all that was coming to me, and I wouldn't have minded it if I hadn't had to pay three dollars over-due postage on 'em. I don't bother much if some anonymous chap off in the wilds of Kalikajoo takes the trouble to send me a funny picture of a monkey grinding a hand-organ with 'the loving regards of your brother,' or if somebody else who is afraid of becoming too fond of me sends me a horse-chestnut with a line to the effect that here is one I haven't printed, I don't feel like getting mad; but when I have to pay the postage on the plaguey things it strikes me it is rubbing it in a little too hard, and if I could find two or three of the senders I'd spend an hour or two of my time banging their heads together." "I got off pretty well," said the Bibliomaniac. "I only got one valentine, and though it cast some doubt upon the quality of my love for books, I found it quite amusing. I'll read it to you." Here the Bibliomaniac took a small paper from his pocket and read the following lines: "THE HUNGRY BIBLIOMANIAC "If only you would cut your books As often as your butter, When people ask you what's inside You wouldn't sit and sputter. The reading that hath made _you_ full, The reading that doth chain you, Is not from books, or woman's looks, But fresh from off the menu." "What do you think of that?" asked the Bibliomaniac, with a chuckle, as he folded up his valentine and stowed it away in his pocket once more. "I think I can spot the sender," said the Idiot, fixing his eyes sternly upon the Poet. "It takes genius to get up a rhyme like 'menu' and 'chain you,' and I know of only one man at this board or at any other who is equal to the task." "If you mean me," retorted the Poet, flushing, "you are mightily mistaken. I wouldn't waste a rhyme like that on a personal valentine when I could tack it on to the end of a sonnet and go out and sell it for two-fifty." "Then you didn't do it, eh?" demanded the Idiot. "No. Did you?" asked the Poet, with his eyes twinkling. "Sir," said the Idiot, "if I had done it, would I have had the unblushing effrontery to say, as I just now did say, that its author was a genius?" "Well, we're square, anyhow," said the Poet. "You cast me under suspicion, to begin with, and it was only fair that I should whack back. I got a valentine myself, and I suspect it was from the same hand. It runs like this: "TO THE MINOR POET "You do not pluck the fairy flowers That bloom on high Parnassus, Nor do you gather thistles like Some of those mystic asses Who browse about old Helicon In hope to fill their tummies; Yours rather are those dandy-lines-- Gilt-topped chrysanthemummies-- Quite pleasant stuff That ends in fluff-- Yet when they are beholden Make all the world look golden." "Well," ejaculated the Idiot, "I don't see what there is in that to make you angry. Seems to me there's some very nice compliments in that. For instance, your stuff when 'tis 'beholden Makes all the world look golden,' according to your anonymous correspondent. If he'd been vicious he might have said something like this: '--withal so supercilious They make the whole earth bilious.'" The Poet grinned. "I'm not complaining about it. It's a mighty nice little verse, I think, and my only regret is that I do not know who the chap was who sent it. I'd like to thank him. I had an idea you might help me," he said, with a searching glance. "I will," said the Idiot. "If the man who sent you that ever reveals his identity to me I will tell him you fell all over yourself with joy on receiving his tribute of admiration. How did you come out, Doctor?" "Oh, he remembered me, all right," said the Doctor. "Quite in the same vein, too, only he's not so complimentary. He calls me 'The Humane Surgeon,' and runs into rhyme after this fashion: "O, Doctor Blank's a surgeon bold, A surgeon most humane, sir; And what he does is e'er devoid Of ordinary pain, sir. "If he were called to amputate A leg hurt by a bullet, He wouldn't take a knife and cut-- But with his bill he'd pull it." "He must have had some experience with you, Doctor," said the Idiot. "In fact, he knows you so well that I am inclined to think that the writer of that valentine lives in this house, and it is just possible that the culprit is seated at this table at this moment." "I think it very likely," said the Doctor, dryly. "He's a fresh young man, five feet ten inches in height--" "Pooh--pooh!" said the Idiot. "That's the worst description of Mr. Brief I ever heard. Mr. Brief, in the first place, is not a young man, and he isn't fresh--" "I didn't mean Mr. Brief," said the Doctor, significantly. "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself to intimate that Mr. Whitechoker, a clergyman, would stoop to the writing of such a rhyme as that," cried the Idiot. "People nowadays seem to me to be utterly lacking in that respect for the cloth to which it is entitled. Mr. Brief, if you really wrote that thing you owe it to Mr. Whitechoker to own up and thus relieve him of the suspicion the Doctor has so unblushingly cast upon him." "I can prove an alibi," said the Lawyer. "I could no more turn a rhyme than I could play 'Parsifal' on a piano with one finger, and I wouldn't if I could. I judge, from what I know of the market value of poems these days, that that valentine of the Doctor's is worth about two dollars. It would take me a century to write it, and inasmuch as my time is worth at least five dollars a year it stands to reason that I would not put in five hundred dollars' worth of effort on a two-dollar job. So that lets me out. By-the-way, I got one of these trifles myself. Want to hear it?" "I am just crazy to hear it," said the Idiot. "If any man has reduced you to poetry, Mr. Brief, he's a great man. With all your many virtues, you seem to me to fit into a poetical theme about as snugly as an automobile with full power on in a china-shop. By all means let us have it." "This modern St. Valentine of ours has reduced the profession to verse with a nicety that elicits my most profound admiration," said Mr. Brief. "Just listen to this: "The Lawyer is no wooer, yet To sue us is his whim. The Lawyer is no tailor, but We get our suits from him. The longest things in all the world-- They are the Lawyer's briefs, And all the joys he gets in life Are other people's griefs. Yet spite of all the Lawyer's faults He's one point rather nice: He'll not remain lest you retain And _never gives_ advice." "The author of these valentines," said the Doctor, "is to be spotted, the way I diagnose the case, by his desire that professional people should be constantly giving away their services. He objects to the Doctor's bill and he slaps sarcastically at the Lawyer because he doesn't _give_ advice. That's why I suspect the Idiot. He's a professional Idiot, and yet he gives his idiocy away." "When did I ever give myself away?" demanded the Idiot. "You are talking wildly, Doctor. The idea of your trying to drag me into this thing is preposterous. Suppose you show down your valentine and see if it is in my handwriting." "Mine is typewritten," said the Doctor. "So is mine," said the Bibliomaniac. "Mine, too," said the Poet. "Same here," said Mr. Brief. "Well, then," said the Idiot, "I'm willing to write a page in my own hand without any attempt to disguise it, and let any handwriting expert decide as to whether there is the slightest resemblance between my chirography and these typewritten sheets you hold in your hand." "That's fair enough," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Besides," persisted the Idiot, "I've received one of the things myself, and it'll make your hair curl, if you've got any. Typewritten like the rest of 'em. Shall I read it?" By common consent the Idiot read the following: "Idiot, zany, brain of hare, Dolt and noodle past compare, Buncombe, bosh, and verbal slosh, Mind of nothing, full of josh, Madman, donkey, dizzard-pate, U. S. Zero Syndicate, Dull, depressing, lack of wit, Incarnation of the nit. Minus, numskull, drivelling baby, Greenhorn, dunce, and dotard Gaby; All the queer and loony chorus Found in old Roget's _Thesaurus_, Flat and crazy through and through, That, O Idiot--that is you. Let me tell you, sir, in fine, _I_ won't be your Valentine. "What do you think of that?" asked the Idiot, when he had finished. "Wouldn't that jar you?" "I think it's perfectly horrid," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Mary, pass the pancakes to the Idiot. Mr. Idiot, let me hand you a full cup of coffee. John, hand the Idiot the syrup. Why, how a thing like that should be allowed to go through the mails passes me!" And the others all agreed that the landlady's indignation was justified, because they were fond of the Idiot in spite of his faults. They would not see him abused, at any rate. * * * * * "Say, old man," said the Poet, later, "I really thought you sent those other valentines until you read yours." "I thought you would," said the Idiot. "That's the reason why I worked up that awful one on myself. That relieves me of all suspicion." IV HE DISCUSSES FINANCE A messenger had just brought a "collect" telegram for the Doctor, and that gentleman, after going through all his pockets, and finding nothing but a bunch of keys and a prescription-pad, made the natural inquiry: "Anybody got a quarter?" "I have," said the Idiot. "One of the rare mintage of 1903, circulated for a short time only and warranted good as new." "I didn't know the 1903 quarter was rare," said the Bibliomaniac, who prided himself on being a numismatist of rare ability. "Who told you the 1903 quarter was rare?" "My old friend, Experience," said the Idiot. "What's rare about it?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "Why--it's what they call ready money, spot cash, the real thing with the water squeezed out, selling at par on sight," explained the Idiot. "Millions of people never saw one, and under modern conditions it is very difficult to amass them in any considerable quantity. What is worse, even if you happen to get one of them it is next to impossible to hang on to it without unusual effort. If you have a 1903 quarter in your pocket, somehow or other the idea that it is in your possession seems to communicate itself to others, and every effort is made to lure it away from you on some pretext or other." "Excuse me for interrupting this lecture of yours, Mr. Idiot," said the Doctor, amiably, "but would you mind lending me that quarter to pay this messenger? I've left my change in my other clothes." "What did I tell you?" cried the Idiot, triumphantly. "The words are no sooner out of my mouth than they are verified. Hardly a minute elapses from the time Doctor Capsule learns that I have that quarter before he puts in an application for it." "Well, I renew the application in spite of its rarity," laughed the Doctor. "It's even rarer with me than it is with you. Shell out--there's a good chap." "I will if you'll put up a dollar for security," said the Idiot, extracting the coin from his pocket, "and give me a demand note at thirty days for the quarter." "I haven't got a dollar," said the Doctor. "Well, what other collateral have you to offer?" asked the Idiot. "I won't take buckwheat-cakes, or muffins, or your share of the sausages, mind you. They come under the head of wild-cat securities--here to-day and gone to-morrow." "My, but you're a Shylock!" ejaculated Mr. Brief. "Not a bit of it," retorted the Idiot. "If I were Shylock I'd be willing to take a steak for security, but there's none of the pound of flesh business about me. I simply proceed cautiously, like any modern financial institution that intends to stay in the ring more than two weeks. I'm not one of your fortnightly trust companies with an oak table, an unpaid bill for office rent, and a patent reversible disappearing president for its assets. I do business on the national-bank principle: millions for the rich, but not one cent for the man that needs the money." "I tell you what I'll do," said the Doctor. "If you'll lend me that quarter, I won't charge you a cent for my professional services next time you need them." "That's a large offer, but I'm afraid of it," replied the Idiot. "It partakes of the nature of a speculation. It's dealing in futures, which is not a safe thing for a financial institution to do, I don't care how solid it is. You don't catch the Chemistry National Bank lending money to anybody on mere prospects, and, what is more, in my case, I'd have to get sick to win out. No, Doctor, that proposition does not appeal to me." "Looks hopeless, doesn't it," said the Doctor. "Mary, tell the boy to wait while I run up-stairs--" "I wouldn't do that," said the Idiot, interrupting. "The matter can be arranged in another way. I honestly don't like to lend money, believing with Polonius that it's a bad thing to do. As the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina, who owed him a hundred dollars, 'It's a long time between payments on account,' and that sort of thing breaks up families, not to mention friendships. But I will match you for it." "How can I match when I haven't anything to match with?" said the Doctor, growing a trifle irritable. "You can match your credit against my quarter," said the Idiot. "We can make it a mental match--a sort of Christian Science gamble. What am I thinking of, heads or tails?" "Heads," said the Doctor. "By Jove, that's hard luck!" ejaculated the Idiot. "You lose. I was thinking of tails." "Oh, thunder!" cried the Doctor, impatiently. "Try it again, double or quits. What am I thinking of?" said the Idiot. "Heads," repeated the Doctor. "Somebody must have told you. Heads it is. You win. We are quits, Doctor," said the Idiot. "But I am still without the quarter," the physician observed. "Yep," said the Idiot. "But there's one more way out of it. I'll buy the telegram from you--C.O.D." "Done," said the Doctor, holding out the message. "Here's your goods." "And there's your money," said the Idiot, tossing the quarter across the table. "If you want to buy this message back at any time within the next sixty days, Doctor, I'll give you the refusal of it without extra charge." And he folded the paper up and put it away in his pocketbook. "Do the banks really ask for so much security when they make a loan?" asked the Poet. "Hear him, will you!" cried the Idiot. "There's your lucky man. He's never had to face a bank president in order to avoid the cold glances of the grocer. No cashier ever asked him how many times he had been sentenced to states-prison before he'd discount his note. Do they ask security? Security isn't the name for it. They demand a blockade, establish a quarantine. They require the would-be debtor to build up a wall as high as Chimborazo and as invulnerable as Gibraltar between them and the loss before they will part with a dime. Why, they wouldn't discount a note to his own order for Andrew Carnegie for seventeen cents without his indorsement. Do they ask security!" "Well, I didn't know," said the Poet. "I never had anything to do with banks except as a small depositor in the savings-bank." "Fortunate man," said the Idiot. "I wish I could say as much. I borrowed five hundred dollars once from a bank, and what the deuce do you suppose they did?" "I don't know," said the Poet. "What?" "They made me pay it back," said the Idiot, mournfully, "although I needed it just as much when it was due as when I borrowed it. The cashier was a friend of mine, too. But I got even with 'em. I refused to borrow another cent from their darned old institution. They lost my custom then and there. If it hadn't been for that inconsiderate act I should probably have gone on borrowing from them for years, and instead of owing them nothing to-day, as I do, I should have been their debtor to the tune of two or three thousand dollars." "Don't you take any stock in what the Idiot tells you in that matter, Mr. Poet," said Mr. Brief. "The national banks are perfectly justified in protecting themselves as they do. If they didn't demand collateral security they'd be put out of business in fifteen minutes by people like the Idiot, who consider it a hardship to have to pay up." "As the lady said when she was asked the name of her favorite author, 'Pshaw!'" retorted the Idiot. "Likewise fudge--a whole panful of fudges! I don't object to paying my debts; fact is, I know of no greater pleasure. What I do object to is the kind of collateral the banks demand. They always want something a man hasn't got and, in most cases, hasn't any chance of getting. If I had a thousand-dollar bond I wouldn't need to borrow five hundred dollars, yet when I go to the bank and ask for the five hundred the thousand-dollar bond is what they ask for." "Not always," said Mr. Brief. "If you can get your note indorsed you can get the money." "That's true enough, but fellows like myself can't always find a captain of industry who is willing to take a long-shot to do the indorsing," said the Idiot. "Besides, under the indorsement plan you merely ask another man to be responsible for your debt, and that isn't fair. The whole system is wrong. Every man to his own collateral, I say. Give me the bank that will lend money to the chap that needs it on the security of his own product. Mr. Whitechoker, say, is short on cash and long on sermons. My style of bank would take one barrel of his sermons and salt 'em down in the safe-deposit company as security for the money he needs. The Poet here, finding the summer approaching and not a cent in hand to replenish his wardrobe, should be able to secure an advance of two or three hundred dollars on his sonnets, rondeaux, and lyrics--one dollar for each two-and-a-half-dollar sonnet, and so on. The grocer should be able to borrow money on his dried apples, his vinegar pickles, his canned asparagus, and other non-perishable assets, such as dog-biscuit, Roquefort cheese, and California raisins. The tailor seeking an accommodation of five hundred dollars should not be asked how many times he has been sentenced to jail for arson, and required to pay in ten thousand shares of Steel common, in order to get his grip on the currency, but should be approached appropriately and asked how many pairs of trousers he is willing to pledge as security for the loan." "I don't know where I would come in on that proposition," said the Doctor. "There are times when we physicians need money, too." "Pooh!" said the Idiot. "You are not a non-producer. It doesn't take a very smart doctor these days to produce patients, does it? You could assign your cases to the bank. One little case of hypochondria alone ought to be a sufficient guarantee of a steady income for years, properly managed. If you haven't learned how to keep your patients in such shape that they have to send for you two or three times a week, you'd better go back to the medical school and fit yourself for your real work in life. You never knew a plumber to be so careless of his interests as to clean up a job all at once, and what the plumber is to the household, the physician should be to the individual. Same way with Mr. Brief. With the machinery of the law in its present shape there is absolutely no excuse for a lawyer who settles any case inside of fifteen years, by which time it is reasonable to suppose his client will get into some new trouble that will keep him going as a paying concern for fifteen more. There isn't a field of human endeavor in which a man applies himself industriously that does not produce something that should be a negotiable security." "How about burglars?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "I stand corrected," said the Idiot. "The burglar is an exception, but then he is an exception also at the banks. The expert burglar very seldom leaves any security for what he gets at the banks, and so he isn't affected by the situation one way or the other." "Oh, well," said Mr. Brief, rising, "it's only a pipe-dream all the way through. They might start in on such a proposition, but it would never last. When you went in to borrow fifteen dollars, putting up your idiocy as collateral, the emptiness of the whole scheme would reveal itself." "You never can tell," observed the Idiot. "Even under their present system the banks have done worse than that." "Never!" cried the Lawyer. "Yes, sir," replied the Idiot. "Only the other day I saw in the papers that a bank out in Oklahoma had loaned a man ten thousand dollars on sixty thousand shares of Hot Air preferred." "And is that worse than Idiocy?" demanded Mr. Brief. "Infinitely," said the Idiot. "If a bank lost fifteen dollars on my idiocy it would be out ninety-nine hundred and eighty-five dollars less than that Oklahoma institution is on its hot-air loan." "Bosh! What's Hot Air worth on the Exchange to-day?" "As a selling proposition, zero and commissions off," said the Idiot. "Fact is, they've changed its name. It is now known as International Nitting." V HE SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA "There's a harvest for you," said the Idiot, as he perused a recently published criticism of a comic opera. "There have been thirty-nine new comic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It is very evident that the Gilbert and Sullivan industry hasn't gone to the wall whatever slumps other enterprises have suffered from." "That is a goodly number," said the Poet. "Thirty-nine, eh? I knew there was a raft of them, but I had no idea there were as many as that." "Why don't you go in and do one, Mr. Poet?" suggested the Idiot. "They tell me it's as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is to forget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard, slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write two dozen lyrics about some Googoo Belle, hire a composer, and there you are. Hanged if I haven't thought of writing one myself." "I fancy it isn't as easy as it looks," observed the Poet. "It requires just as much thought to be thoughtless as it does to be thoughtful." "Nonsense," said the Idiot. "I'd undertake the job cheerfully if some manager would make it worth my while, and, what's more, if I ever got into the swing of the business I'll bet I could turn out a libretto a day for three days of the week for the next two months." "If I had your confidence I'd try it," laughed the Poet, "but, alas! in making me Nature did not design a confidence man." "Nonsense, again," said the Idiot. "Any man who can get the editors to print sonnets to 'Diana's Eyebrow,' and little lyrics of Madison Square, Longacre Square, Battery Place, and Boston Common, the way you do, has a right to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll do with you: I'll swap off my confidence for your lyrical facility, and see what I can do. Why can't we collaborate and get up a libretto for next season? They tell me there's large money in it." "There certainly is if you catch on," said the Poet. "Vastly more than in any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I would like to collaborate with you on something of the sort. What is your idea?" "Mind's a blank on the subject," sighed the Idiot. "That's the reason I think I can turn the trick. As I said before, you don't need ideas. Better go without 'em. Just sit down and write." "But you must have some kind of a story," persisted the Poet. "Not to begin with," said the Idiot. "Just write your choruses and songs, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done. First act, get your hero and heroine into trouble. Second act, get 'em out." "And for the third?" queried the Poet. "Don't have a third," said the Idiot. "A third is always superfluous; but, if you must have it, make up some kind of a vaudeville show and stick it in between the first and second." "Tush!" said the Bibliomaniac. "That would make a gay comic opera." "Of course it would, Mr. Bib," the Idiot agreed. "And that's what we want. If there's anything in this world that I hate more than another it is a sombre comic opera. I've been to a lot of 'em, and I give you my word of honor that next to a funeral a comic opera that lacks gayety is one of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of 'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went to one of 'em last week called 'The Skylark,' with an old chum of mine who is a surgeon. You can imagine what sort of a thing it was when I tell you that after the first act he suggested we leave the theatre and come back here and have some fun cutting my leg off. He vowed that if he ever went to another opera by the same people he'd take ether beforehand." "I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "If it was as bad as all that, why didn't it put you to sleep?" "It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. There was no escape from it except that of actual physical flight." "Well, about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What do you think we should do first?" "Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you suppose? A finale? Something like this: "If you want to know who we are, Just ask the Evening Star, As he smiles on high In the deep-blue sky, With his tralala-la-la-la. We are maidens sweet With tripping feet, And the googoo eyes Of the skippity-hi's, And the smile of the fair gazoo; And you'll find our names 'Mongst the wondrous dames Of the Who's Who-hoo-hoo-hoo." "Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blond wigs and gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russian cavalry, and you've got your venture launched." "Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot. "I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would you lay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac. "Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your own geography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there of one kind or another, and as defenceless as a two-weeks'-old infant. If you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that sort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, who should be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's the chap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow. That will make a bully song: "I'm a pirate bold With a heart so cold That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow; And the hero-ine, With her eyes so fine, I am going to--marry--to-morrow. CHORUS "He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow The maid with a heart full of sorrow; For her we are sorry For she weds to-morry-- She is going to-marry--to-morrow." "Gee!" added the Idiot, enthusiastically, "can't you almost hear that already?" "I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call your heroine Drivelina." "Splendid!" cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then, on comes Drivelina, and this beast of a pirate grabs her by the hand and makes love to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap-the-whip. She sings a soprano solo of protest, and the pirate summons his hirelings to cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell, when boom! an American war-ship appears on the horizon. The crew, under the leadership of a man with a squeaky tenor voice, named Lieutenant Somebody or Other, comes ashore, puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag, while his crew sing the following: "We are jackies, jackies, jackies, And we smoke the best tobaccys You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo. And we fight for Uncle Sammy, Yes, indeed we do, for damme You can bet your life that that's the thing to do, Doodle-do! You can bet your life that that's the thing to doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do." "Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot. "Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?" "Well--the pirate gets lively, tries to assassinate the lieutenant, who kills half the natives with his sword, and is about to slay the pirate when he discovers that he is his long-lost father," said the Idiot. "The heroine then sings a pathetic love-song about her baboon baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoanut-shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the lieutenant and his forces to sleep, and the curtain falls on their capture by the pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing: "Hooray for the pirate bold, With his pockets full of gold; He's going to marry to-morrow. To-morrow he'll marry, Yes, by the Lord Harry, He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row! And that's a thing to doodle--doodle-doo." "There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?" "It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but, after all, you have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one." "I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "And I've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That's where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have to think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the title--'The Isle of Piccolo'--that's a dandy, and I give you my word of honor, I'd never even thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and Reginald de Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of it: "My bab-boon--ba-habee, My bab-boon--ba-habee-- I love you dee-her-lee Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee. My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee." "And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut-shells together in the green moonlight--" "Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that. The audience generally knows what to do." "But your second act?" asked the Poet. "Oh, come off," said the Idiot, rising. "We were to do this thing in collaboration. So far, I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do a little colabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to do--collect the royalties?" "I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing to do in a comic opera." "Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full share of it." "It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run." "Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. How long a run?" "One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac. "Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot, with a smile. "At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac, severely. "That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr. Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the superintendent." VI HE DISCUSSES FAME "Mr. Poet," said the Idiot, the other morning as his friend, the Rhymster, took his place beside him at the breakfast-table, "tell me: How long have you been writing poetry?" "Oh, I don't know," said the Poet, modestly. "I don't know that I've ever written any. I've turned out a lot of rhymes in my day, and have managed to make a fair living with them, but poetry is a different thing. The divine afflatus doesn't come to every one, you know; and I doubt if anybody will be able to say whether my work has shown an occasional touch of inspiration, or not until I have been dead fifty or a hundred years." "Tut!" exclaimed the Idiot. "That's all nonsense. I am able to say now whether or not your work shows the occasional touch of inspiration. It does. In fact, it shows more than that. It shows a semi-occasional touch of inspiration. How long have you been in the business?" "Eighteen years," sighed the Poet. "I began when I was twelve with a limerick. As I remember the thing, it went like this: "There was a young man of Cohasset Turned on the red-hot water-faucet. When asked: 'Is it hot?' He answered, 'Well, thot Is a pretty mild way for to class it.'" "Good!" said the Idiot. "That wasn't a bad beginning for a boy of twelve." "So my family thought," said the Poet. "My mother sent it to the Under the Evening Lamp Department of our town paper, and three weeks later I was launched. I've had the _cacoethes scribendi_ ever since--but, alas! I got more fame in that brief hour of success than I have ever been able to win since. It is a mighty hard job, Mr. Idiot, making a name for yourself these days." "That's the point I was getting at," said the Idiot, "and I wanted to have a talk with you on the subject. I've read a lot of your stuff in the past eight or ten years, and, in my humble judgment, it is better than any of that rhymed nonsense of Henry Wintergreen Boggs, whose name appears in the newspapers every day in the year; of Susan Aldershot Spinks, whose portrait is almost as common an occurrence in the papers as that of Lydia Squinkham; of Circumflex Jones, the eminent sweet-singer of Arizona; or of Henderson Hartley MacFadd, the Canadian Browning, of whom the world is constantly hearing so much. I have wondered if you were going about it in the right way. What is your plan for winning fame?" "Oh, I keep plodding away, doing the best I can all the while," said the Poet. "If there's any good in my stuff, or any stuff in my goods, I'll get my reward some day." "Fifty or a hundred years after you're dead, eh?" said the Idiot. "Yes," smiled the Poet. "Well--your board-bills won't be high then, anyhow," said the Idiot. "That's one satisfaction, I presume. They tell me Homer hasn't eaten a thing for over twenty centuries. Seems to me, though, that if I were a poet I'd go in for a little fame while I was alive. It's all very nice to work the skin off your knuckles, and to twist your gray matter inside out until it crocks and fades, so that your great-grandchildren can swell around the country sporting a name that has become a household word, but I'm blessed if I care for that sort of thing. I don't believe in storing up caramels for some twenty-first-century baby that bears my name to cut his teeth on, when I have a sweet tooth of my own that is pining away for the lack of nourishment; and, if I were you, I'd go in for the new method. What if Browning and Tennyson and Longfellow and Poe did have to labor for years to win the laurel crown, that's no reason why you should do it. You might just as well reason that because your forefathers went from one city to another in a stage-coach you should eschew railways." "I quite agree with you," replied the Poet. "But in literature there is no royal road to fame that I know of." "What!" cried the Idiot. "No royal road to fame in letters! Why, where have you been living all these years, Mr. Poet? This is the age of the Get Fame-Quick Scheme. You can make a reputation in five minutes, if you only know the ropes. I know of at least two department stores where you can go and buy all you want of it, and in all its grades--from notoriety down to the straight goods." "Fame? At a department store!" put in Mr. Whitechoker, incredulously. "Certainly," said the Idiot. "Ready-made laurels on demand. Why not? It's the easiest thing in the world. Fact is, between you and me, I am considering a plan now for the promoting of a corporation to be called the United States Fame Company, Limited, the main purpose of which shall be to earn money for its stockholders by making its customers famous at so much per head. It won't make any difference whether the customer wishes to be famous as an actor, a novelist, or a poet, or any other old thing. We'll turn the trick for him, and guarantee him more than a taste of immortality." "You may put me down for four dollars' worth of notoriety," said Mr. Brief, with a laugh. "All right," said the Idiot, dryly. "There's a lot in your profession who like the cheap sort. But I warn you in advance that if you go in for cheap notoriety, you'll find it a pretty hard job getting anybody to sell you any eighteen-karat distinction later." "Well," said the Poet, "I don't know that I can promise to be one of your customers until I know something of the quality of the fame you have to sell. Tell me of somebody you've made a name for, and I'll take the matter into consideration if I like the style of laurel you have placed on his brow." "Lean over here and I'll whisper," said the Idiot. "I don't mind telling you, but I don't believe in giving away the secrets of the trade to the rest of these gentlemen." The Poet did as he was bade, and the Idiot whispered a certain great name in his ear. "No!" cried the Poet, incredulously. "Yes, sir. Fact!" said the Idiot. "He was made famous in a night. The first thing we did was to get him to elongate his signature. He was writing as--P. K. Dubbins we'll call him, for the sake of the argument. Now a name like that couldn't be made great under any circumstances whatsoever, so we made him write it out in full: Philander Kenilworth Dubbins--regular broadside, you see. P. K. Dubbins was a pop-shot, but Philander Kenilworth Dubbins spreads out like a dum-dum bullet or hits you like a blast from a Gatling gun. Printed, it takes up a whole line of a newspaper column; put at the top of an advertisement, it strikes the eye with the convincing force of a circus-poster. You can't help seeing it, and it makes, when spoken, a mouthful that is nothing short of impressive and sonorous." "Still," suggested Mr. Brief, with a wink at the Bibliomaniac, "you have only multiplied your difficulties by three. If it was hard for your friend Dubbins to make one name famous, I can't see that he improves matters by trying to make three names famous." "On the modern business principle that to accomplish anything you must work on a large scale," said the Idiot. "Philander Kenilworth Dubbins was a better proposition than P. K. Dubbins. The difference between them in the mere matter of potentialities is the difference between a corner grocery and a department store, or a kite with a tail and one without. Well, having created the name, the next thing to do was to exploit it, and we advertised Dubbins for all there was in him. We got Mr. William Jones Brickbat, the eminent novelist, to say that he had read Dubbins's poems, and had not yet died; we got Edward Pinkham, the author of "The Man with the Watering-pot," to send us a type-written letter, saying that Dubbins was a coming man, and that his latest book, _Howls from Helicon_, contained many inspired lines. But, best of all, we prevailed upon the manufacturers of celluloid soap to print a testimonial from Dubbins himself, saying that there was no other soap like it in the market. That brought his name prominently before every magazine-reader in the country, because the celluloid-soap people are among the biggest advertisers of the day, and everywhere that soap ad went, why, Dubbins's testimonial went also, as faithfully as Mary's Little Lamb. After that we paid a shirt-making concern down-town to put out a new collar called "The Helicon," which they advertised widely with a picture of Dubbins's head sticking up out of the middle of it; and, finally, as a crowning achievement, we leased Dubbins for a year to a five-cent cigar company, who have placarded the fences, barns, and chicken-coops from Maine to California with the name of Dubbins--'Flora Dubbins: The Best Five-Cent Smoke in the Market.'" "And thus you made the name of Dubbins famous in letters!" sneered the Doctor. "That was only the preliminary canter," replied the Idiot. "So far, Dubbins's greatness was confined to fences, barns, chicken-coops, and the advertising columns of the magazines. The next thing was to get him written up in the newspapers. That sort of thing can't be bought, but you can acquire it by subtlety. Plan one was to make an after-dinner speaker out of Dubbins. This was easy. There are a million public dinners every year, but a limited supply of good speakers; so, with a little effort, we got Dubbins on five toast-cards, hired a humorist out in Wisconsin to write five breezy speeches for him, Dubbins committed them to memory, and they went off like hot-cakes. Morning papers would come out with Dubbins's picture printed in between that of Bishop Potter and a member of the cabinet, who also spoke. Copies of Dubbins's speeches were handed to the reporters before the dinner began, so that it didn't make any difference whether Dubbins spoke them or not--the papers had 'em next morning just the same, and inside of six months you couldn't read an account of any public banquet without running up against the name of Philander Kenilworth Dubbins." "Well, I declare!" ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker. "What a strange affair!" "Then we got Dubbins's publishers to take a hand," said the Idiot. "They issued a monthly budget of gossip concerning their authors, which newspaper editors all over quoted in their interesting items of the day. From these paragraphs the public learned that Dubbins wrote between 4 A.M. and breakfast-time; that Dubbins never penned a line without having a tame rabbit, named Romola, sitting alongside of his ink-pot; that Dubbins got his ideas for his wonderful poem, 'The Mystery of Life,' from hearing a canary inadvertently whistle a bar of 'Hiawatha;' that Dubbins was the best-dressed author in the State of New York, affecting green plaid waistcoats, pink shirts, and red neckties; witty things that Dubbins's boy had said about Dubbins's work to Dubbins himself were also spread all over the land, until finally Philander Kenilworth Dubbins became a select series of household words in every town, city, and hamlet in the United States. And there he is to-day--a great man, bearing a great name, made for him by his friends. _Howls from Helicon_ is full of bad poems, but Dubbins is a son of Parnassus just the same. Now we propose to do it for others. For five dollars down, Mr. Poet, I'll make you conspicuous; for ten, I'll make you notorious; for fifty, I'll make you famous; for a hundred, I'll give you immortality." "Good!" cried the Poet. "Immortality for a hundred dollars is cheap. I'll take that." "You will?" said the Idiot, joyfully. "Put up your money." "All right," laughed the Poet. "I'll pay--C. O. D." "Another hundred gone!" moaned the Idiot, as the party broke up and its members went their several ways. "I think it's abominable that this commercial spirit of the age should have affected even you poets. You ought to have gone into business, old man, and left the Muses alone. You've got too good a head for poetry." VII ON THE DECADENCE OF APRIL-FOOL'S-DAY "I am sorry to observe," said the Idiot, as he sat down at the breakfast-table yesterday morning, "that the good old customs of my youthful days are dying out by slow degrees, and the celebrations that once filled my childish soul with glee are no longer a part of the pleasures of the young. Actually, Mr. Whitechoker, I got through the whole day yesterday without sitting on a single pin or smashing my toes against a brickbat hid beneath a hat. What on earth can be coming over the boys of the land that they no longer avail themselves of the privileges of the fool-tide?" "Fool-tide's good," said Mr. Brief. "Where did you get that?" "Oh, I pried it out of my gray-matter 'way back in the last century," said the Idiot. "It grew out of a simple little prank I played one April 1st upon an uncle of mine. I bored a hole in the middle of a pine log and filled it with powder. We had it that night on the hearth, and a moment later there wasn't any hearth. In talking the matter over later with my father and mother and the old gentleman, in order to turn the discussion into more genial channels, I asked why, if the Yule-log was appropriate for the Yule-tide, the Fool-log wasn't appropriate for the Fool-tide." "I hope you got the answer you deserved," said the Bibliomaniac. "I did," sighed the Idiot. "I got all there was coming to me--slippers, trunk-strap, hair-brush, and plain hand; but it was worth it. All the glories of Vesuvius, Etna, Popocatepetl, and Pelée rolled into one could never thereafter induce in me anything approaching that joyous sensation that I derived from the spectacle of that fool-log and that happy hearth soaring up through the chimney together, hand in hand, and taking with them such portions of the flues, andirons, and other articles of fireplace vertu as cared to join them in their upward flight." "You must have been a holy terror as a boy," said the Doctor. "I should not have cared to live on your block." "Oh, I wasn't so bad," observed the Idiot. "I never was vicious or malicious in what I did. If I poured vitriol into the coffee-pot at breakfast my father and mother knew that I didn't do it to give pain to anybody. If I hid under my maiden aunt's bed and barked like a bull-dog after she had retired, dear old Tabitha knew that it was all done in a spirit of pleasantry. When I glued my grandfather's new teeth together with stratina, that splendid old man was perfectly aware that I had no grudge I was trying thus to repay; and certainly the French teacher at school, when he sat down on an iron bear-trap I had set for him in his chair, never entertained the notion that there was the slightest animosity in my act." "By jingo!" cried the Bibliomaniac. "I'd have spanked you good and hard if I'd been your mother." "Don't you fret--she did it; that is, she did up to the time I was ten years old, and then she had such a shock she gave up corporeal punishment altogether," said the Idiot. "Had a shock, eh?" smiled the Lawyer. "Nearly killed you, I suppose, giving you what you deserved?" "No," said the Idiot. "Spanked me with a hair-brush without having removed a couple of Excelsior torpedoes from my pistol-pocket. On the second whack I appeared to explode. Poor woman! She didn't know I was loaded, and from that time on she was as afraid of me as most other women are of a gun." "I'd have turned you over to your father," said the Bibliomaniac, indignantly. "She did," said the Idiot, sadly. "I never used explosives again. In later years I took up the milder April-fool diversions, such as filling the mucilage-pot with ink and the ink-pot with mucilage; mixing the granulated sugar with white sand; putting powdered brick into the red-pepper pot; inserting kerosene-oil into the sweet-oil bottle, and little things like that. I squandered a whole dollar one April-fool's-day sending telegrams to my uncles and aunts, telling them to come and dine with us that night; and they all came, too, although my father and mother were dining out that evening, and--oh dear, April-fool's-day is not what it used to be. The boys and girls of the present generation are little old men and women with no pranks left in them. Why, I don't believe that nine out of ten boys, who are about to enter college this spring, could rig up a successful tick-tack on a window to save their lives; and the joy of carrying a piece of twine across the sidewalk from a front-door knob to a lamp-post, hat-high, and then sitting back in the seclusion of a convenient area and watching the plug-hats of the people go down before it--that is a joy that seems to be wholly untasted of the present generation of infantile dignitaries that we call the youth of the land. What is the matter with 'em, do you suppose?" "I guess we're getting civilized," said Mr. Brief. "That seems to me to be the most likely explanation of this deplorable situation, as you appear to think it. For my part, I'm glad if what you say is true. Of all rotten things in the world the practical jokes of April-fool's-day bear away the palm. There was a time, ten years ago, when I hardly dared eat anything on the first of April. I was afraid to find my coffee made of ink, my muffin stuffed with cotton, cod-liver oil in my salad-dressing, and mayonnaise in my cream-puffs. Such tricks are the tricks of barbarians, and I shall rejoice when April 1st as a day of special privilege for idiots and savages has been removed from the calendar." "I am afraid," said Mr. Whitechoker, "that I, too, must join the ranks of those who rejoice if the old-time customs of the day are now honored more in the breach than in the observance. Ever since that unhappy Sunday morning some years ago when somebody substituted a breakfast bill-of-fare for the card containing the notes for my sermon, I have mistrusted the humor of the April-fool joke. Instead of my text, as I glanced at what I supposed was my note-card, my eyes fell upon the statement that fruit taken from the table would be charged for; instead of my firstly, secondly, thirdly, and fourthly, my eyes were confronted by Fish, Eggs, Hot Bread, and To Order. And, finally, in place of the key-line of my peroration, what should obtrude itself upon my vision but that coarse and vulgar legend: Corkage, one dollar. I never found out who did it, and, as a Christian man, I hope I never shall, for I should much deprecate the spirit of animosity with which I should inevitably regard the person who had so offended." "I'll bet you preached a bully good sermon, allee samee," said the Idiot. "Well," smiled Mr. Whitechoker, "the congregation did seem to think that it held more fire than usual; but I can assure you, my young friend, it was more the fire of external wrath than of an inward spiritual grace." "Well," said the Bibliomaniac, "we ought to be thankful the old tricks are going out. As Mr. Brief suggests, we are beginning to be civilized--" "I don't think it's civilization," said the Idiot. "I think the kids are just discouraged, that's all. They're clever, these youngsters, but when it comes to putting up games, they're not in it with their far more foxy fathers. What's the use of playing April-fool jokes on your daddy, when your daddy is playing April-fool jokes on the public all the year round? That's the way they reason. No son of George W. Midas, the financier, is going to get any satisfaction out of handing his father a loaded cigar, when he knows that the old man is handling that sort of thing every day in his business as a promoter of the United States Hot Air Company. What fun is there in giving your sister a caramel filled with tabasco-sauce when you can watch your father selling eleven dollars' worth of Amalgamated Licorice stock to the dear public for forty-seven fifty? The gum-drop filled with cotton loses its charm when you contrast it with Consolidated Radium containing one part of radium and ninety-nine parts of water. Who cares to hide a clay brick under a hat for somebody to kick, when there are concerns in palatial offices all over town selling gold bricks to a public that doesn't seem to have any kick left in it? I tell you it has discouraged the kid to see to what scientific heights the April-fool industry has been developed, and as a result he has abandoned the field. He knows he can't compete." "That's all right as an explanation of the youngster whose parent is engaged in that sort of business," said the Doctor. "But there are others." "True," said the Idiot. "The others stay out of it out of sheer pity. When they are tempted to sew up the legs of their daddy's trousers in order to fitly celebrate the day, or to fill his collar-box with collars five sizes too small for him, they say, 'No. Let us refrain. The governor has had trouble enough with his International Yukon Anticipated Brass shares this year. He's had all the fooling he can stand. We will give the old gentleman a rest!' Fact is, come to look at it, the decadence of April 1st as a day of foolery for the young is no mystery, after all. The youngsters are not more civilized than we used to be, but they have had the intelligence to perceive the exact truth of the situation." "Which is?" asked Mr. Brief. "That the ancient art of practical joking has become a business. April-fool's-day has been incorporated by the leading financiers of the age, and is doing a profitable trade all over the world all the year round. Private enterprise is simply unable to compete." "I am rather surprised, nevertheless," said Mr. Brief, "that you yourself have abandoned the field. You are just the sort of person who would keep on in that kind of thing, despite the discouragements." "Oh, I haven't abandoned the field," said the Idiot. "I did play an April-fool joke last Friday." "What was that?" asked Mr. Whitechoker, interested. "I told Mrs. Pedagog that I would pay my bill to-morrow," replied the Idiot, as he rose from the table and left the room. VIII SPRING AND ITS POETRY "Well, Mr. Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, genially, as the Idiot entered the breakfast-room, "what can I do for you this fine spring morning? Will you have tea or coffee?" "I think I'd like a cup of boiled iron, with two lumps of quinine and a spoonful of condensed nerve-milk in it," replied the Idiot, wearily. "Somehow or other I have managed to mislay my spine this morning. Ethereal mildness has taken the place of my backbone." "Those tired feelings, eh?" said Mr. Brief. "Yeppy," replied the Idiot. "Regular thing with me. Every year along about the middle of April I have to fasten a poker on my back with straps, in order to stand up straight; and as for my knees--well, I never know where they are in the merry, merry spring-time. I'm quite sure that if I didn't wear brass caps on them my legs would bend backward. I wonder if this neighborhood is malarious." "Not in the slightest degree," observed the Doctor. "This is the healthiest neighborhood in town. The trouble with you is that you have a swampy mind, and it is the miasmatic oozings of your intellect that reduce you to the condition of physical flabbiness of which you complain. You might swallow the United States Steel Trust, and it wouldn't help you a bit, and ten thousand bottles of nerve-milk, or any other tonic known to science, would be powerless to reach the seat of your disorder. What you need to stiffen you up is a pair of those armored trousers the Crusaders used to wear in the days of chivalry, to bolster up your legs, and a strait-jacket to keep your back up." "Thank you, kindly," said the Idiot. "If you'll give me a prescription, which I can have made up at your tailor's, I'll have it filled, unless you'll add to my ever-increasing obligation to you by lending me your own strait-jacket. I promise to keep it straight and to return it the moment you feel one of your fits coming on." The Doctor's response was merely a scornful gesture, and the Idiot went on: "It's always seemed a very queer thing to me that this season of the year should be so popular with everybody," he said. "To me it's the mushiest of times. Mushy bones; mushy poetry; mush for breakfast, fried, stewed, and boiled. The roads are mushy; lovers thaw out and get mushier than ever. "In the spring the blasts of winter all are stilled in solemn hush. In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mush. In the spring--" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with so beautiful a poem," interrupted the Bibliomaniac, indignantly. "Who's trifling with a beautiful poem?" demanded the Idiot. "You are--'Locksley Hall'--and you know it," retorted the Bibliomaniac. "Locksley nothing," said the Idiot. "What I was reciting is not from 'Locksley Hall' at all. It's a little thing of my own that I wrote six years ago called 'Spring Unsprung.' It may not contain much delicate sentiment, but it's got more solid information in it of a valuable kind than you'll find in ten 'Locksley Halls' or a dozen Etiquette Columns in the _Lady's Away From Home Magazine_. It has saved a lot of people from pneumonia and other disorders of early spring, I am quite certain, and the only person I ever heard criticise it unfavorably was a doctor I know who said it spoiled his business." "I should admire to hear it," said the Poet. "Can't you let us have it?" "Certainly," replied the Idiot. "It goes on like this: "In the spring I'll take you driving, take you driving, Maudy dear, But I beg of you be careful at this season of the year. It is true the birds are singing, singing sweetly all their notes, But you'll later find them wearing canton-flannel 'round their throats. It is true the lark doth warble, 'Spring is here,' with bird-like fire, 'All is warmth and all is genial,' but I fear the lark's a liar. All is warmth for fifteen minutes, that is true; but wait awhile, And you'll find that April's weather has not ever changed its style; And beware of April's weather, it is pleasant for a spell, But, like little Johnny's future, you can't always sometimes tell. Often modest little violets, peeping up from out their beds In the balmy morn by night-time have bad colds within their heads; And the buttercup and daisy twinkling gayly on the lawn, Sing by night a different story from their carollings at dawn; And the blossoms of the morning, hailing spring with joyous frenzy, When the twilight falls upon them often droop with influenzy. So, dear Maudy, when we're driving, put your linen duster on, And your lovely Easter bonnet, if you wish to, you may don; But be careful to have with you sundry garments warm and thick: Woollen gloves, a muff, and ear-tabs, from the ice-box get the pick; There's no telling what may happen ere we've driven twenty miles, April flirts with chill December, and is full of other wiles. Bring your parasol, O Maudy--it is good for _tête-à-têtes_; At the same time you would better also bring your hockey skates. There's no telling from the noon-tide, with the sun a-shining bright, Just what kind of winter weather we'll be up against by night." "Referring to the advice," said Mr. Brief, "that's good. I don't think much of the poetry." "There was a lot more of it," said the Idiot, "but it escapes me at the moment. Four lines I do remember, however: "Pin no faith to weather prophets--all their prophecies are fakes, Roulette-wheels are plain and simple to the notions April takes. Keep your children in the nursery--never mind it if they pout-- And, above all, do not let your furnace take an evening out." "Well," said the Poet, "if you're going to the poets for advice, I presume your rhymes are all right. But I don't think it is the mission of the poet to teach people common-sense." "That's the trouble with the whole tribe of poets," said the Idiot. "They think they are licensed to do and say all sorts of things that other people can't do and say. In a way I agree with you that a poem shouldn't necessarily be a treatise on etiquette or a sequence of health hints, but it should avoid misleading its readers. Take that fellow who wrote "'Sweet primrose time! When thou art here I go by grassy ledges Of long lane-side, and pasture mead, And moss-entangled hedges.' That's very lovely, and, as far as it goes, it is all right. There's no harm in doing what the poet so delicately suggests, but I think there should have been other stanzas for the protection of the reader like this: "But have a care, oh, readers fair, To take your mackintoshes, And on your feet be sure to wear A pair of stanch galoshes. "Nor should you fail when seeking out The primrose, golden yeller, To have at hand somewhere about A competent umbrella. Thousands of people are inspired by lines like the original to go gallivanting all over the country in primrose time, to return at dewy eve with all the incipient symptoms of pneumonia. Then there's the case of Wordsworth. He was one of the loveliest of the Nature poets, but he's eternally advising people to go out in the early spring and lie on the grass somewhere, listening to cuckoos doing their cooking, watching the daffodils at their daily dill, and hearing the crocus cuss; and some sentimental reader out in New Jersey thinks that if Wordsworth could do that sort of thing, and live to be eighty years old, there's no reason why he shouldn't do the same thing. What's the result? He lies on the grass for two hours and suffers from rheumatism for the next ten years." "Tut!" said the Poet. "I am surprised at you. You can't blame Wordsworth because some New Jerseyman makes a jackass of himself." "In a way all writers should be responsible for the effect of what they write on their readers," said the Idiot. "When a poet of Wordsworth's eminence, directly or indirectly, advises people to go out and lie on the grass in early spring, he owes it to his public to caution them that in some localities it is not a good thing to do. A rhymed foot-note-- "This habit, by-the-way, is good In climes south of the Mersey; But, I would have it understood, It's risky in New Jersey-- would fulfil all the requirements of the special individual to whom I have referred, and would have shown that the poet himself was ever mindful of the welfare of his readers." The Poet was apparently unconvinced, so the Idiot continued: "Mind you, old man, I think all this poetry is beautiful," he said; "but you poets are too prone to confine your attention to the pleasant aspects of the season. Here, for instance, is a poet who asks 'What are the dearest treasures of spring?' and then goes on to name the cheapest as an answer to his question. The primrose, the daffodil, the rosy haze that veils the forest bare, the sparkle of the myriad-dimpled sea, a kissing-match between the sunbeams and the rain-drops, reluctant hopes, the twitter of swallows on the wing, and all that sort of thing. You'd think spring was an iridescent dream of ecstatic things; but of the tired feeling that comes over you, the spine of jelly, the wabbling knee, the chills and fever that come from sniffing 'the scented breath of dewy April's eve,' the doctor's bills, and such like things are never mentioned. It isn't fair. It's all right to tell about the other things, but don't forget the drawbacks. If I were writing that poem I'd have at least two stanzas like this: "And other dearest treasures of spring Are daily draughts of withering, blithering squills, To cure my aching bones of darksome chills; And at the door my loved physician's ring; "The tender sneezes of the early day; The sudden drop of Mr. Mercury; The veering winds from S. to N. by E.-- And hunting flats to move to in the May. You see, that makes not only a more comprehensive picture, but does not mislead anybody into the belief the spring is all velvet, which it isn't by any means." "Oh, bosh!" cried the Poet, very much nettled, as he rose from the table. "I suppose if you had your way you'd have all poetry submitted first to a censor, the way they do with plays in London." "No, I wouldn't have a censor; he'd only increase taxes unnecessarily," said the Idiot, folding up his napkin, and also rising to leave. "I'd just let the Board of Health pass on them; it isn't a question of morals so much as of sanitation." IX ON FLAT-HUNTING "Aha!" cried the Poet, briskly rubbing his hands together, and drawing a deep breath of satisfaction, "these be great days for people who are fond of the chase, who love the open, and who would commune with Nature in her most lovely mood. Just look out of that window, Mr. Idiot, and drink in the joyous sunshine. Egad! sir, even the asphalted pavement and the brick-and-mortar façade of the houses opposite, bathed in that golden light, seem glorified." "Thanks," said the Idiot, wearily, "but I guess I won't. I'm afraid that while I was drinking in those glorified flats opposite and digesting the golden-mellow asphalt, you would fasten that poetic grip of yours upon my share of the blossoming buckwheats. Furthermore, I've been enjoying the chase for two weeks now, and, to tell you the honest truth, I am long on it. There is such a thing as chasing too much, so if you don't mind I'll sublet my part of the contract for gazing out of the window at gilt-edged Nature as she appears in the city to you. Mary, move Mr. Poet's chair over to the window so that he may drink in the sunshine comfortably, and pass his share of the sausages to me." "What have you been chasing, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Doctor. "Birds or the fast-flitting dollar?" "Flats," said the Idiot. "I didn't know you Wall Street people needed to hunt flats," said the Bibliomaniac. "I thought they just walked into your offices and presented themselves for skinning." "I don't mean the flats we live on," explained the Idiot. "It's the flats we live in that I have been after." The landlady looked up inquiringly. Mr. Idiot's announcement sounded ominous. "To my mind, flat-hunting," the Idiot continued, "is one of the most interesting branches of sport. It involves quite as much uncertainty as the pursuit of the whirring partridge; your game is quite as difficult to lure as the speckled trout darting hither and yon in the grassy pool; it involves no shedding of innocent blood, as in the case of a ride across-country with a pack in full pursuit of the fox; and strikes me as possessing greater dignity than running forty miles through the cabbage-patches of Long Island in search of a bag of ainse seed. When the sporting instinct arises in my soul and reaches that full-tide where nothing short of action will hold it in control, I never think of starting for Maine to shoot the festive moose, nor do I squander my limited resources on a foggy hunt for the elusive canvasback in the Maryland marshes. I just go to the nearest cab-stand, strike a bargain with Mr. Jehu for an afternoon's use of his hansom, and go around the town hunting flats. It requires very little previous preparation; it involves no prolonged absences from home; you do not need rubber boots unless you propose to investigate the cellars or intend to go far afield into the suburban boroughs of this great city; and is in all ways pleasant, interesting, and, I may say, educational." "Educational, eh?" laughed the Bibliomaniac. "Some people have queer ideas of what is educational. I must say I fail to see anything particularly instructive in flat-hunting." "That's because you never approached it in a proper spirit," said the Idiot. "Anybody who is at all interested in sociology, however, cannot help but find instruction in a contemplation of how people are housed. You can't get any idea of how the other halves live by reading the society news in the Sunday newspapers or peeping in at the second story of the tenement-houses as you go down-town on the elevated railroads. You've got to go out and investigate for yourself, and that's where flat-hunting comes in as an educational diversion. Of course, all men are not interested in the same line of investigation. You, as a bibliomaniac, prefer to go hunting rare first editions; Dr. Pellet, armed to the teeth with capsules, lies in wait for a pot-shot at some new kind of human ailment, and rejoices as loudly over the discovery of a new disease as you do over finding a copy of the rare first edition of the _Telephone Book for 1899_; another man goes to Africa to investigate the condition of our gorillan cousin of the jungle; Lieutenant Peary goes and hides behind a snow-ball up North, so that his fellows of the Arctic Exploration Society may have something to look for every other summer; and I--I go hunting for flats. I don't sneer at you and the others for liking the things you do. You shouldn't sneer at me for liking the things I do. It is, after all, the diversity of our tastes that makes our human race interesting." "But the rest of us generally bag something," said the Lawyer. "What the dickens do you get beyond sheer physical weariness for your pains?" "The best of all the prizes of the hunt," said the Idiot; "the spirit of content with my lot as a boarder. I've been through twenty-eight flats in the last three weeks, and I know whereof I speak. I have seen the gorgeous apartments of the Redmere, where you can get a Louis Quinze drawing-room, a Renaissance library, a superb Grecian dining-room, and a cold-storage box to keep your high-balls in for four thousand dollars per annum." "Weren't there any bedrooms?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "Oh yes," said the Idiot. "Three, automatically ventilated from holes in the ceiling leading to an air-shaft, size six by nine, and brilliantly lighted by electricity. There was also a small pigeon-hole in a corrugated iron shack on the roof for the cook; a laundry next to the coal-bin in the cellar; and a kitchen about four feet square connecting with the library." "Mercy!" cried Mrs. Pedagog. "Do they expect children to live in such a place as that?" "No," said the Idiot. "You have to give bonds as security against children of any kind at the Redmere. If you happen to have any, you are required by the terms of your lease to send them to boarding-school; and if you haven't any, the lease requires that you shall promise to have none during your tenancy. The owners of such properties have a lot of heart about them, and they take good care to protect the children against the apartments they put up." "And what kind of people, pray, live in such places as that?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "Very nice people," said the Idiot. "People, for the most part, who spend their winters at Palm Beach, their springs in London, their summers at Newport or on the Continent, and their autumns in the Berkshires." "I don't see why they need a home at all if that's the way they do," said Mrs. Pedagog. "It's very simple," said the Idiot. "You've got to have an address to get your name in the _Social Register_." "Four thousand dollars is pretty steep for an address," commented the Bibliomaniac. "It would be for me," said the Idiot. "But it is cheap for them. Moreover, in the case of the Redmere it's the swellest address in town. Three of the most important divorces of the last social season took place at the Redmere. Social position comes high, Mr. Bib, but there are people who must have it. It is to them what baked beans are to the Bostonian's Sunday breakfast--a _sine qua non_." "May I ask whatever induced you to look for a four-thousand-dollar apartment?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "You have frequently stated that your income barely equalled twenty-four hundred dollars a year." "Why shouldn't I?" asked the Idiot. "It doesn't cost any more to look for a four-thousand-dollar apartment than it does to go chasing after a two-dollar-a-week hall-bedroom, and it impresses the cab-driver with a sense of responsibility. But bagging these gorgeous apartments does not constitute the real joy of flat-hunting. For solid satisfaction and real sport the chase for a fifteen-hundred-dollar apartment in a decent neighborhood bears away the palm. You can get plenty of roomy suites in the neighborhood of a boiler-factory, or next door to a distillery, or back of a fire-engine house, at reasonable rents, and along the elevated railway lines much that is impressive is to be found by those who can sleep with trains running alongside of their pillows all night; but when you get away from these, the real thing at that figure is elusive. Over by the Park you can get two pigeon-holes and a bath, with a southern exposure, for nineteen hundred dollars a year; if you are willing to dispense with the southern exposure you can get three Black Holes of Calcutta and a butler's pantry, in the same neighborhood, for sixteen hundred dollars, but you have to provide your own air. Farther down-town you will occasionally find the thing you want with a few extras in the shape of cornet-players, pianola-bangers, and peroxide sopranos on either side of you, and an osteopathic veterinary surgeon on the ground floor thrown in. Then there are paper flats that can be had for twelve hundred dollars, but you can't have any pictures in them, because the walls won't stand the weight, and any nail of reasonable length would stick through into the next apartment. A friend of mine lived in one of these affairs once, and when he inadvertently leaned against the wall one night he fell through into his neighbor's bath-tub. Of course, that sort of thing promotes sociability; but for a home most people want just a little privacy. And so the list runs on. You would really be astonished at the great variety of discomfortable dwelling-places that people build. Such high-art decorations as you encounter--purple friezes surmounting yellow dadoes; dragons peeping out of fruit-baskets; idealized tomatoes in full bloom chasing one another all around the bedroom walls. Then the architectural inconveniences they present with their best bedrooms opening into the kitchen; their parlors with marble wash-stands with running water in the corner; their libraries fitted up with marvellous steam-radiators and china-closets, and their kitchens so small that the fire in the range scorches the wall opposite, and over which nothing but an asbestos cook, with a figure like a third rail, could preside. And, best of all, there are the janitors! Why, Mr. Bib, the study of the janitor and his habits alone is worthy of the life-long attention of the best entomologist that ever lived--and yet you say there is nothing educational in flat-hunting." "Oh, well," said the Bibliomaniac, "I meant for me. There are a lot of things that would be educational to you that I should regard as symptomatic of profound ignorance. Everything is relative in this world." "That is true," said the Idiot; "and that is why every April 1st I go out and gloat over the miseries of the flat-dwellers. As long as I can do that I am happy in my little cubby-hole under Mrs. Pedagog's hospitable roof." "Ah! I am glad to hear you say that," said Mrs. Pedagog. "I was a bit fearful, Mr. Idiot, that you had it in mind to move away from us." "No indeed, Mrs. Pedagog," replied the Idiot, rising from the table. "You need have no fear of that. You couldn't get me out of here with a crow-bar. If I did not have entire confidence in your lovely house and yourself, you don't suppose I would permit myself to get three months behind in my board, do you?" X THE HOUSEMAID'S UNION "Potatoes, sir?" said Mary, the waitress at Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's High-Class Home for Single Gentlemen, stopping behind the Idiot's chair and addressing the back of his neck in the usual boarding-house fashion. "Yes, I want some potatoes, Mary; but before I take them," the Idiot replied, "I must first ascertain whether or not you wear the union label, and what is the exact status also of the potatoes. My principles are such that I cannot permit a non-union housemaid to help me to a scab potato, whereas, if you belong to the sisterhood, and our stewed friend Murphy here has been raised upon a union farm, then, indeed, do I wish not only one potato but many." Mary's reply was a giggle. "Ah!" said the Idiot. "The merry ha-ha, eh? All right, Mary. That is for the present sufficient evidence that your conscience is clear on this very important matter. As for the potatoes, we will eat them not exactly under protest, but with a distinctly announced proviso in advance that we assume that they have qualified themselves for admission into a union stomach. I hesitate to think of what will happen in my interior department if Murphy is deceiving us." Whereupon the Idiot came into possession of a goodly portion of the stewed potatoes, and Mary fled to the kitchen, where she informed the presiding genius of the range that the young gentleman was crazier than ever. "He's talkin' about the unions, now, Bridget," said she. "Is he agin 'em?" demanded Bridget, with a glitter in her eye. "No, he's for 'em; he wouldn't even drink milk from a non-union cow," said Mary. "He's a foine gintleman," said Bridget. "Oi'll make his waffles a soize larger." Meanwhile the Bibliomaniac had chosen to reflect seriously upon the Idiot's intelligence for his approval of unions. "They are responsible for pretty nearly all the trouble there is at the present moment," he snapped out, angrily. "Oh, go along with you," retorted the Idiot. "The trouble we have these days, like all the rest of the troubles of the past, go right back to that old original non-union apple that Eve ate and Adam got the core of. You know that as well as I do. Even Adam and Eve, untutored children of nature though they were, saw it right off, and organized a union on the spot, which has in the course of centuries proven the most beneficent institution of the ages. With all due respect to the character of this dwelling-place of ours--a home for single gentlemen--the union is the thing. If you don't belong to one you may be tremendously independent, but you're blooming lonesome." "The matrimonial union," smiled Mrs. Pedagog, "is indeed a blessed institution, and, having been married twice, I can testify from experience; but, truly, Mr. Idiot, I wish you wouldn't put notions into Mary's head about the other kind. I should be sorry if she were to join that housemaid's union we hear so much about. I have trouble enough now with my domestic help without having a walking delegate on my hands as well." "No doubt," acquiesced the Idiot. "In their beginnings all great movements have their inconveniences, but in the end, properly developed, a housemaid's union wouldn't be a bad thing for employers, and I rather think it might prove a good thing. Suppose one of your servants misbehaves herself, for instance--I remember one occasion in this very house when it required the united efforts of yourself, Mr. Pedagog, three policemen, and your humble servant to effectively discharge a three-hundred-pound queen of the kitchen, who had looked not wisely but too often on the cooking sherry. Now suppose that highly cultivated inebriate had belonged to a self-respecting union? You wouldn't have had to discharge her at all. A telephone message to the union headquarters, despatched while the lady was indulging in one of her tantrums, would have brought an inspector to the house, the queen would have been caught with the goods on, and her card would have been taken from her, so that by the mere automatic operation of the rules of her own organization she could no longer work for you. Thus you would have been spared some highly seasoned language which I have for years tried to forget; Mr. Pedagog's eye would not have been punched so that you could not tell your blue-eyed boy from your black-eyed babe; I should never have lost the only really satisfactory red necktie I ever owned; and three sturdy policemen, one of whom had often previously acted as the lady's brother on her evenings at home, and the others, of whom we had reason to believe were cousins not many times removed, would not have been confronted by the ungrateful duty of clubbing one who had frequently fed them generously upon your cold mutton and my beer." "Is that one of the things the union would do?" queried Mrs. Pedagog, brightening. "It is one of the things the union _should_ do," said the Idiot. "Similarly with your up-stairs girl, if perchance you have one. Suppose she got into the habit, which I understand is not all an uncommon case, of sweeping the dust under the bureau of your bedroom or under the piano in the drawing-room. Suppose she is really an adept in the art of dust concealment, having a full comprehension of all sixty methods--hiding it under tables, sofas, bookcases, and rugs, in order to save her back? You wouldn't have to bother with her at all under a properly equipped union. Upon the discovery of her delinquencies you would merely have to send for the union inspector, lift up the rug and show her the various vintages of sweepings the maid has left there: November ashes; December match-ends; threads, needles, and pins left over from the February meeting of the Ibsen Sewing-Circle at your house; your missing tortoise-shell hair-pin that you hadn't laid eyes on since September; the grocer's bill for October that you told the grocer you never received--all this in March. Do you suppose that that inspector, with all this evidence before her eyes, could do otherwise than prefer charges against the offender at the next meeting of the Committee on Discipline? Not on your life, madam. And, what is more, have you the slightest doubt that one word of reprimand from that same Committee on Discipline would prove far more effective in reforming that particular offender than anything you could say backed by the eloquence of Burke and the thunderbolts of Jove?" "You paint a beautiful picture," said the Doctor. "But suppose you happened to draw a rotten cook in the domestic lottery--a good woman, but a regular scorcher. Where does your inspector come in there? Going to invite her to dine with you so as to demonstrate the girl's incompetence?" "Not at all," said the Idiot. "That would make trouble right away. The cook very properly would say that the inspector was influenced by the social attention she was receiving from the head of the house, and the woman's effectiveness as a disciplinarian would be immediately destroyed. I'd put half portions of the burned food in a sealed package and send it to the Committee on Culinary Improvement for their inspection. A better method which time would probably bring into practice would be for the union itself to establish a system of domiciliary visits, by which the cook's work should be subjected to a constant inspection by the union--the object being, of course, to prevent trouble rather than to punish after the event. The inspector's position would be something like that of the bank examiner, who turns up at our financial institutions at unexpected moments, and sees that everything is going right." "Oh, bosh!" said the Doctor. "You are talking of ideals." "Certainly I am," returned the Idiot. "Why shouldn't I? What's the use of wasting one's breath on anything else?" "Well, it's all rot!" put in Mr. Brief. "There never was any such union as that, and there never will be." "You are the last person in the world to say a thing like that, Mr. Brief," said the Idiot--"you, who belong to the nearest approach to the ideal union that the world has ever known!" "What! Me?" demanded the Lawyer. "Me? I belong to a union?" "Of course you do--or at least you told me you did," said the Idiot. "Well, you are the worst!" retorted Mr. Brief, angrily. "When did I ever tell you that I belonged to a union?" "Last Friday night at dinner, and in the presence of this goodly company," said the Idiot. "You were bragging about it, too--said that no institution in existence had done more to uplift the moral tone of the legal profession; that through its efforts the corrupt practitioner and the shyster were gradually being driven to the wall--" "Well, this beats me," said Mr. Brief. "I recall telling at dinner on Friday night about the Bar Association--" "Precisely," said the Idiot. "That's what I referred to. If the Bar Association isn't a Lawyer's Union Number Six of the highest type, I don't know what is. It is conducted by the most brilliant minds in the profession; its honors are eagerly sought after by the brainiest laborers in the field of Coke and Blackstone; its stern, relentless eye is fixed upon the evil-doer, and it is an effective instrument for reform not only in its own profession, but in the State as well. What I would have the Housemaid's Union do for domestic servants and for the home, the Bar Association does for the legal profession and for the State, and if the lawyers can do this thing there is no earthly reason why the housemaids shouldn't." "Pah!" ejaculated Mr. Brief. "You place the bar and domestic service on the same plane of importance, do you?" "No, I don't," said the Idiot. "Shouldn't think of doing so. Twenty people need housemaids, where one requires a lawyer; therefore the domestic is the more important of the two." "Humph!" said Mr. Brief, with an angry laugh. "Intellectual qualifications, I suppose, go for nothing in the matter." "Well, I don't know about that," said the Idiot. "I guess, however, that there are more housemaids earning a living to-day than lawyers--and, besides--oh, well, never mind--What's the use? I don't wish to quarrel about it." "Go on--don't mind me--I'm really interested to know what further you can say," snapped Mr. Brief. "Besides--what?" "Only this, that when it comes to the intellectuals--Well, really, Mr. Brief," asked the Idiot, "really now, did you ever hear of anybody going to an intelligence office for a lawyer?" Mr. Brief's reply was not inaudible, for just at that moment he swallowed his coffee the wrong way, and in the effort to bring him to, the thread of the argument snapped, and up to the hour of going to press had not been tied together again. XI THE GENTLE ART OF BOOSTING The Idiot was very late at breakfast--so extremely late, in fact, that some apprehension was expressed by his fellow-boarders as to the state of his health. "I hope he isn't ill," said Mr. Whitechoker. "He is usually so prompt at his meals that I fear something is the matter with him." "He's all right," said the Doctor, whose room adjoins that of the Idiot in Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's Select Home for Single Gentlemen. "He'll be down in a minute. He's suffering from an overdose of vacation--rested too hard." Just then the subject of the conversation appeared in the doorway, pale and haggard, but with an eye that boded ill for the larder. "Quick!" he cried, as he entered. "Lead me to a square meal. Mary, please give me four bowls of mush, ten medium soft-boiled eggs, a barrel of saute potatoes, and eighteen dollars' worth of corned-beef hash. I'll have two pots of coffee, Mrs. Pedagog, please, four pounds of sugar, and a can of condensed milk. If there is any extra charge you may put it on the bill, and some day, when the common stock of the Continental Hen Trust goes up thirty or forty points, I'll pay." "What's the matter with you, Mr. Idiot?" asked Mr. Brief. "Been fasting for a week?" "No," replied the Idiot. "I've just taken my first week's vacation, and, between you and me, I've come back to business so as to get rested for the second." "Doesn't look as though vacation agreed with you," said the Bibliomaniac. "It doesn't," said the Idiot. "Hereafter I am an advocate of the rest-while-you-work system. Never take a day off if you can help it. There's nothing so restful as paying attention to business, and no greater promoter of weariness of spirit and vexation of your digestion than the modern style of vacating. No more for mine, if you please." "Humph!" sneered the Bibliomaniac. "I suppose you went to Coney Island to get rested up, bumping the bump and looping the loop, and doing a lot of other crazy things." "Not I," quoth the Idiot. "I didn't have sense enough to go to some quiet place like Coney Island, where you can get seven square meals a day, and then climb into a Ferris-wheel and be twirled around in the air until they have been properly shaken down. I took one of the Four Hundred vacations. Know what that is?" "No," said Mr. Brief. "I didn't know there were four hundred vacations with only three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. What do you mean?" "I mean the kind of vacation the people in the Four Hundred take," explained the Idiot. "I've been to a house-party up in Newport with some friends of mine who're 'in the swim,' and I tell you it's hard swimming. You'll never hear me talking about a leisure class in this country again. Those people don't know what leisure is. I don't wonder they're always such a tired-looking lot." "I was not aware that you were in with the Smart Set," said the Bibliomaniac. "Oh yes," said the Idiot. "I'm in with several of 'em--'way in; so far in that I'm sometimes afraid I'll never get out. We're carrying a whole lot of wild-cats on margin for Billie Van Gelder, the cotillon leader. Tommy de Cahoots, the famous yachtsman, owes us about eight thousand dollars more than he can spare from his living expenses on one of his plunges into Copper, and altogether we are pretty long on swells in our office." "And do you mean to say those people invite you out?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "All the time," said the Idiot. "Just as soon as one of our swell customers finds he can't pay his margins he comes down to the office and gets very chummy with all of us. The deeper he is in it the more affable he becomes. The result is there are house-parties and yacht-cruises and all that sort of thing galore on tap for us every summer." "And you accept them, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac, scornfully. "As a matter of business, of course," replied the Idiot. "We've got to get something out of it. If one of our customers can't pay cash, why, we get what we can. In this particular case Mr. Reginald Squandercash had me down at Newport for five full days, and I know now why he can't pay up his little shortage of eight hundred dollars. He's got the money, but he needs it for other things, and, now that I know it, I shall recommend the firm to give him an extension of thirty days. By that time he will have collected from the De Boodles, whom he is launching in society, C. O. D., and will be able to square matters with us." "Your conversation is Greek to me," said the Bibliomaniac. "Who are the De Boodles, and for what do they owe your friend Reginald Squandercash money?" "The De Boodles," explained the Idiot, "are what are known as climbers, and Reginald Squandercash is a booster." "A what?" cried the Bibliomaniac. "A booster," said the Idiot. "There are several boosters in the Four Hundred. For a consideration they will boost wealthy climbers into society. The climbers are people like the De Boodles, who have suddenly come into great wealth, and who wish to be in it with others of great wealth who are also of high social position. They don't know how to do the trick, so they seek out some booster like Reggie, strike a bargain with him, and he steers 'em up against the 'Among-Those-Present' game until finally you find the De Boodles have a social cinch." "Do you mean to say that society tolerates such a business as that?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "Tolerates?" laughed the Idiot. "What a word to use! Tolerate? Why, society encourages, because society shares the benefits. Take this especial vacation of mine. Society had two five-o'clock teas, four of the swellest dinners you ever sat down to, a cotillon where the favors were of solid silver and real ostrich feathers, a whole day's clam-bake on Reggie's steam-yacht, with automobile-runs and coaching-trips galore. Nobody ever declines one of Reggie's invitations, because what he has from a society point of view is the best the market affords. Why, the floral decorations alone at the _fête champêtre_ he gave in honor of the De Boodles at his villa last Thursday night must have cost five thousand dollars, and everything was on the same scale. I don't believe a cent less than seventy-five hundred dollars was burned up in the fire-works, and every lady present received a souvenir of the occasion that cost at least one hundred dollars." "Your story doesn't quite hold together," said Mr. Brief. "If your friend Reggie has a villa and a steam-yacht, and automobiles and coaches, and gives _fêtes champêtres_ that cost fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, I don't see why he has to make himself a booster of inferior people who want to get into society. What does he gain by it? It surely isn't sport to do a thing like that, and I should think he'd find it a dreadful bore." "The man must live," said the Idiot. "He boosts for a living." "When he has the wealth of Monte Cristo at his command?" demanded Mr. Brief. "Reggie hasn't a cent to his name," said the Idiot. "I've already told you he owes us eight hundred dollars he can't pay." "Then who in thunder pays for the villa and the lot and all those hundred-dollar souvenirs?" asked the Doctor. "Why, this year, the De Boodles," said the Idiot. "Last year it was Colonel and Mrs. Moneybags, whose daughter, Miss Fayette Moneybags, is now clinching the position Reggie sold her at Newport over in London, whither Reggie has consigned her to his sister, an impecunious American duchess--the Duchess of Nocash--who is also in the boosting business. The chances are Miss Moneybags will land one of England's most deeply indebted peers, and, if she does, Reggie will receive a handsome check for steering the family up against so attractive a proposition." "And you mean to tell us that a plain man like old John De Boodle, of Nevada, is putting out his hard-earned wealth in that way?" demanded Mr. Brief. "I didn't mean to mention any names," said the Idiot. "But you've spotted the victim. Old John De Boodle, who made his sixty million dollars in six months, after having kept a saloon on the frontier for forty years, is the man. His family wants to get in the swim, and Reggie is turning the trick for them; and, after all, what better way is there for De Boodle to get in? He might take sixty villas at Newport and not get even a peep at the divorce colony there, much less a glimpse of the monogamous set acting independently. Not a monkey in the Zoo would dine with the De Boodles, and in his most eccentric moment I doubt if Tommy Dare would take them up, unless there was somebody to stand sponsor for them. A cool million might easily be expended without results by the De Boodles themselves; but hand that money over to Reggie Squandercash, whose blood is as blue as his creditors' sometimes get, and you can look for results. What the Frohman's are to the stage, Reggie Squandercash is to society. He's right in it; popular as all spenders are; lavish as all people spending other people's money are apt to be. Old De Boodle, egged on by Mrs. De Boodle and Miss Mary Ann De Boodle (now known as Miss Marianne De Boodle), goes to Reggie and says: 'The old lady and my girl are nutty on society. Can you land 'em?' 'Certainly,' says Reggie, 'if your pocket is long enough.' 'How long is that?' asks De Boodle, wincing a bit. 'A hundred thousand a month, and no extras, until you're in,' says Reggie. 'No reduction for families?' asks De Boodle, anxiously. 'No,' says Reggie. 'Harder job.' 'All right,' says De Boodle, 'here's my check for the first month.' That's how Reggie gets his Newport villa, his servants, his horses, yacht, automobiles, and coaches. Then he invites the De Boodles up to visit him. They accept, and the fun begins. First it's a little dinner to meet my friends Mr. and Mrs. De Boodle, of Nevada. Everybody there, hungry, dinner from Sherry's, best wines in the market. De Boodles covered with diamonds, a great success, especially old John De Boodle, who tells racy stories over the _demi-tasse_ when the ladies have gone into the drawing-room. De Boodle voted a character. Next thing, bridge-whist party. Everybody there. Society a good winner. The De Boodles magnificent losers. Popularity cinched. Next, yachting-party. Everybody on board. De Boodle on deck in fine shape. Champagne flows like Niagara. Poker game in main cabin. Food everywhere. De Boodles much easier. Stiffness wearing off, and so on and so on, until finally Miss De Boodle's portrait is printed in nineteen Sunday newspapers all over the country. They're launched, and Reggie comes into his own with a profit for the season in a cash balance of fifty thousand dollars. He's had a bully time all summer, entertained like a prince, and comes to the rainy season with a tidy little umbrella to keep him out of the wet." "And can he count on that as a permanent business?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "My dear sir, the rock of Gibraltar is no solider and no more permanent," said the Idiot. "For as long as there is a Four Hundred in existence, human nature is such that there will also be a million who will want to get into it." "At such a cost?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "At any cost," replied the Idiot. "Even people who know they cannot swim want to get in it." XII HE MAKES A SUGGESTION TO THE POET "Good-morning, Homer, my boy," said the Idiot, genially, as the Poet entered the breakfast-room. "All hail to thee. Thou art the bright particular bird of plumage I most hoped to see this rare and beauteous summer morning. No sweet-singing robin-redbreast or soft-honking canvasback for yours truly this A.M., when a living, breathing, palpitating son of the Muses lurks near at hand. I fain would make thee a proposition, Shakespeare dear!" "Back pedal there! Avaunt with your flowery speech, oh Idiot!" cried the Doctor. "Else will I call an ambulance." "No ambulance for mine," chortled the Idiot. "Nay, Sweet Gas-bags," quoth the Doctor. "But for once I fear me we may be scorched by this Pelée of words that thou spoutest forth." "What's the proposition, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Poet. "I'm always open to anything of the kind, as the Subway said when an automobile fell into it.'" "I thirst for laurels," said the Idiot, "and I propose that you and I collaborate on a book of poems for early publication. With your name on the title-page and my poems in the book I think we can make a go of it." "What's the lay?" asked the Poet, amused, but wary. "Sonnets, or French forms, or just plain snatches of song?" "Any old thing as long as it runs smoothly," replied the Idiot. "Only the poems must fit the title of the book, which is to be _Now_." "_Now?_" said the Poet. "_Now!_" repeated the Idiot. "I find in reading over the verse of the day that the 'Now' poem always finds a ready market. Therefore, there must be money in it, and where the money goes there the laurels are. You know what Browning Robinson, the Laureate of Wall Street, wrote in his 'Message to Posterity': "'Oh, when you come to crown my brow, Bring me no bay nor sorrel; Give me no parsley wreath, but just The legal long green laurel.'" "I never heard that poem before," laughed the Poet, "though the sentiment in these commercial days is not unfamiliar." "True," said the Idiot. "Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas, voiced the same idea when he said: "'Crown me not with spinach, Wreathe me not with hay; Place no salad on my head When you bring the bay. Give me not the water-cresses To adorn my flowing tresses, But at e'en Crown my pockets good and strong With the green-- The green that's long.'" "Do you remember that?" asked the Idiot. "Only faintly," said the Poet. "I think you read it to me once before, just after you--er--ah--rather just after Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas--wrote it." The Idiot laughed. "I see you're on," he said. "Anyhow, it's good sentiment, whether I wrote it or Biggs. Fact is, in my judgment, what the poet of to-day ought to do is to collect the long green from the present and the laurel from posterity. That's a fair division. But what do you say to my proposition?" "Well, it's certainly--er--cheeky enough," said the Poet. "Do I understand it?--you want me to father your poems. To tell the truth, until I hear some of them, I can't promise to be more than an uncle to them." "That's all right," said the Idiot. "You ought to be cautious, as a matter of protection to your own name. I've got some of the goods right here. Here's a little thing called 'Summer-tide!' It shows the whole 'Now' principle in a nutshell. Listen to this: "Now the festive frog is croaking in the mere, And the canvasback is honking in the bay, And the summer-girl is smiling full of cheer On the willieboys that chance along her way. "Now the skeeter sings his carols to the dawn, And bewails the early closing of the bar That prevents the little nips he seeks each morn On the sea-shore where the fatling boarders are. "Now the landlord of the pastoral hotel Spends his mornings, nights, and eke his afternoons, Scheming plans to get more milk from out the well, And a hundred novel ways of cooking prunes. "Now the pumpkin goes a pumpking through the fields, And the merry visaged cows are chewing cud; And the profits that the plumber's business yields Come a-tumbling to the earth with deadly thud. "And from all of this we learn the lesson sweet, The soft message of Dame Nature, grand and clear, That the winter-time is gone with storm and sleet, And the soft and jolly summer-tide is here. How's that? Pretty fair?" "Well, I might consent to be a cousin to a poem of that kind. I've read worse and written some that are quite as bad. But you know, Mr. Idiot, even so great a masterpiece as that won't make a book," said the Poet. "Of course it won't," retorted the Idiot. "That's only for the summer. Here's another one on winter. Just listen: "Now the man who deals in mittens and in tabs Is a-smiling broadly--aye, from ear to ear-- As he reaches out his hand and fondly grabs All the shining, golden shekels falling near. "Now the snow lies on the hill-side and the roof, And the birdling to the sunny southland flies; While the frowning summer landlord stands aloof, And to solemncholy meditation hies. "Now the tinkling of the sleigh-bells tinge the air, And the coal-man is as happy as can be; While the hulking, sulking, grizzly seeks his lair, And the ice-man's soul is filled with misery. "Clad in frost are all the distant mountain-peaks, And the furnace is as hungry as a boy; While the plumber, as he gloats upon the leaks, Is the model that the painter takes for 'Joy.' "And from all of this we learn the lesson sweet-- The glad message of Dame Nature, grand and clear: That the summer-time has gone with all its heat, And the crisp and frosty winter days are here. You see, Mr. Poet, that out of that one idea alone--that cataloguing of the things of the four seasons--you can get four poems that are really worth reading," said the Idiot. "We could call that section 'The Seasons,' and make it the first part of the book. In the second part we could do the same thing, only in greater detail, for each one of the months. Just as a sample, take the month of February. We could run something like this in on February: "Now o'er the pavement comes a hush As pattering feet wade deep in slush That every Feb. Doth flow and ebb." "I see," said the Poet. "It wouldn't take long to fill up a book with stuff like that." "To make the appeal stronger, let me take the month of July, which is now on," resumed the Idiot. "You may find it even more convincing: "Now the fly-- The rhubarb-pie-- The lightning in the sky-- Thermometers so spry-- That leap up high-- The roads all dry, The hoboes nigh, The town a-fry, The mad ki-yi A-snarling by, The crickets cry-- All tell us that it is July. Eh?" "I don't believe anybody would believe I wrote it, that's all," said the Poet, shaking his head dubiously. "They'd find out, sooner or later, that you did it, just as they discovered that Will Carleton wrote 'Paradise Lost,' and Dick Davis was the real author of Shakespeare. Why don't you publish the thing over your own name?" "Too modest," said the Idiot. "What do you think of this: "Now the festive candidate Goes a-sporting through the State, And he kisses babes from Quogue to Kalamazoo; For he really wants to win Without spending any tin, And he thinks he has a chance to kiss it through." "That's fair, only I don't think you'll find many candidates doing that sort of thing nowadays," said the Poet. "Most public men I know of would rather spend their money than kiss the babies. That style of campaigning has gone out." "It has in the cities," said the Idiot. "But back in the country it is still done, and the candidate who turns his back on the infant might as well give up the race. I know, because a cousin of mine ran for supervisor once, and he was licked out of his boots because he tried to do his kissing by proxy--said he'd give the kisses in a bunch to a committee of young ladies, who could distribute them for him. Result was everybody was down on him--even the young ladies." "I guess he was a cousin of yours, all right," laughed the Doctor; "that scheme bears the Idiot brand." "Here's one on the opening of the opera season," said the Idiot: "Now the fiddlers tune their fiddles To the lovely taradiddles Of old Wagner, Mozart, Bizet, and the rest. Now the trombone is a-tooting Out its scaley shute-the-chuteing And the oboe is hoboing with a zest. "Now the dressmakers are working-- Not a single minute shirking-- Making gowns with frills and fal-lals mighty queer, For the Autumn days are flying, And there's really no denying That the season of the opera is near." Mr. Brief took a hand in the discussion at this moment. "Then you can have a blanket verse," he said, scribbling with his pencil on a piece of paper in front of him. "Something like this: "And as Time goes on a-stalking, And the Idiot still is talking In his usual blatant manner, loud and free, With his silly jokes and rhyme, It is--well it's any time From Creation to the jumping-off place that you'll find at the far end of Eterni-tie." "That settles it," said the Idiot, rising. "I withdraw my proposition. Let's call it off, Mr. Poet." "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Brief. "Isn't my verse good?" "Yes," said the Idiot. "Just as good as mine, and that being the case it isn't worth doing. When lawyers can write as good poetry as real poets, it doesn't pay to be a real poet. I'm going in for something else. I guess I'll apply for a job as a motorman, and make a name for myself there." "Can a motorman make a name for himself?" asked the Doctor. "Oh yes," said the Idiot. "Easily. By being civil. A civil motorman would be unique." "But he wouldn't make a fortune," suggested the Poet. "Yes he would, too," said the Idiot. "If he could prove he really was civil, the vaudeville people would pay him a thousand dollars a week and tour the country with him. He'd draw mobs." With which the Idiot left the dining-room. "I think his poems would sell," smiled Mrs. Pedagog. "Yes," said Mr. Pedagog. "Chopped up fine and properly advertised, they might make a very successful new kind of breakfast food--provided the paper on which they were written was not too indigestible." XIII HE DISCUSSES THE MUSIC CURE "Good-morning, Doctor," said the Idiot, as Capsule, M.D., entered the dining-room, "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about, and get you, if possible, to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every-day use. I noticed last night, before going to bed, that my medicine-chest was about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop left in it, and if there's anything in the music cure, I don't think I'll have it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and, compared to the delights of Mozart, Hayden, and Offenbach, those of paregoric are nit." "Still rambling, eh?" vouchsafed the Doctor. "You ought to submit your tongue to some scientific student of dynamics. I am inclined to think, from my own observation of its ways, that it contains the germ of perpetual motion." "I will consider your suggestion," replied the Idiot. "Meanwhile, let us consult harmoniously together on the original point. Is there anything in this music cure, and is it true that our medical schools are hereafter to have conservatories attached to them, in which aspiring young M.D.'s are to be taught the _materia musica_ in addition to the _materia medica_?" "I had heard of no such idiotic proposition," returned the Doctor. "And as for the music cure, I don't know anything about it; haven't heard everybody talking about it; and doubt the existence of any such thing outside of that mysterious realm which is bounded by the four corners of your own bright particular cerebellum. What do you mean by the music cure?" "Why, the papers have been full of it lately," explained the Idiot. "The claim is made that in music lies the panacea for all human ills. It may not be able to perform a surgical operation like that which is required for the removal of a leg, and I don't believe even Wagner ever composed a measure that could be counted on successfully to eliminate one's vermiform appendix from its chief sphere of usefulness; but for other things, like measles, mumps, the snuffles, or indigestion, it is said to be wonderfully efficacious. What I wanted to find out from you was just what composers were best for which specific troubles." "You'll have to go to somebody else for the information," said the Doctor. "I never heard of the theory, and, as I said before, I don't believe anybody else has, barring your own sweet self." "I have seen a reference to it somewhere," put in Mr. Whitechoker, coming to the Idiot's rescue. "As I recall the matter, some lady had been cured of a nervous affection by a scientific application of some musical poultice or other, and the general expectation seems to be that some day we shall find in music a cure for all our human ills, as the Idiot suggests." "Thank you, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, gratefully. "I saw that same item and several others besides, and I have only told the truth when I say that a large number of people are considering the possibilities of music as a substitute for drugs. I am surprised that Dr. Capsule has neither heard nor thought about it, for I should think it would prove to be a pleasant and profitable field for speculation. Even I, who am only a dabbler in medicine and know no more about it than the effects of certain remedies upon my own symptoms, have noticed that music of a certain sort is a sure emollient for nervous conditions." "For example?" said the Doctor. "Of course, we don't doubt your word; but when a man makes a statement based upon personal observation it is profitable to ask him what his precise experience has been, merely for the purpose of adding to our own knowledge." "Well," said the Idiot, "the first instance that I can recall is that of a Wagner opera and its effects upon me. For a number of years I suffered a great deal from insomnia. I could not get two hours of consecutive sleep, and the effect of my sufferings was to make me nervous and irritable. Suddenly somebody presented me with a couple of tickets for a performance of 'Parsifal,' and I went. It began at five o'clock in the afternoon. For twenty minutes all went serenely, and then the music began to work. I fell into a deep and refreshing slumber. The intermission came, and still I slept on. Everybody else went home, dressed for the evening part of the performance, had their dinner, and returned. Still I slept, and continued so to do until midnight, when one of the gentlemanly ushers came and waked me up, and told me that the performance was over. I rubbed my eyes, and looked about me. It was true--the great auditorium was empty, and was gradually darkening. I put on my hat and walked out refreshed, having slept from five-twenty until twelve, or six hours and forty minutes straight. That was one instance. Two weeks later I went again, this time to hear 'Götterdämmerung.' The results were the same, only the effect was instantaneous. The curtain had hardly risen before I retired to the little ante-room of the box our party occupied and dozed off into a fathomless sleep. I didn't wake up this time until nine o'clock the next day, the rest of the party having gone off without awakening me as a sort of joke. Clearly Wagner, according to my way of thinking, then, deserves to rank among the most effective narcotics known to modern science. I have tried all sorts of other things--sulfonal, trionel, bromide powders, and all the rest, and not one of them produced anything like the soporific results that two doses of Wagner brought about in one instant. And, best of all, there was no reaction: no splitting headache or shaky hand the next day, but just the calm, quiet, contented feeling that goes with the sense of having got completely rested up." "You run a dreadful risk, however," said the Doctor, with a sarcastic smile. "The Wagner habit is a terrible thing to acquire, Mr. Idiot." "That may be," said the Idiot; "worse than the sulfonal habit by a great deal, I am told; but I am in no danger of becoming a victim to it while it costs from five to seven dollars a dose. In addition to this experience, I have also the testimony of a friend of mine who was cured of a frightful attack of the colic by Sullivan's 'Lost Chord,' played on a cornet. He had spent the day down at Asbury Park, and had eaten not wisely but too copiously. Among other things that he turned loose in his inner man were two plates of lobster salad, a glass of fresh cider, and a saucerful of pistache ice-cream. He was a painter by profession, and the color scheme he thus introduced into his digestive apparatus was too much for his artistic soul. He was not fitted by temperament to assimilate anything quite so strenuously chromatic as that, and, as a consequence, shortly after he had retired to his studio for the night, the conflicting tints began to get in their deadly work, and within two hours he was completely doubled up. The pain he suffered was awful. Agony was bliss alongside of the pangs that now afflicted him, and all the palliatives and pain-killers known to man were tried without avail, and then, just as he was about to give himself up for lost, an amateur cornetist who occupied a studio on the floor above began to play the 'Lost Chord.' A counter-pain set in immediately. At the second bar of the 'Lost Chord' the awful pain that was gradually gnawing away at his vitals seemed to lose its poignancy in the face of the greater suffering, and physical relief was instant. As the musician proceeded, the internal disorder yielded gradually to the external and finally passed away, entirely leaving him so far from prostrate that by 1 A. M. he was out of bed and actually girding himself with a shot-gun and an Indian club to go up-stairs for a physical encounter with the cornetist." "And you reason from this that Sullivan's 'Lost Chord' is a cure for cholera morbus, eh?" sneered the Doctor. "It would seem so," said the Idiot. "While the music continued my friend was a well man, ready to go out and fight like a warrior; but when the cornetist stopped the colic returned, and he had to fight it out in the old way. In these incidents in my own experience I find ample justification for my belief, and that of others, that some day the music cure for human ailments will be recognized and developed to the full. Families going off to the country for the summer, instead of taking a medicine-chest along with them, will be provided with a music-box with cylinders for mumps, measles, summer complaint, whooping-cough, chicken-pox, chills and fever, and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. Scientific experiment will demonstrate before long just what composition will cure specific ills. If a baby has whooping-cough, an anxious mother, instead of ringing up the doctor, will go to the piano and give the child a dose of 'Hiawatha.' If a small boy goes swimming and catches a cold in his head and is down with a fever, his nurse, an expert on the accordion, can bring him back to health again with three bars of 'Under the Bamboo Tree' after each meal. Instead of dosing the kids with cod-liver oil when they need a tonic, they will be set to work at a mechanical piano and braced up on 'Narcissus.' 'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night' will become an effective remedy for a sudden chill. People suffering from sleeplessness can dose themselves back to normal conditions with Wagner the way I did. Tchaikowsky, to be well shaken before taken, will be an effective remedy for a torpid liver, and the man or woman who suffers from lassitude will doubtless find in the lively airs of our two-step composers an efficient tonic to bring their vitality up to a high standard of activity. Nothing in it? Why, Doctor, there's more in it that's in sight to-day that is promising and suggestive of great things in the future than there was of the principle of gravitation in the rude act of that historic pippin that left the parent tree and swatted Sir Isaac Newton on the nose." "And the drug stores will be driven out of business, I presume," said the Doctor. "No," said the Idiot. "They will substitute music for drugs, that is all. Every man who can afford it will have his own medical phonograph, or music-box, and the drug stores will sell cylinders and records for them instead of quinine, carbonate of soda, squills, paregoric, and other nasty-tasting things they have now. This alone will serve to popularize sickness, and, instead of being driven out of business, their trade will pick up." "And the doctor, and the doctor's gig, and all the appurtenances of his profession--what becomes of them?" demanded the Doctor. "We'll have to have the doctor just the same to prescribe for us, only he will have to be a musician, but the gig--I'm afraid that will have to go," said the Idiot. "And why, pray?" asked the Doctor. "Because there are no more drugs, must the physician walk?" "Not at all," said the Idiot. "But he'd be better equipped if he drove about in a piano-organ or, if he preferred, an auto on a steam-calliope." XIV HE DEFENDS CAMPAIGN METHODS "Good-morning, gentlemen," said the Idiot, cheerily, as he entered the breakfast-room. "This is a fine Sunday morning in spite of the gloom into which the approaching death of the campaign should plunge us all." "You think that, do you?" observed the Bibliomaniac. "Well, I don't agree with you. I for one am sick and tired of politics, and it will be a great relief to me when it is all over." "Dear me, what a blasé old customer you are, Mr. Bib," returned the Idiot. "Do you mean to say that a Presidential campaign does not keep your nerve-centres in a constant state of pleasurable titillation? Why, to me it is what a bag full of nuts must be to a squirrel. I fairly gloat over these quadrennial political campaigns of ours. They are to me among the most exhilarating institutions of modern life. They satisfy all one's zest for warfare without the distressing shedding of blood which attends real war, and regarded from the standpoint of humor, I know of nothing that, to the eye of an ordinarily keen observer, is more provocative of good, honest, wholesome mirth." "I don't see it," said Mr. Bib. "To my mind, the average political campaign is just a vulgar scrap in which men who ought to know better descend to all sorts of despicable trickery merely to gain the emoluments of office. This quest for the flesh-pots of politics, so far from being diverting, is, to my notion, one of the most deplorable exhibitions of human weakness that modern civilization, so called, has produced. A couple of men are put up for the most dignified office known to the world--both are gentlemen by birth and education, men of honor, men who, you would think, would scorn baseness as they hate poison--and then what happens? For three weary months the followers of each attack the character and intelligence of the other until, if you really believed what was said of either, neither in your estimation would have a shred of reputation left. Is that either diverting or elevating or educational or, indeed, anything but deplorable?" "It's perfectly fine," said the Idiot, "to think that we have men in the country whose characters are such that they can stand four months of such a test. That's what I find elevating in it. When a man who is nominated for the Presidency in June or July can emerge in November unscathed in spite of the minute scrutiny to which himself and his record and the record of his sisters and his cousins and his aunts have been subjected, it's time for the American rooster to get upon his hind legs and give three cheers for himself and the people to whom he belongs. Even old Diogenes, who spent his life looking for an honest man, would have to admit every four years that he could spot him instantly by merely coming to this country and taking his choice from among the several candidates." "You must admit, however," said the Bibliomaniac, "that a man with an honorable name must find it unpleasant to have such outrageous stories told of him." "Not a bit of it," laughed the Idiot. "The more outrageous the better. For instance, when _The Sunday Jigger_ comes out with a four-page revelation of your Republican candidate's past, in which we learn how, in 1873, he put out the eyes of a maiden aunt with a red-hot poker, and stabbed a negro cook in the back with a skewer, because she would not permit him to put rat-poison in his grandfather's coffee, you know perfectly well that that story has been put forth for the purpose of turning the maiden aunt, negro, and grandfather votes against him. You know well enough that he either never did what is charged against him, or at least that the story is greatly exaggerated--he may have stuck a pin into the cook, and played some boyish trick upon some of his relatives--but the story on the face of it is untrue and therefore harmless. Similarly with the Democratic candidate. When the _Daily Flim Flam_ asserts that he believes that the working-man is entitled to four cents a day for sixteen hours' work, and has repeatedly avowed that bread and water is the proper food for motormen, everybody with common-sense realizes at once that even the _Flim Flam_ doesn't believe the story. It hurts no one, therefore, and provokes a great deal of innocent mirth. You don't yourself believe that last yarn about the Prohibition candidate, do you?" "I haven't heard any yarn about him," said the Bibliomaniac. "That he is the owner of a brewery up in Rochester, and backs fifteen saloons and a pool-room in New York?" said the Idiot. "Of course I don't," said the Bibliomaniac. "Who does?" "Nobody," said the Idiot; "and therefore the story doesn't hurt the man's reputation a bit, or interfere with his chances of election in the least. Take that other story published in a New York newspaper that on the 10th of last August Thompson Bondifeller's yacht was seen anchored for six hours off Tom Watson's farm, two hundred miles from the sea, and that the Populist candidate, disguised as a bank president, went off with the trust magnate on a cruise from Atlanta, Georgia, to Oklahoma--you don't believe that, do you?" "It's preposterous on the face of it," said Mr. Bib. "Well, that's the way the thing works," said the Idiot. "And that's why I think there's a lot of bully good fun to be had out of a political campaign. I love anything that arouses the imagination of a people too much given over to the pursuit of the cold, hard dollar. If it wasn't for these quadrennial political campaigns to spur the fancy on to glorious flights we should become a dull, hard, prosaic, unimaginative people, and that would be death to progress. No people can progress that lacks imagination. Politics is an emery-wheel that keeps our wits polished." "Well, granting all that you say is true," said the Bibliomaniac, "the intrusion upon a man's private life that politics makes possible--surely you cannot condone that." The Idiot laughed. "That's the strangest argument of all," he said. "The very idea of a man who deliberately chooses public life as the sphere of his activities seeking to hide behind his private life is preposterous. The fellow who does that, Mr. Bib, wants to lead a double life, and that is reprehensible. The man who offers himself to the people hasn't any business to tie a string to any part of him. If Jim Jones wants to be President of the United States the people who are asked to put him there have a right to know what kind of a person Jim Jones is in his dressing-gown and slippers. If he beats his mother-in-law, and eats asparagus with the sugar-tongs, and doesn't pay his grocer, the public have a right to know it. If he has children, the voters are perfectly justified in asking what kind of children they are, since the voters own the White House furniture, and if the Jim Jones children wipe their feet on plush chairs, and shoot holes in the paintings with their bean-snappers and putty-blowers, Uncle Sam, as a landlord and owner of the premises, ought to be warned beforehand. You wouldn't yourself rent a furnished residence to a man whose children were known to have built bonfires in the parlor of their last known home, would you?" "I think not," smiled the Bibliomaniac. "Then you cannot complain if Uncle Sam is equally solicitous about the personal paraphernalia of the man who asks to occupy his little cottage on the Potomac," said the Idiot. "So it happens that when a man runs for the Presidency the persons who intrude upon his private life, as you put it, are conferring a real service upon their fellow-citizens. When I hear from an authentic source that Mr. So-and-So, the candidate of the Thisorthatic party for the Presidency, is married to an estimable lady who refers to all Frenchmen as parricides, because she believes they have come from Paris, I have a right to consider whether or not I wish to vote to place such a lady at the head of my official table at White House banquets, where she is likely, sooner or later, to encounter the French ambassador, and the man who gives me the necessary information is doing me a service. You may say that the lady is not running for a public office, and that, therefore, she should be protected from public scrutiny, but that is a fallacy. A man's wife is his better half and his children are a good part of the remainder, and what they do or don't do becomes a matter of legitimate public concern. As a matter of fact, a public man _can_ have no private life." "Then you approve of these stories of candidates' cousins, the prattling anecdotes of their grandchildren, these paragraphs narrating the doings of their uncles-in-law, and all that?" sneered the Bibliomaniac. "Certainly, I do," said the Idiot. "When I hear that Judge Torkin's grandson, aged four, has come out for his grandfather's opponent I am delighted, and give the judge credit for the independent spirit which heredity accounts for; when it is told to me that Tom Watson's uncle is going to vote for Tom because he knows Tom doesn't believe what he says, I am almost inclined to vote for him as the uncle of his country; when I hear that Debs's son, aged three, has punched his daddy in the eye, on general principles I feel that there's a baby I want in the White House; and when it is told to me that the Prohibition candidate's third cousin has just been cured of delirium tremens, I feel that possibly there is a family average there that may be struck to the advantage of the country." "Say, Mr. Idiot," put in the Poet, at this point, "who are you going to vote for, anyhow?" "Don't ask me," laughed the Idiot. "I don't know yet. I admire all the candidates personally very much." "But what are your politics--Republican or Democratic?" asked the Lawyer. "Oh, that's different," said the Idiot. "I'm a Sammycrat." "A what?" cried the Idiot's fellow-boarders in unison. "A Sammycrat," said the Idiot. "I'm for Uncle Sam every time. He's the best ever." XV ON SHORT COURSES AT COLLEGE Mr. Pedagog threw down the morning paper with an ejaculation of impatience. "I don't know what on earth we are coming to!" he said, stirring his coffee vigorously. "These new-fangled notions of our college presidents seem to me to be destructive in their tendency." "What's up now? Somebody flunked a football team?" asked the Idiot. "No, I quite approve of that," said Mr. Pedagog; "but this matter of reducing the college course from four to two years is so radical a suggestion that I tremble for the future of education." "Oh, I wouldn't if I were you, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "Your trembling won't help matters any, and, after all, when men like President Eliot of Harvard and Dr. Butler of Columbia recommend the short course the idea must have some virtue." "Well, if it stops where they do I don't suppose any great harm will be done," said Mr. Pedagog. "But what guarantee have we that fifty years from now some successor to these gentlemen won't propose a one-year course?" "None," said the Idiot. "Fact is, we don't want any guarantee--or at least I don't. They can turn colleges into bicycle academies fifty years from now for all I care. I expect to be doing time in some other sphere fifty years from now, so why should I vex my soul about it?" "That's rather a selfish view, isn't it, Mr. Idiot?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "Don't you wish to see the world getting better and better every day?" "No," said the Idiot. "It's so mighty good as it is, this bully old globe, that I hate to see people monkeying with it all the time. Of course, I wasn't around it in the old days, but I don't believe the world's any better off now than it was in the days of Adam." "Great Heavens! What a thing to say!" cried the Poet. "Well, I've said it," rejoined the Idiot. "What has it all come to, anyhow--all this business of man's trying to better the world? It's just added to his expenses, that's all. And what does he get out of it that Adam didn't get? Money? Adam didn't need money. He had his garden truck, his tailor, his fuel supply, his amusements--all the things we have to pay cash for--right in his backyard. All he had to do was to reach out and take what we fellows nowadays have to toil eight or ten hours a day to earn. Literature? His position was positively enviable as far as literature is concerned. He had the situation in his own hands. He wasn't prevented from writing 'Hamlet,' as I am, because somebody else had already done it. He didn't have to sit up till midnight seven nights a week to keep up with the historical novels of the day. Art? There were pictures on every side of him, splendid in color, instinct of life, perfect in their technique, and all from the hand of that first of Old Masters, Nature herself. He hadn't any Rosa Bonheurs or Landseers on his farm, but he could get all the cow pictures he wanted from the back window of his bungalow without their costing him a cent. Drama? Life was a succession of rising curtains to Adam, and while, of course, he had the errant Eve to deal with, the garden was free from Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmiths, there wasn't a Magda from one end of the apple-orchard to the other, and not a First, Second, or Third Mrs. Tanqueray in sight. Music? The woods were full of it--the orioles singing their cantatas, the nightingales warbling their concertos, the eagles screeching out their Wagnerian measures, the bluejays piping their intermezzos, and no Italian organ-grinders doing De Koven under his window from one year's end to the other. Gorry! I wish sometimes Adam had known a good thing when he had it and hadn't broken the monologue." "The what?" demanded Mr. Brief. "The monologue," repeated the Idiot. "The one commandment. If ten commandments make a decalogue, one commandment makes a monologue, doesn't it?" "You're a philologist and a half," said the Bibliomaniac, with a laugh. "No credit to me," returned the Idiot. "A ten years' residence in this boarding-house has resulted practically in my having enjoyed a diet of words. I have literally eaten syllables--" "I hope you haven't eaten any of your own," said the Bibliomaniac. "That would ruin the digestion of an ostrich." "That's true enough," said the Idiot. "Rich foods will overthrow any kind of a digestion in the long run. But to come back to the college tendencies, Mr. Pedagog, it is my belief that in this short-course business we haven't more than started. It's my firm conviction that some day we shall find universities conferring degrees 'while you wait,' as it were. A man, for instance, visiting Boston for a week will some day be able to run out to Harvard, pay a small fee, pass an examination, and get a bachelor's degree, as a sort of souvenir of his visit; another chap, coming to New York for a brief holiday, instead of stealing a spoon from the Waldorf for his collection of souvenirs, can ring up Columbia College, tell 'em all he knows over the wire, and get a sheepskin by return mail; while at New Haven you'll be able to stop off at the railway station and buy your B. A. at the lunch-counter--they may even go so far as to let the newsboys on the train confer them without making the applicant get off at all. Then the golden age of education will begin. There'll be more college graduates to the square inch than you can now find in any ten square miles in Massachusetts, and our professional men, instead of beginning the long wait at thirty, will be in full practice at twenty-one." "That is the limit!" ejaculated Mr. Brief. "Oh, no indeed," said the Idiot. "There's another step. That's the gramophone course, in which a man won't have to leave home at all to secure a degree from any college he chooses. By tabulating his knowledge and dictating it into a gramophone he can send the cylinder to the university authorities, have it carefully examined, and receive his degree on a postal-card within forty-eight hours. That strikes me as being the limit, unless some of the ten-cent magazines offer an LL. D. degree with a set of Kipling and a punching-bag as a premium for a one year's subscription." "And you think that will be a good thing?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "No, I didn't say so," said the Idiot. "In one respect I think it would be a very bad thing. Such a method would involve the utter destruction of the football and rowing seasons, unless the universities took some decided measures looking toward the preservation of these branches of undergraduate endeavor. It is coming to be recognized as a fact that a man can be branded with the mark of intellectual distinction in absentia, as the Aryan tribes used to put it, but a man can't win athletic prowess without giving the matter attention in propria persona, to adopt the phraseology of the days of Uncle Remus. You can't stroke a crew by mail any more than you can stroke a cat by freight, and it doesn't make any difference how wonderful he may be physically, a Yale man selling dry-goods out in Nebraska can't play football with a Harvard student employed in a grocery store at New Orleans by telephone. You can do it with chess, but not with basket ball. There are some things in university life that require the individual attention of the student. Unless something is done by our colleges, then, to care for this very important branch of their service to growing youth, the new scheme will meet with much opposition from the public." "What would you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest?" asked the Doctor. "The wise man, when he points out an objection to another's plans, suggests a remedy." "That's easy," said the Idiot. "I should have what I should call residential terms for those who wished to avail themselves of athletic training under academic auspices. The leading colleges could announce that they were open for business from October 1st to December 1st for the study of the Theory and Practice of Gridirony--" "Excuse me," said Mr. Pedagog. "But what was that word?" "Gridirony," observed the Idiot. "That would be my idea of the proper academic designation of a course in football, a game which is played on the gridiron. It is more euphonious than goalology or leather spheroids, which have suggested themselves to me." "Go on!" sighed the Doctor. "As a word-mint you are unrivalled." "There could be a term in baseballistics; another in lacrossetics; a fourth in aquatics, and so on all through the list of intercollegiate sports, each in the season best suited to its completest development." "It's not a bad idea, that," said Mr. Pedagog. "A parent sending his boy to college under such conditions would have a fairly good idea of what the lad was doing. As matters are now, it's a question whether the undergraduate acquires as much of Euripides as he does of Travis, and as far as I can find out there are more Yale men around who know all about Bob Cook and Hinkey than there are who are versed in Chaucer, Milton, and Shakespeare." "But what have these things to do with the arts?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "A man may know all about golf, base and foot ball and rowing, and yet be far removed from the true ideals of culture. You couldn't give a man a B. A. degree because he was a perfect quarter rush, or whatever else it is they call him." "That's a good criticism," observed the Idiot, "and there isn't a doubt in my mind that the various faculties of our various colleges will meet it by the establishment of a new degree which shall cover the case." "Again I would suggest that it is up to you to cover that point," said Mr. Brief. "You have outlined a pretty specific scheme. The notion that you haven't brains enough to invent a particular degree is to my mind preposterous." "Right," said the Idiot. "And I think I have it. When I was in college they used to confer a degree upon chaps who didn't quite succeed in passing their finals which was known as A. B. Sp. Gr.--they were mostly fellows who had played more football than Herodotus who got them. The Sp. Gr. meant 'by special favor of the Faculty.' I think I should advocate that, only changing its meaning to 'Great Sport.'" Mr. Pedagog laughed heartily. "You are a great Idiot," he said. "I wonder they don't call you to a full professorship of idiocy somewhere." "I guess it's because they know I wouldn't go," said the Idiot. "Did you say you were in college ever?" sneered the Bibliomaniac, rising from the table. "Yes," said the Idiot. "I went to Columbia for two weeks in the early nineties. I got a special A. B. at the beginning of the third week for my proficiency in sciolism and horseplay. I used a pony in an examination and stuck too closely to the text." "You talk like it," snapped the Bibliomaniac. "Thank you," returned the Idiot, suavely. "I ought to. I was one of the few men in my class who really earned his degree by persistent effort." XVI THE HORSE SHOW "I suppose, Mr. Idiot," observed Mr. Brief, as the Idiot took his accustomed place at the breakfast-table, "that you have been putting in a good deal of your time this week at the Horse Show?" "Yes," said the Idiot, "I was there every night it was open. I go to all the shows--Horse, Dog, Baby, Flower, Electrical--it doesn't matter what. It's first-rate fun." "Pretty fine lot of horses, this year?" asked the Doctor. "Don't know," said the Idiot. "I heard there were some there, but I didn't see 'em." "What?" cried the Doctor. "Went to the Horse Show and didn't see the horses?" "No," said the Idiot. "Why should I? I don't know a cob from a lazy back. Of course I know that the four-legged beast that goes when you say get ap is a horse, but beyond that my equine education has been neglected. I can see all the horses I want to look at on the street, anyhow." "Then what in thunder do you go to the Horse Show for?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "To sleep?" "No," rejoined the Idiot. "It's too noisy for that. I go to see the people. People are far more interesting to me than horses, and I get more solid fun out of seeing the nabobs go through their paces than could be got out of a million nags of high degree kicking up their heels in the ring. If they'd make the horses do all sorts of stunts, it might be different, but they don't. They show you the same old stuff year in and year out, and things that you can see almost any fine day in the Park during the season. You and I know that a four-horse team can pull a tally-ho coach around without breaking its collective neck. We know that two horses harnessed together fore and aft instead of abreast are called a tandem, and can drag a cart on two wheels and about a mile high a reasonable distance without falling dead. There isn't anything new or startling in their performance, and why anybody should pay to see them doing the commonplace, every-day act I don't know. It isn't as if they had a lot of thoroughbreds on exhibition who could sit down at a table and play a round of bridge whist or poker. That would be worth seeing. So would a horse that could play 'Cavalleria Rusticana' on the piano, but when it comes to dragging a hansom-cab or a grocery-wagon around the tanbark, why, it seems to me to lack novelty." "The idea of a horse playing bridge whist!" jeered the Bibliomaniac. "What a preposterous proposition!" "Well, I've seen fellows with less sense than the average horse make a pretty good stab at it at the club," said the Idiot. "Perhaps my suggestion is extreme, but I put it that way merely to emphasize my point. I've seen an educated pig play cards, though, and I don't see why they can't put the horse through very much the same course of treatment and teach him to do something that would make him more of an object of interest when he has his week of glory. I don't care what it is as long as it is out of the ordinary." "There is nothing in the world that is more impressive than a fine horse in action," said the Doctor. "What you suggest would take away from his dignity and make him a freak." "I didn't say it wouldn't," rejoined the Idiot. "In fact, my remarks implied that it would. You don't quite understand my meaning. If I owned a stable I'd much rather my horses didn't play bridge whist, because, in all probability, they'd be sending into the house at all hours of the night asking me to come over to the barn and make a fourth hand. It's bad enough having your neighbors doing that sort of thing without encouraging your horse to go into the business. Nor would it please me as a lover of horseback-riding to have a mount that could play grand opera on the piano. The chances are it would spoil three good things--the horse, the piano, and the opera--but if I were getting up a show and asking people from all over the country to pay good money to get into it, then I should want just such things. In the ordinary daily pursuits of equine life the horse suits me just as he is, but for the extraordinary requirements of an exhibition he lacks diverting qualities. He's more solemn than a play by Sudermann or Blanketty Bjornsen; he is as lacking in originality as a comic-opera score by Sir Reginald de Bergerac, and his drawing powers, outside of cab-work, as far as I am concerned, are absolutely nil. A horse that can draw a picture I'd travel miles to see. A horse that can't draw anything but a T-cart or an ice-wagon hasn't two cents' worth of interest in my eyes." "But can't you see the beauty in the action of a horse?" demanded the Doctor. "It all depends on his actions," said the Idiot. "I've seen horses whose actions were highly uncivilized." "I mean his form--not his behavior," said the Doctor. "Well, I've never understood enough about horses to speak intelligently on that point," observed the Idiot. "It's incomprehensible to me how your so-called judges reason. If a horse trots along hiking his fore-legs 'way up in the air as if he were grinding an invisible hand-organ with both feet, people rave over his high-stepping and call him all sorts of fine names. But if he does the same thing with his hind-legs they call it springhalt or stringhalt, or something of that kind, and set him down as a beastly old plug. The scheme seems to me to be inconsistent, and if I were a horse I'm blessed if I think I'd know what to do. How a thing can be an accomplishment in front and a blemish behind is beyond me, but there is the fact. They give a blue ribbon to the front-hiker and kick the hind-hiker out of the show altogether--they wouldn't even pin a Bryan button on his breast." "I fancy a baby show is about your size," said the Doctor. "Well--yes," said the Idiot, "I guess perhaps you are right, as far as the exhibit is concerned. There's something almost human about a baby, and it's the human element always that takes hold of me. It's the human element in the Horse Show that takes me and most other people as well. Fact is, so many go to see the people and so few to see the horses that I have an idea that some day they'll have it with only one horse--just enough of a nag to enable them to call it a Horse Show--and pay proper attention to the real things that make it a success even now." The Doctor sniffed contemptuously. "What factors in your judgment contribute most to the success of the Horse Show?" he asked. "Duds chiefly," said the Idiot, "and the people who are inside of them. If there were a law passed requiring every woman who goes to the Horse Show to wear a simple gown in order not to scare the horses, ninety per cent. of 'em would stay at home, and all the blue-ribbon steeds in creation couldn't drag them to the Garden--and nobody'd blame them for it, either. Similarly with the men. You don't suppose for an instant, do you, that young Hawkins Van Bluevane would give seven cents for the Horse Show if it didn't give him a chance to appear every afternoon in his Carnegie plaid waistcoat?" "That's a new one on me," said Mr. Brief. "Is there such a thing as a Carnegie plaid?" "It's the most popular that ever came out of Scotland," said the Idiot. "It's called the Carnegie because of the size of the checks. Then there's poor old Jimmie Varickstreet--the last remnant of a first family--hasn't enough money to keep a goat-wagon, and couldn't tell you the difference between a saw-horse and a crupper. He gives up his hall bedroom Horse-Show week and lives in the place day and night, covering up the delinquencies of his afternoon and evening clothes with a long yellow ulster with buttons like butter-saucers distributed all over his person--" "Where did he get it, if he's so beastly poor?" demanded the Lawyer. "He's gone without food and drink and clothes that don't show. He has scrimped and saved, and denied himself for a year to get up a gaudy shell in which for six glorious days to shine resplendent," said the Idiot. "Jimmie lives for those six days, and as you see him flitting from box to box and realize that he is an opulent swell for six days of every year, and a poor, down-trodden exile for the rest of the time, you don't grudge him his little diversion and almost wish you had sufficient will power to deny yourself the luxuries and some of the necessities of life as well to get a coat like that. If I had my way they'd award Jimmie Varickstreet at least an honorable mention as one of the most interesting exhibits in the whole show. "And there are plenty of others. There's raw material enough in that Horse Show to make it a permanent exhibition if the managers would only get together and lick it into shape. As a sort of social zoo it is unsurpassed, and why they don't classify the various sections of it I can't see. In the first place, imagine a dozen boxes filled with members of the Four Hundred, men and women whose names have become household words, and wearing on their backs garments made by the deft fingers of the greatest sartorial artists of the ages. You and I walk in and are permitted to gaze upon this glorious assemblage--the American nobility--in its gayest environment. Wouldn't it interest you to know that that very beautiful woman in the lavender creation, wrapped up in a billion-dollar pearl necklace, is the famous Mrs. Bollington-Jones, who holds the divorce championship of South Dakota, and that those two chaps who are talking to her so vivaciously are two of her ex-husbands, Van Bibber Beaconhill and 'Tommy' Fitz Greenwich? Wouldn't it interest you more than any horse in the ring to know that her gown was turned out at Mrs. Robert Bluefern's Dud Studio at a cost of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, hat included? Yet the programme says never a word about these people. Every horse that trots in has a number so that you can tell who and what and why he is, but there are no placards on Mrs. Bollington-Jones by which she may be identified. "Then on the promenade, there is Hooker Van Winkle. He's out on bail for killing a farmer with his automobile up in Connecticut somewhere. There is young Walston Addlepate, whose father pays him a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year for keeping out of business. There's Jimson Gooseberry, the cotillon leader, whose name is on every lip during the season. Approaching you, dressed in gorgeous furs, is Mrs. Dinningforth Winter, who declined to meet Prince Henry when he was here, because of a previous engagement to dine with Tolby Robinson's pet monkey just in from a cruise in the Indies. And so it goes. The place fairly shrieks with celebrities whose names appear in the _Social Register_, and whose photographs in pink and green are the stock in trade of the Sunday newspapers of saffron tendencies everywhere--but what is done about it? Nothing at all. They come and go, conspicuous but unidentified, and wasting their notoriety on the desert air. It is a magnificent opportunity wasted, and, unless you happen to know these people by sight, you miss a thousand and one little points which are the _sine qua non_ of the show." "I wonder you don't write another Baedeker," said the Bibliomaniac--"_The Idiot's Hand-book to the Horse Show, or Who's Who at the Garden._" "It would be a good idea," said the Idiot. "But the show people must take the initiative. The whole thing needs a live manager." "A sort of Ward MacAllister again?" asked Mr. Brief. "No, not exactly," said the Idiot. "Society has plenty of successors to Ward MacAllister. What they seem to me to need most is a P. T. Barnum. A man like that could make society a veritable Klondike, and with the Horse Show as a nucleus he wouldn't have much trouble getting the thing started along." XVII SUGGESTION TO CHRISTMAS SHOPPERS "By Jingo!" said the Idiot, as he wearily took his place at the breakfast-table the other morning, "but I'm just regularly tuckered out." "Late hours again?" asked the Lawyer. "Not a late hour," returned the Idiot. "Matter of fact, I went to bed last night at half-after seven and never waked until nine this morning. In spite of all that sleep and rest I feel now as if I'd been put through a threshing-machine. Every bone in my body from the funny to the medulla aches like all possessed, and my joints creak like a new pair of shoes on a school-boy in church, they are so stiff." "Oh well," said the Doctor, "what of it? The pace that kills is bound to have some symptoms preliminary to dissolution. If you, like other young men of the age, burn the candle at both ends and in the middle, what can you expect? You push nature into a corner and then growl like all possessed because she rebels." "Not I," retorted the Idiot. "Mr. Pedagog and the Poet and Mr. Bib may lead the strenuous life, but as for mine the simple life is the thing. I'm not striving after the unattainable. I'm not wasting my physical substance in riotous living. The cold and clammy touch of dissipation is not writing letters of burning condemnation proceedings on my brow. Excesses in any form are utterly unknown to me, and from one end of the Subway to the other you won't find another man of my age who in general takes better care of himself. I am as watchful of my own needs as though I were a baby and my own nurse at one and the same time. No mother could watch over her offspring more tenderly than I watch over me, and--" "Well, then, what in thunder is the matter with you?" cried the Lawyer, irritated. "If this is all true, why on earth are you proclaiming yourself as a physical wreck? There must be some cause for your condition." "There is," said the Idiot, meekly. "I went Christmas shopping yesterday without having previously trained for it, and this is the result. I sometimes wonder, Doctor, that you gentlemen, who have the public health more or less in your hands, don't take the initiative and stave off nervous prostration and other ills attendant upon a run-down physical condition instead of waiting for a fully developed case and trying to cure it after the fact. The ounce-of-prevention idea ought to be incorporated, it seems to me, into the _materia medica_." "What would you have us do, move mountains?" demanded the Doctor. "I'm not afraid to tackle almost any kind of fever known to medical science, but the shopping-fever--well, it is incurable. Once it gets hold of a man or a woman, and more especially a woman, there isn't anything that I know of can get it out of the system. I grant you that it is as much of a disease as scarlet, typhoid, or any other, but the mind has not yet been discovered that can find a remedy for it short of abject poverty, and even that has been known to fail." "That's true enough," said the Idiot, "but what you can do is to make it harmless. There are lots of diseases that our forefathers used to regard as necessarily fatal that nowadays we look upon as mere trifles, because people can be put physically into such a condition that they are practically immune to their ravages." "Maybe so--but if people will shop they are going to be knocked out by it. I don't see that we doctors can do anything to mitigate the evil effects of the consequences _ab initio_. After the event we can pump you full of quinine and cod-liver oil and build you up again, but the ounce of prevention for shopping troubles is as easily attainable as a ton of radium to a man with eight cents and a cancelled postage-stamp in his pocket," said the Doctor. "Nonsense, Doctor. You're only fooling," said the Idiot. "A college president might as well say that boys will play football, and that there's nothing they can do to stave off the inevitable consequences of playing the game to one who isn't prepared for it. You know as well as anybody else that from November 15th to December 24th every year an epidemic of shopping is going to break out in our midst. You know that it will rage violently in the last stage beginning December 15th, thanks to our habit of leaving everything to the last minute. You know that the men and women in your care, unless they have properly trained for the exigencies of the epidemic period, will be prostrated physically and nervously, racked in bone and body, aching from tip to toe, their energy exhausted and their spines as limp as a rag, and yet you claim you can do nothing. What would we think of a football trainer who would try thus to account for the condition of his eleven at the end of a season? We'd bounce him, that's what." "Perhaps that gigantic intellect of yours has something to suggest," sneered the Doctor. "Certainly," quoth the Idiot. "I dreamed it all out in my sleep last night. I dreamed that you and I together had started a series of establishments all over the country--" "To eradicate the shopping evil?" laughed the Doctor. "A sort of Keeley Cure for shopping inebriates?" "Nay, nay," retorted the Idiot. "The shopping inebriate is too much of a factor in our commercial prosperity to make such a thing as that popular. My scheme was a sort of shopnasium." "A what?" roared the Doctor. "A shopnasium," explained the Idiot. "We have gymnasiums in which we teach gymnastics. Why not have a shopnasium in which to teach what we might call shopnastics? Just think of what a boon it would be for a lot of delicate women, for instance, who know that along about Christmas-time they must hie them forth to the department stores, there to be crushed and mauled and pulled and hauled until there is scarcely anything left to them, to feel that they could come to our shopnasium and there be trained for the ordeal which they cannot escape." "Very nice," said the Doctor. "But how on earth can you train them? That's what I'd like to know." "How? Why, how on earth do you train a football team except by practice?" demanded the Idiot. "It wouldn't take a very ingenious mind to figure out a game called shopping that would be governed by rules similar to those of football. Take a couple of bargain-counters for the goals. Place one at one end of the shopnasium and one at the other. Then let sixty women start from number one and try to get to number two across the field through another body of sixty women bent on getting to the other one, and _vice versa_. You could teach 'em all the arts of the rush-line, defence, running around the ends, breaking through the middle, and all that. At first the scrimmage would be pretty hard on the beginners, but with a month's practice they'd get hardened to it, and by Christmas-time there isn't a bargain-counter in the country they couldn't reach without more than ordinary fatigue. An interesting feature of the game would be to have automatic cars and automobiles and cabs running to and fro across the field all the time so that they would become absolute masters of the art of dodging similar vehicles when they encounter them in real life, as they surely must when the holiday season is in full blast and they are compelled by the demands of the hour to go out into the world." "The women couldn't stand it," said the Doctor. "They might as well be knocked out at the real thing as in the imitation." "Not at all," said the Idiot. "They wouldn't be knocked out if you gave them preliminary individual exercise with punching-bags, dummies for tackle practice, and other things the football player uses to make himself tough and irresistible." "But you can't reason with shopping as you do with football," suggested the Lawyer. "Think of the glory of winning a goal which sustains the football player through the toughest of fights. The knowledge that the nation will ring with its plaudits of his gallant achievement is half the backing of your quarter-back." "That's all right," said the Idiot, "but the make-up of the average woman is such that what pursuit of fame does for the gladiator, the chase after a bargain does for a woman. I have known women so worn and weary that they couldn't get up for breakfast who had a lion's strength an hour later at a Monday marked-down sale of laundry soap and Yeats's poems. What the goal is to the man the bargain is to the woman, so on the question of incentive to action, Mr. Brief, the sexes are about even. I really think, Doctor, there's a chance here for you and me to make a fortune. Dr. Capsule's Shopnasium, opened every September for the training and development of expert shoppers in all branches of shopnastics, under the medical direction of yourself and my business management would be a winner. Moreover, it would furnish a business opening for all those football players our colleges are turning out, for, as our institution grew and we established branches of it all over the country, we should, of course, have to have managers in every city, and who better to teach all these things than the expert footballist of the hour?" "Oh, well," said the Doctor, "perhaps it isn't such a bad thing, after all; but I don't think I care to go into it. I don't want to be rich." "Very well," said the Idiot. "That being the case, I will modify my suggestion somewhat and send the idea to President Taylor of Vassar and other heads of women's colleges. As things are now they all ought to have a course of shopping for the benefit of the young women who will soon graduate into the larger institution of matrimony. That is the only way I can see for us to build up a woman of the future who will be able to cope with the strenuous life that is involved to-day in the purchase of a cake of soap to send to one's grandmother at Christmas. I know, for I have been through it; and rather than do it again I would let the All-American eleven for 1908 land on me after a running broad jump of sixteen feet in length and four in the air." XVIII FOR A HAPPY CHRISTMAS "I have a request to make of you gentlemen," observed the Idiot, as the last buckwheat-cake of his daily allotment disappeared within. "And I sincerely hope you will all grant it. It won't cost you anything, and will save you a lot of trouble." "I promise beforehand under such conditions," said the Doctor. "The promise that doesn't cost anything and saves a lot of trouble is the kind I like to make." "Same here," said Mr. Brief. "None for me," said the Bibliomaniac. "My confidence in the Idiot's prophecies is about as great as a defeated statesman's popular plurality. My experience with him teaches me that when he signals no trouble ahead then is the time to look out for squalls. Therefore, you can count me out on this promise he wants us to make." "All right," said the Idiot. "To tell the truth, I didn't think you'd come in because I didn't believe you could qualify. You see, the promise I was going to ask you to make presupposes a certain condition which you don't fulfil. I was going to ask you, gentlemen, when Christmas comes to give me not the rich and beautiful gifts you contemplate putting into my stocking, but their equivalent in cash. Now you, Mr. Bib, never gave me anything at Christmas but advice, and your advice has no cash equivalent that I could ever find out, and even if it had I'm long on it now. That piece of advice you gave me last March about getting my head shaved so as to give my brain a little air I've never been able to use, and your kind suggestion of last August, that I ought to have my head cut off as a sure cure of chronic appendicitis, which you were certain I had, doctors tell me would be conducive to heart failure, which is far more fatal than the original disease. The only use to which I can put it, on my word of honor, is to give it back to you this Christmas with my best wishes." "Bosh!" sneered the Bibliomaniac. "It was, indeed," said the Idiot. "And there isn't any market for it. But the rest of you gentlemen will really delight my soul if you will do as I ask. You, Mr. Brief--what is the use of your paying out large sums of money, devoting hour after hour of your time, and practically risking your neck in choosing it, for a motor-car for me, when, as a matter of fact, I'd rather have the money? What's the use of giving thirty-six hundred dollars for an automobile to put in my stocking when I'd be happier if you'd give me a certified check for twenty-five hundred dollars? You couldn't get any such discount from the manufacturers, and I'd be more greatly pleased into the bargain. And you, Doctor--generous heart, that you are--why in thunder should you wear yourself out between now and Christmas-day looking for an eighteen-hundred-dollar fur-lined overcoat for me, when, as a matter of actual truth, I'd prefer a twenty-two-dollar ulster with ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills in the change-pocket?" "I'm sure I don't see why I should," said the Doctor. "And I promise you I won't. What's more, I'll give you the ulster and the ten crisp one hundred dollars without fail if you'll cash my check for eighteen hundred dollars and give me the change." "Certainly," said the Idiot. "How will you have it, in dimes or nickels?" "Any way you please," said the Doctor, with a wink at Mr. Brief. "All right," returned the Idiot. "Send up the ulster and the ten crisps and I'll give you my check for the balance. Then I'll do the same by you, Mr. Poet. My policy involves a square deal for everybody whatever his previous condition of servitude. Last year, you may remember, you sent me a cigar and a lovely little poem of your own composition: "When I am blue as indigo, you wrote, And cold as is the Arctic snow, Give me no megrims rotting. I choose the friend The Heavens send Who takes me Idiyachting. Remember that? Well, it was a mighty nice present, and I wouldn't sell it for a million abandoned farms up in New Hampshire, but this year I'd rather have the money--say one thousand dollars and five cents--a thousand dollars instead of the poem and five cents in place of the cigar." "I am afraid you value my verse too high," smiled the Poet. "Not that one," said the Idiot. "The mere words don't amount to much. I could probably buy twice as many just as good for four dollars, but the way in which you arranged them, and the sentiment they conveyed, made them practically priceless to me. I set their value at a thousand dollars because that is the minimum sum at which I can be tempted to part with things that on principle I should always like to keep--like my word of honor, my conscience, my political views, and other things a fellow shouldn't let go of for minor considerations. The value of the cigar I may have placed too high, but the poem--never." "And yet you don't want another?" asked the Poet, reproachfully. "Indeed I do," returned the Idiot, "but I can't afford to own so much literary property any more than I can afford to possess Mr. Brief's automobile--and this is precisely what I am driving at. So many people nowadays present us at Christmas with objects we can't afford to own, that we cannot possibly repay, and overwhelm us with luxuries when we are starving for our necessities, so that Christmas, instead of bringing happiness with it, brings trial and tribulation. I know of a case last year where a very generous-hearted individual sent a set of Ruskin, superbly bound in full calf that would have set the Bibliomaniac here crazy with joy, to a widow who had just pawned her wedding-ring to buy a Christmas turkey for her children. A bundle of kindling-wood would have been far more welcome than a Carnegie library at that moment, and yet here was a generous soul who was ready to spend a good hundred dollars to make the recipient happy. Do you suppose the lady looked upon that sumptuous Ruskin with anything but misery in her heart?" "Oh, well, she could have pawned that instead of her wedding-ring," sniffed the Bibliomaniac. "She couldn't for two reasons," said the Idiot. "In the first place, her sensibilities were such that she could not have pawned a present just received, and, in the second place, she lived in the town of Hohokus on the Nepperhan, and there isn't a pawnshop within a radius of fifty miles of her home. Besides, it's easier to sneak into a pawnshop with a wedding-ring for your collateral than to drive up with a van big enough to hold a complete set of Ruskin bound in full calf. It takes nerve and experience to do that with a cool and careless _mien_, and, whatever you may have in that respect, Mr. Bib, there are few refined widows in reduced circumstances who are similarly gifted. Then take the case of my friend Billups--some sharp of a tailor got out a judgment against Billups for ninety-eight dollars for a bill he couldn't pay on the fifteenth of December. Billups got his name in the papers, and received enough notoriety to fill him with ambition to go on the stage, and it nearly killed him, and what do you suppose his friends did when Christmas came around? Did they pay off that judgment and relieve him of the odium of having his name chalked up on the public slate? Not they. They sent him forty dollars' worth of golf-clubs, sixteen dollars' worth of cuff-buttons, eight ten-dollar umbrellas, a half-dozen silver match-boxes, a cigar-cutter, and about two hundred dollars' worth of other trash that he's got to pay storage-room for. And on top of that, in order to keep up his end, Billups has had to hang up a lot of tradesmen for the match-cases and cigar-cutters and umbrellas and trash he's sent to his generous friends in return for their generosity." "Oh, rot," interrupted the Bibliomaniac. "What an idiot your friend Billups must be. Why didn't he send the presents he received to others, and so saved his money to pay his debts with?" "Well, I guess he didn't think of that," said the Idiot. "We haven't all got the science of Christmas-giving down as fine as you have, Mr. Bib. But that is a valuable suggestion of yours and I'll put it down among the things that can be done in the plan I am formulating for the painless Christmas." "We can't relieve one another's necessities unless we know what they are, can we?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "We can if we adopt my cash system," said the Idiot. "For instance, I know that I need a dozen pairs of new socks. Modesty would prevent my announcing this fact to the world, and as long as I wear shoes you'd never find it out, but if, when Christmas came, you gave me twenty-five dollars instead of Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_ in words of one syllable, you would relieve my necessities and so earn my everlasting gratitude. Dr. Capsule here wouldn't acknowledge to you or to me that his suspenders are held together in three places with safety-pins, and will so continue to be until these prosperous times moderate; but if we were to present him with nine dollars and sixty-eight cents on Christmas morning, we should discern a look of gratitude in his eye on that suspender account that would be missing if we were to hand him out a seven-dollar gold-mounted shaving-mug instead. We should have shown our generous spirit on his behalf, which is all a Christmas present ever does, whether it is a diamond tiara or a chain of sausages, and at the same time have relieved his anxieties about his braces. His gratitude would be double-barrelled, and his happiness a surer shot. Give us the money, say I, and let us relieve our necessities first, and then if there is anything left over we can buy some memorial of the day with the balance." "Well, I think it's a pretty good plan," said Mrs. Pedagog. "It would save a lot of waste, anyhow. But it isn't possible for all of us to do it, Mr. Idiot. I, for instance, haven't any money to give you." "You could give me something better," said the Idiot. "I wouldn't accept any money from you for a Christmas present." "Then what shall it be?" asked the Landlady. "Well--a receipt in full for my bill to date," said the Idiot. "Mercy!" cried the Landlady. "I couldn't afford that--" "Oh, yes you could," said the Idiot. "Because for your Christmas I'd give you a check in full for the amount." "Oh--I see," smiled the Landlady. "Then what do we get for our Christmas? Strikes me it's about as broad as it is long." "Precisely," said the Idiot. "We get even--and that's about as conducive to a happy Christmas, to Peace on Earth and Good-will to men, as any condition I know of. If I can get square for Christmas I don't want anything else." THE END Transcriber's Note: Punctuation has been standardised. Spelling has been retained as in the original publication except as follows: Page 29 do you think or that _changed to_ do you think of that Page 52 its as easy as rolling _changed to_ it's as easy as rolling Page 75 went there several ways _changed to_ went their several ways I think its abominable _changed to_ I think it's abominable Page 102 a bag of aniseseed _changed to_ a bag of ainse seed Page 150 said the Idiot, gratefuly _changed to_ said the Idiot, gratefully Page 156 Tchaikowski, to be well _changed to_ Tchaikowsky, to be well 
18881	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 18881-h.htm or 18881-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/8/8/18881/18881-h/18881-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/8/8/18881/18881-h.zip) THE IDIOT by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS Author of "Coffee and Repartee" "The Water Ghost, and Others" "Three Weeks in Politics" Etc. Illustrated New York Harper & Brothers Publishers 1895 Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. TO WILLIAM K. OTIS ILLUSTRATIONS "CERTAINLY. I ASKED FOR ANOTHER CUP" "THE NUISANCE OF HAVING TO PAY" "SHE COULD NOT POSSIBLY GET ABOARD AGAIN" "DEMANDS TICKETS FOR TWO" "THEY ARE GIVEN TO REHEARSING AT ALL HOURS" "'HA! HA! I HAVE HIM NOW!'" "HAS YOUR FRIEND COMPLETED HIS ARTICLE ON OLD JOKES?" THEY DEPARTED "YOU FISH ALL DAY, AND HAVE NO LUCK" HE COULD BE HEARD THROWING THINGS ABOUT "HE WAS NOT MURDERED" "SUPERINTENDENT SMITHERS HAS NOT ABSCONDED" THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL "I KNOW YOU CAN'T, BECAUSE IT ISN'T THERE" "YOU CAN MAKE YOURSELF HEARD IN SAN FRANCISCO" THE PROPHETOGRAPH "I GRASPED IT IN MY TWO HANDS" "PIANO-PLAYING ISN'T ALWAYS MUSIC" "THE MOON ITSELF WILL BE USED" "DECLINES TO BE RIDDEN" "THE BIBLIOMANIAC WOULD BE RAISING BULBS" "DIDN'T KNOW ENOUGH TO CHOOSE HIS OWN FACE" "JANITORS HAVE TO BE SEEN TO" "MY ELOQUENCE FLOATED UP THE AIR-SHAFT" THE IDIOT I For some weeks after the happy event which transformed the popular Mrs. Smithers into the charming Mrs. John Pedagog all went well at that lady's select home for single gentlemen. It was only proper that during the honey-moon, at least, of the happy couple hostilities between the Idiot and his fellow-boarders should cease. It was expecting too much of mankind, however, to look for a continued armistice, and the morning arrived when Nature once more reasserted herself, and trouble began. Just what it was that prompted the remark no one knows, but it happened that the Idiot did say that he thought that, after all, life on a canal-boat had its advantages. Mr. Pedagog, who had come into the dining-room in a slightly irritable frame of mind, induced perhaps by Mrs. Pedagog's insistence that as he was now part proprietor of the house he should be a little more prompt in making his contributions towards its maintenance, chose to take the remark as implying a reflection upon the way things were managed in the household. "Humph!" he said. "I had hoped that your habit of airing your idiotic views had been put aside for once and for all." "Very absurd hope, my dear sir," observed the Idiot. "Views that are not aired become musty. Why shouldn't I give them an atmospheric opportunity once in a while?" "Because they are the sort of views to which suffocation is the most appropriate end," snapped the School-Master. "Any man who asserts, as you have asserted, that life on a canal-boat has its advantages, ought to go further, and prove his sincerity by living on one." "I can't afford it," said the Idiot, meekly. "It isn't cheap by any manner of means. In the first place, you can't live happily on a canal-boat unless you can afford to keep horses. In fact, canal-boat life is a combination of the most expensive luxuries, since it combines yachting and driving with domesticity. Nevertheless, if you will put your mind on it, you will find that with a canal-boat for your home you can do a great many things that you can't do with a house." "I decline to put my mind on a canal-boat," said Mr. Pedagog, sharply, passing his coffee back to Mrs. Pedagog for another lump of sugar, thereby contributing to that good lady's discomfiture, since before their marriage the mere fact that the coffee had been poured by her fair hand had given it all the sweetness it needed; or at least that was what the School-Master had said, and more than once at that. "You are under no obligation to do so," the Idiot returned. "Though if I had a mind like yours I'd put it on a canal-boat and have it towed away somewhere out of sight. These other gentlemen, however, I think, will agree with me when I say that the mere fact that a canal-boat can be moved about the country, and is in no sense a fixture anywhere, shows that as a dwelling-place it is superior to a house. Take this house, for instance. This neighborhood used to be the best in town. It is still far from being the worst neighborhood in town, but it is, as it has been for several years, deteriorating. The establishment of a Turkish bath on one corner and a grocery-store on the other has taken away much of that air of refinement which characterized it when the block was devoted to residential purposes entirely. Now just suppose for a moment that this street were a canal, and that this house were a canal-boat. The canal could run down as much as it pleased, the neighborhood could deteriorate eternally, but it could not affect the value of this house as the home of refined people as long as it was possible to hitch up a team of horses to the front stoop and tow it into a better locality. I'd like to wager every man at this table that Mrs. Pedagog wouldn't take five minutes to make up her mind to tow this house up to a spot near Central Park, if it were a canal-boat and the streets were water instead of a mixture of water, sand, and Belgian blocks." "No takers," said the Bibliomaniac. "Tutt-tutt-tutt," ejaculated Mr. Pedagog. [Illustration: "THE NUISANCE OF HAVING TO PAY"] "You seem to lose sight of another fact," said the Idiot, warming up to his subject. "If man had had the sense in the beginning to adopt the canal-boat system of life, and we were used to that sort of thing, it would not be so hard upon us in summer-time, when we have to live in hotels in order that we and our families may reap the benefits of a period of country life. We could simply drive off to that section of the country where we desired to be. Hotels would not be needed if a man could take his house along with him into the fields, and one phase of life which has more bad than good in it would be entirely obliterated. There is nothing more disturbing to the serenity of a domestic man's mind than the artificial manner of living that prevails in most summer hotels. The nuisance of having to pay bills every Monday morning under the penalty of losing one's luggage would be obviated, and all the comforts of home would be directly within reach. The trouble incident upon getting the trunks packed and the children ready for a long day's journey by rail, and the fatigue arising from such a journey, would be reduced to a minimum. The troubles attendant upon going into a far country, and leaving one's house in the sole charge of a lot of servants for a month or two every year, would be done away with entirely; and if at any time it became necessary to discharge one of these servants, she could be put off the boat in an instant, and then the boat could be pushed out into the middle of the canal, so that the discharged domestic could not possibly get aboard again and take her revenge by smashing your crockery and fixtures. That is one of the worst features of living in a stationary house. You are entirely at the mercy of vindictive servants. They know precisely where you live, and you cannot escape them. They can come back when there is no man around, and raise several varieties of Ned with your wife and children. With a movable house, such as the canal-boat would be, you could always go off and leave your family in perfect safety." [Illustration: "SHE COULD NOT POSSIBLY GET ABOARD AGAIN"] "How about safety in a storm?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Safety in a storm?" echoed the Idiot. "That seems an absurd sort of a question to one who knows anything about canal-boats. I, for one, never heard of a canal-boat being seriously damaged in a storm as long as it was anchored in the canal proper. It certainly isn't any more dangerous to be in a canal-boat in a storm than it is to be in a house that offers resistance to the winds, and is shaken from roof to cellar at every blast. More houses have been blown from their foundations than canal-boats sunk, provided ordinary care has been taken to protect them." "And you think the canal-boat would be healthy?" asked the Doctor. "How about dampness and all that?" "That is a professional question," returned the Idiot, "which I think you could answer better than I. I don't see why a canal-boat shouldn't be healthy, however. The dampness would not amount to very much. It would be outside of one's dwelling, and not within it, as is the case with so many houses. A canal-boat having no cellar could not have a damp one, and if by some untoward circumstance it should spring a leak, the water could be pumped out at once and the leak plugged up. However this might be, I'll offer another wager to this board on that point, and that is that more people die in houses than on canal-boats." "We'd rather give you our money right out," retorted the Doctor. "Thank you," said the Idiot. "But I don't need money. I don't like money. Money is responsible for more extravagance than any other commodity in existence. Besides, it and I are not intimate enough to get along very well together, and when I have any I immediately do my level best to rid myself of it. But to return to our canal-boat, I note a look of disapproval in Mr. Whitechoker's eyes. He doesn't seem to think any more of my scheme than do the rest of you--which I regret, since I believe that he would be the gainer if land edifices were supplanted by the canal system as proposed by myself. Take church on a rainy morning, for instance. A great many people stay at home from church on rainy mornings just because they do not want to venture out in the wet. Suppose we all lived in canal-boats? Would not people be deprived of this flimsy pretext for staying at home if their homes could be towed up to the church door? Or, better yet, granting that the churches followed out the same plan, and were themselves constructed like canal-boats, how easy it would be for the sexton to drive the church around the town and collect the absentees. In the same manner it would be glorious for men like ourselves, who have to go to their daily toil. For a consideration, Mrs. Pedagog could have us driven to our various places of business every morning, returning for us in the evening. Think how fine it would be for me, for instance, instead of having to come home every night in an overcrowded elevated train or on a cable-car, to have the office-boy come and announce, 'Mrs. Pedagog's Select Home for Gentlemen is at the door, Mr. Idiot.' I could step right out of my office into my charming little bedroom up in the bow, and the time usually expended on the cars could be devoted to dressing for tea. Then we could stop in at the court-house for our legal friend; and as for Doctor Capsule, wouldn't he revel in driving this boarding-house about town on his daily rounds among his patients?" "What would become of my office hours?" asked the Doctor. "If this house were whirling giddily all about the city from morning until night, I don't know what would become of my office patients." "They might die a little sooner or live a little longer, that is all," said the Idiot. "If they weren't able to find the house at all, however, I think it would be better for us, for much as I admire you, Doctor, I think your office hours are a nuisance to the rest of us. I had to elbow my way out of the house this morning between a double line of sufferers from mumps and influenza, and other pleasingly afflicted patients of yours, and I didn't like it very much." "I don't believe they liked it much either," returned the Doctor. "One man with a sprained ankle told me about you. You shoved him in passing." "Well, you can apologize to him in my behalf," returned the Idiot; "but you might add that he must expect very much the same treatment whenever he and a boy with mumps stand between me and the door. Sprained ankles aren't contagious, and I preferred shoving him to the other alternative." The Doctor was silent, and the Idiot rose to go. "Where will the house be this evening about six-thirty, Mrs. Pedagog?" he asked, as he pushed his chair back from the table. "Where? Why, here, of course," returned the landlady. "Why, yes--of course," observed the Idiot, with an impatient gesture. "How foolish of me! I've really been so wrapped up in my canal-boat ideal that I came to believe that it might possibly be real and not a dream, after all. I almost believed that perhaps I should find that the house had been towed somewhere up into Westchester County on my return, so that we might all escape the city's tax on personal property, which I am told is unusually high this year." With which sally the Idiot kissed his hand to Mr. Pedagog and retired from the scene. II "Let's write a book," suggested the Idiot, as he took his place at the board and unfolded his napkin. "What about?" asked the Doctor, with a smile at the idea of the Idiot's thinking of embarking on literary pursuits. "About four hundred pages long," said the Idiot. "I feel inspired." "You are inspired," said the School-Master. "In your way you are a genius. I really never heard of such a variegated Idiot as you are in all my experience, and that means a great deal, I can tell you, for in the course of my career as an instructor of youth I have encountered many idiots." "Were they idiots before or after having drank at the fount of your learning?" asked the Idiot, placidly. Mr. Pedagog glared, and the Idiot was apparently satisfied. To make Mr. Pedagog glare appeared to be one of the chiefest of his ambitions. "You will kindly remember, Mr. Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog at this point, "that Mr. Pedagog is my husband, and such insinuations at my table are distinctly out of place." "I ask your pardon, Mrs. Pedagog," rejoined the offender, meekly. "Nevertheless, as apart from the question in hand as to whether Mr. Pedagog inspires idiocy or not, I should like to get the views of this gathering on the point you make regarding the table. _Is_ this your table? Is it not rather the table of those who sit about it to regale their inner man with the good things under which I remember once or twice in my life to have heard it groan? To my mind, the latter is the truth. It is _our_ table, because we buy it, and I am forced to believe that some of us pay for it. I am prepared to admit that if Mr. Brief, for instance, is delinquent in his weekly payments, his interest in the table reverts to you until he shall have liquidated, and he is not privileged to say a word that you do not approve of; but I, for instance, who since January 1st have been compelled to pay in advance, am at least sole lessee, and for the time being proprietor of the portion for which I have paid. You have sold it to me. I have entered into possession, and while in possession, as a matter of right and not on sufferance, haven't I the privilege of freedom of speech?" "You certainly exercise the privilege whether you have it or not," snapped Mr. Pedagog. "Well, I believe in exercise," said the Idiot. "Exercise brings strength, and if exercising the privilege is going to strengthen it, exercise it I shall, if I have to hire a gymnasium for the purpose. But to return to Mrs. Pedagog's remark. It brings up another question that has more or less interested me. Because Mrs. Smithers married Mr. Pedagog, do we lose all of our rights in Mr. Pedagog? Before the happy event that reduced our number from ten to nine--" "We are still ten, are we not?" asked Mr. Whitechoker, counting the guests. "Not if Mr. Pedagog and the late Mrs. Smithers have become one," said the Idiot. "But, as I was saying, before the happy event that reduced our number from ten to nine we were permitted to address our friend Pedagog in any terms we saw fit, and whenever he became sufficiently interested to indulge in repartee we were privileged to return it. Have we relinquished that privilege? I don't remember to have done so." "It's a question worthy of your giant intellect," said Mr. Pedagog, scornfully. "For myself, I do not at all object to anything you may choose to say to me or of me. Your assaults are to me as water is to a duck's back." "I am sorry," said the Idiot. "I hate family disagreements, and here we have Mrs. Pedagog taking one side and Mr. Pedagog the other. But whatever decision may ultimately be reached, of one thing Mrs. Pedagog must be assured. I on principle side against Mr. Pedagog, and if it be the wish of my good landlady that I shall refrain from playing intellectual battledore and shuttlecock with her husband, whom we all revere, I certainly shall refrain. Hereafter if I indulge in anything that in any sense resembles repartee with our landlord, I wish it distinctly understood that an apology goes with it." "That's all right, my boy," said the School-Master. "You mean well. You are a little new, that's all, and we all understand you." "I don't understand him," growled the Doctor, still smarting under the recollection of former breakfast-table discomfitures. "I wish we could get him translated." "If you prescribed for me once or twice I think it likely I should be translated in short order," retorted the Idiot. "I wonder how I'd go translated into French?" "You couldn't be expressed in French," put in the Lawyer. "It would take some barbarian tongue to do you justice." "Very well," said the Idiot. "Proceed. Do me justice." "I can't begin to," said Mr. Brief, angrily. "That's what I thought," said the Idiot. "That's the reason why you always do me such great injustice. You lawyers always have to be doing something, even if it is only holding down a chair so that it won't blow out of your office window. If you haven't any justice to mete out, you take another tack and dispense injustice with lavish hand. However, I'll forgive you if you'll tell me one thing. What's libel, Mr. Brief?" "None of your business," growled the Lawyer. "A very good general definition," said the Idiot, approvingly. "If there's any business in the world that I should hate to have known as mine it is that of libel. I think, however, your definition is not definite. What I wanted to know was just how far I could go with remarks at this table and be safe from prosecution." "Nobody would ever prosecute you, for two reasons," said the lawyer. "In a civil action for money damages a verdict against you for ten cents wouldn't be worth a rap, because the chances are you couldn't pay. In a criminal action your conviction would be a bad thing, because you would be likely to prove a corrupting influence in any jail in creation. Besides, you'd be safe before a jury, anyhow. You are just the sort of idiot that the intelligent jurors of to-day admire, and they'd acquit you of any crime. A man has a right to a trial at the hands of a jury of his peers. I don't think even in a jury-box twelve idiots equal to yourself could be found, so don't worry." "Thanks. Have a cigarette?" said the Idiot, tossing one over to the Lawyer. "It's all I have. If I had a half-dollar I should pay you for your opinion; but since I haven't, I offer you my all. The temperature of my coffee seems to have fallen, Mrs. Pedagog. Will you kindly let me have another cup?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Mary, get the Idiot another cup." Mary did as she was told, placing the empty bit of china at Mrs. Pedagog's side. "It is for the Idiot, Mary," said Mrs. Pedagog, coldly. "Take it to him." "Empty, ma'am?" asked the maid. "Certainly, Mary," said the Idiot, perceiving Mrs. Pedagog's point. "I asked for another cup, not for more coffee." [Illustration: "CERTAINLY. I ASKED FOR ANOTHER CUP"] Mrs. Pedagog smiled quietly at her own joke. At hair-splitting she could give the Idiot points. "I am surprised that Mary should have thought I wanted more coffee," continued the Idiot, in an aggrieved tone. "It shows that she too thinks me out of my mind." "You are not out of your mind," said the Bibliomaniac. "It would be a good thing if you were. In replenishing your mental supply you might have the luck to get better quality." "I probably should have the luck," said the Idiot. "I have had a great store of it in my life. From the very start I have had luck. When I think that I was born myself, and not you, I feel as if I had had more than my share of good-fortune--more luck than the law allows. How much luck does the law allow, Mr. Brief?" "Bosh!" said Mr. Brief, with a scornful wave of his hand, as if he were ridding himself of a troublesome gnat. "Don't bother me with such mind-withering questions." "All right," said the Idiot. "I'll ask you an easier one. Why does not the world recognize matrimony?" Mr. Whitechoker started. Here, indeed, was a novel proposition. "I--I--must confess," said he, "that of all the idiotic questions I--er--I have ever had the honor of hearing asked that takes the--" "Cake?" suggested the Idiot. "--palm!" said Mr. Whitechoker, severely. "Well, perhaps so," said the Idiot. "But matrimony is the science, or the art, or whatever you call it, of making two people one, is it not?" "It certainly is," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But what of it?" "The world does not recognize the unity," said the Idiot. "Take our good proprietors, for instance. They were made one by yourself, Mr. Whitechoker. I had the pleasure of being an usher at the ceremony, yielding the position of best man gracefully, as is my wont, to the Bibliomaniac. He was best man, but not the better man, by a simple process of reasoning. Now no one at this board disputes that Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog are one, but how about the world? Mr. Pedagog takes Mrs. Pedagog to a concert. Are they one there?" "Why not?" asked Mr. Brief. "That's what I want to know--why not? The world, as represented by the ticket-taker at the door, says they are not--or implies that they are not, by demanding tickets for two. They attempt to travel out to Niagara Falls. The railroad people charge them two fares; the hackman charges them two fares; the hotel bills are made out for two people. It is the same wherever they go in the world, and I regret to say that even in our own home there is a disposition to regard them as two. When I spoke of there being nine persons here instead of ten, Mr. Whitechoker himself disputed my point--and yet it was not so much his fault as the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog themselves. Mrs. Pedagog seems to cast doubt upon the unity by providing two separate chairs for the two halves that make up the charming entirety. Two cups are provided for their coffee. Two forks, two knives, two spoons, two portions of all the delicacies of the season which are lavished upon us out of season--generally after it--fall to their lot. They do not object to being called a happy _couple_, when they should be known as a happy single. Now what I want to know is why the world does not accept the shrinkage which has been pronounced valid by the church and is recognized by the individual? Can any one here tell me that?" [Illustration: "DEMANDS TICKETS FOR TWO"] No one could, apparently. At least no one endeavored to. The Idiot looked inquiringly at all, and then, receiving no reply to his question, he rose from the table. "I think," he said, as he started to leave the room--"I think we ought to write that book. If we made it up of the things you people don't know, it would be one of the greatest books of the century. At any rate, it would be great enough in bulk to fill the biggest library in America." III "I wish I were beginning life all over again," said the Idiot one spring morning, as he took his accustomed place at Mrs. Pedagog's table. "I wish you were," said Mr. Pedagog from behind his newspaper. "Then your parents would have you shut up in a nursery, and it is even conceivable that you would be receiving those disciplinary attentions with a slipper that you seem to me so frequently to deserve, were you at this present moment in the nursery stage of your development." "My!" ejaculated the Idiot. "What a wonder you are, Mr. Pedagog! It is a good thing you are not a justice in a criminal court." "And what, may I venture to ask," said Mr. Pedagog, glancing at the Idiot over his spectacles--"what has given rise to that extraordinary remark, the connection of which with anything that has been said or done this morning is distinctly not apparent?" "I only meant that a man who was so given over to long sentences as you are would probably make too severe a judge in a criminal court," replied the Idiot, meekly. "Do you make use of the same phraseology in the class-room that you dazzle us with, I should like to know?" "And why not, pray?" said Mr. Pedagog. "No special reason," said the Idiot; "only it does seem to me that an instructor of youth ought to be more careful in his choice of adverbs than you appear to be. Of course Doctor Bolus here is under no obligation to speak more grammatically or correctly than he does. People call him in to prescribe, not to indulge in rhetorical periods, and he can write his prescriptions in a sort of intuitive Latin and nobody be the wiser, but you, who are said to be sowing the seeds of knowledge in the brain of youth, should be more careful." "Hear the grammarian talk!" returned Mr. Pedagog. "Listen to this embryonic Samuel Johnson the Second. What have I said that so offends the linguistic taste of Lindley Murray, Jun.?" "Nothing," returned the Idiot. "I cannot say that you have said anything. I never heard you say anything in my life; but while you can no doubt find good authority for making use of the words 'distinctly not apparent,' you ought not to throw such phrases around carelessly. The thing which is distinct is apparent, therefore to say 'distinctly not apparent' to a mind that is not given to analysis sounds strange. You might as well say of a beautiful girl that she is plainly pretty, meaning of course that she is evidently pretty; but those who are unacquainted with the idiomatic peculiarities of your speech might ask you if you meant that she was pretty in a plain sort of way. Suppose, too, you were writing a novel, and, in a desire to give your reader a fair idea of the personal appearance of a homely but good creature, you should say, 'It cannot be denied that Rosamond Follansbee was pretty plain?' It wouldn't take a very grave error of the types to change your entire meaning. To save a line on a page, for instance, it might become necessary to eliminate a single word; and if that word should chance to be the word 'plain' in the sentence I have given, your homely but good person would be set down as being undeniably pretty. Which shows, it seems to me, that too great care cannot be exercised in the making of selections from our vocabu--" "You are the worst I _ever_ knew!" snapped Mr. Pedagog. "Which only proves," observed the Idiot, "that you have not heeded the Scriptural injunction that you should know thyself. Are those buckwheat cakes or doilies?" Whether the question was heard or not is not known. It certainly was not answered, and silence reigned for a few minutes. Finally Mrs. Pedagog spoke, and in the manner of one who was somewhat embarrassed. "I am in an embarrassing position," said she. "Good!" said the Idiot, _sotto-voce_, to the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "There is hope for the landlady yet. If she can be embarrassed she is still human--a condition I was beginning to think she wotted not of." "She whatted what?" queried the genial gentleman, not quite catching the Idiot's words. "Never mind," returned the Idiot. "Let's hear how she ever came to be embarrassed." "I have had an application for my first-floor suite, and I don't know whether I ought to accept it or not," said the landlady. "She has a conscience, too," whispered the Idiot; and then he added, aloud, "And wherein lies the difficulty, Mrs. Pedagog?" "The applicant is an actor; Junius Brutus Davenport is his name." "A tragedian or a comedian?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Or first walking gentleman, who knows every railroad tie in the country?" put in the Idiot. "That I do not know," returned the landlady. "His name sounds familiar enough, though. I thought perhaps some of you gentlemen might know of him." "I have heard of Junius Brutus," observed the Doctor, chuckling slightly at his own humor, "and I've heard of Davenport, but Junius Brutus Davenport is a combination with which I am not familiar." "Well, I can't see why it should make any difference whether the man is a tragedian, or a comedian, or a familiar figure to railroad men," said Mr. Whitechoker, firmly. "In any event, he would be an extremely objec--" "It makes a great deal of difference," said the Idiot. "I've met tragedians, and I've met comedians, and I've met New York Central stars, and I can assure you they each represent a distinct type. The tragedians, as a rule, are quiet meek individuals, with soft low voices, in private life. They are more timid than otherwise, though essentially amiable. I knew a tragedian once who, after killing seventeen Indians, a road-agent, and a gross of cowboys between eight and ten P.M. every night for sixteen weeks, working six nights a week, was afraid of a mild little soft-shell crab that lay defenceless on a plate before him on the evening of the seventh night of the last week. Tragedians make agreeable companions, I can tell you; and if J. Brutus Davenport is a tragedian, I think Mrs. Pedagog would do well to let him have the suite, provided, of course, that he pays for it in advance." "I was about to observe, when our friend interrupted me," said Mr. Whitechoker, with dignity, "that in any event an actor at this board would be to me an extremely objec--" "Now the comedians," resumed the Idiot, ignoring Mr. Whitechoker's remark--"the comedians are very different. They are twice as bloodthirsty as the murderers of the drama, and, worse than that, they are given to rehearsing at all hours of the day and night. A tragedian is a hard character only on the stage, but the comedian is the comedian always. If we had one of those fellows in our midst, it would not be very long before we became part of the drama ourselves. Mrs. Pedagog would find herself embarrassed once an hour, instead of, as at present, once a century. Mr. Whitechoker would hear of himself as having appeared by proxy in a roaring farce before our comedian had been with us two months. The wise sayings of our friend the School-Master would be spoken nightly from the stage, to the immense delight of the gallery gods, and to the edification of the orchestra circle, who would wonder how so much information could have got into the world and they not know it before. The out-of-town papers would literally teem with witty extracts from our comedian's plays, which we should immediately recognize as the dicta of my poor self." [Illustration: "THEY ARE GIVEN TO REHEARSING AT ALL HOURS"] "All of which," put in Mr. Whitechoker, "but proves the truth of my assertion that such a person would be an extremely objec--" "Then, as I said before," continued the Idiot, "he is continually rehearsing, and his objectionableness as a fellow-boarder would be greater or less, according to his play. If he were impersonating a shiftless wanderer, who shows remarkable bravery at a hotel fire, we should have to be prepared at any time to hear the fire-engines rushing up to the front door, and to see our comedian scaling the fire-escape with Mrs. Pedagog and her account-books in his arms, simply in the line of rehearsal. If he were impersonating a detective after a criminal masquerading as a good citizen, the School-Master would be startled some night by a hoarse voice at his key-hole exclaiming: 'Ha! ha! I have him now. There is no escape save by the back window, and that's so covered o'er with dust 'twere suffocation sure to try it.' I hesitate to say what would happen if he were a tank comedian." [Illustration: "'HA! HA! I HAVE HIM NOW!'"] "Perhaps," said Mr. Whitechoker, with a trifle more impatience than was compatible with his calling--"perhaps you will hesitate long enough for me to state what I have been trying to state ever since this soliloquy of yours began--that in any event, whether this person be a tragedian, or a comedian, or a walking gentleman, or a riding gentleman in a circus, I object to his being admitted to this circle, and I deem it well to say right here that as he comes in at the front door I go out at the back. As a clergyman, I do not approve of the stage." "That ought to settle it," said the Idiot. "Mr. Whitechoker is too good a friend to us all here for us to compel him to go out of that back door into the rather limited market-garden Mrs. Pedagog keeps in the yard. My indirect plea for the admission of Mr. Junius Brutus Davenport was based entirely upon my desire to see this circle completed or nearer completion than it is at present. We have all the professions represented here but the stage, and why exclude it, granting that no one objects? The men whose lives are given over to the amusement of mankind, and who are willing to place themselves in the most outrageous situations night after night in order that we may for the time being seem to be lifted out of the unpleasant situations into which we have got ourselves, are in my opinion doing a noble work. The theatre enables us to woo forgetfulness of self successfully for a few brief hours, and I have seen the time when an hour or two of relief from actual cares has resulted in great good. Nevertheless, the gentleman is not elected; and if Mrs. Pedagog will kindly refill my cup, I will ask you to join me in draining a toast to the health of the pastor of this flock, whose conscience, paradoxical as it may seem, is the most frequently worn and yet the least thread-bare of the consciences represented at this table." This easy settlement of her difficulty was so pleasing to Mrs. Pedagog that the Idiot's request was graciously acceded to, and Mr. Whitechoker's health was drank in coffee, after which the Idiot requested the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed to join him privately in eating buckwheat cakes to the health of Mr. Davenport. "I haven't any doubt that he is worthy of the attention," he said; "and if you will lend me the money to buy the tickets, I'll take you around to the Criterion to-night, where he is playing. I don't know whether he plays Hamlet or A Hole in the Roof; but, at any rate, we can have a good time between the acts." IV "I see the men are at work on the pavements this morning," said the School-Master, gazing out through the window at a number of laborers at work in the street. "Yes," said the Idiot, calmly, "and I think Mrs. Pedagog ought to sue the Department of Public Works for libel. If she hasn't a case no maligned person ever had." "What are you saying, sir?" queried the landlady, innocently. "I say," returned the Idiot, pointing out into the street, "that you ought to sue the Department of Public Works for libel. They've got their sign right up against your house. _No Thorough Fare_ is what it says. That's libel, isn't it, Mr. Brief?" "It is certainly a fatal criticism of a boarding-house," observed Mr. Brief, with a twinkle in his eye, "but Mrs. Pedagog could hardly secure damages on that score." "I don't know about that," returned the Idiot. "As I understand it, it is an old maxim of the law that the greater the truth the greater the libel. Mrs. Pedagog ought to receive a million----By-the-way, what have we this morning?" "We have steak and fried potatoes, sir," replied Mrs. Pedagog, frigidly. "And I desire to add, that one who criticises the table as much as you do would do well to get his meals outside." "That, Mrs. Pedagog, is not the point. The difficulty I find here lies in getting my meals inside," said the Idiot. "Mary, you may bring in the mush," observed Mrs. Pedagog, pursing her lips, as she always did when she wished to show that she was offended. "Yes, Mary," put in the School-Master; "let us have the mush as quickly as possible--and may it not be quite such mushy mush as the remarks we have just been favored with by our talented friend the Idiot." "You overwhelm me with your compliments, Mr. Pedagog," replied the Idiot, cheerfully. "A flatterer like you should live in a flat." "Has your friend completed his article on old jokes yet?" queried the Bibliomaniac, with a smile and some apparent irrelevance. [Illustration: "HAS YOUR FRIEND COMPLETED HIS ARTICLE ON OLD JOKES?"] "Yes and no," said the Idiot. "He has completed his labors on it by giving it up. He is a very thorough sort of a fellow, and he intended to make the article comprehensive, but he found he couldn't, because, judging from comments of men like you, for instance, he was forced to conclude that there never was a _new_ joke. But, as I was saying the other morning----" "Do you really remember what you say?" sneered Mr. Pedagog. "You must have a great memory for trifles." "Sir, I shall never forget you," said the Idiot. "But to revert to what I was saying the other morning, I'd like to begin life all over again, so that I could prepare myself for the profession of architecture. It's the greatest profession in the world, and one which is surest to bring immortality to its successful follower. A man may write a splendid book, and become a great man for a while and within certain limits, but the chances are that some other man will come along later and supplant him. Then the book's sale will die out after a time, and with this will come a diminution of its author's reputation, in extent anyway. An actor or a great preacher becomes only a name after his death, but the architect who builds a cathedral or a fine public building really erects a monument to his own memory." "He does if he can build it so that it will stay up," said the Bibliomaniac. "I think you, however, are better off as you are. If you had a more extended reputation or a lasting name you would probably be locked up in some retreat; or if you were not, posterity would want to know why." "I am locked up in a retreat of Nature's making," said the Idiot, with a sigh. "Nature has set around me certain limitations which, while they are not material, might as well be so as far as my ability to soar above them is concerned--and it's well she has. If it were otherwise, my life would not be safe or bearable in this company. As it is, I am happy and not at all afraid of the effects your jealousy of me might entail if I were any better than the rest of you." "I like that," said Mr. Pedagog. "I thought you would," said the Idiot. "That's why I said it. I aim to please, and for once seem to have hit the bull's-eye. Mary, kindly break open this biscuit for me." "Have you ideas on the subject of architecture that you so desire to become an architect?" queried Mr. Whitechoker, who was always full of sympathy for aspiring natures. "A few," said the Idiot. Mr. Pedagog laughed outright. "Let's test his ideas," he said, in an amused way. "Take a cathedral, for instance. Suppose, Mr. Idiot, a man should come to you and say: 'Idiot, we have a fund of $800,000 in our hands, actual cash. We think of building a cathedral, and we think of employing you to draw up our plans. Give us some idea of what we should do.' Do you mean to tell me that you could say anything reasonable or intelligent to that man?" "Well, that depends upon what you call reasonable and intelligent. I have never been able to find out what you mean by those terms," the Idiot answered, slowly. "But I could tell him something that I consider reasonable and intelligent." "From your own point of view, then, as to reasonableness and intelligence, what should you say to him?" "I'd make him out a plan providing for the investment of his $800,000 in five-per-cent, gold bonds, which would bring him in an income of $40,000 a year; after which I should call his attention to the fact that $40,000 a year would enable him to take 10,000 poor children out of this sweltering city into the country, to romp and drink fresh milk and eat wholesome food for two weeks every summer from now until the end of time, which would build up a human structure that might be of more benefit to the world than any pile of bricks, marble, and wrought-iron I or any other architect could conceive of," said the Idiot. "The structure would stand up, too." "You call that architecture, do you?" said Mr. Pedagog. "Yes," said the Idiot, "of the renaissance order. But that, of course, you term idiocy--and maybe it is. I like to be that kind of an idiot. I do not claim to be able to build a cathedral, however. I don't suppose I could even build a boarding-house like this, but what I should like to do in architecture would be to put up a $5000 dwelling-house for $5000. That's a thing that has never been done, and I think I might be able to do it. If I did, I'd patent the plan and make a fortune. Then I should like to know enough about the science of planning a building to find out whether my model hotel is practicable or not." "You have a model hotel in your mind, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac. "It must be a very small hotel if it's in his mind," said the Doctor. "That's tantamount to saying that it isn't anywhere," said Mr. Pedagog. "Well, it's a great hotel just the same," said the Idiot. "Although I presume it would be expensive to build. It would have movable rooms, in the first place. Each room would be constructed like an elevator, with appliances at hand for moving it up and down. The great thing about this would be that persons could have a room on any floor they wanted it, so long as they got the room in the beginning. A second advantage would lie in the fact, that if you were sleeping in a room next door to another in which there was a crying baby, you could pull the rope and go up two or three flights until you were free from the noise. Then in case of fire the room in which the fire started could be lowered into a sliding tank large enough to immerse the whole thing in, which I should have constructed in the cellar. If the whole building were to catch fire, there would be no loss of life, because all the rooms could be lowered to the ground-floor, and the occupants could step right out upon solid ground. Then again, if you were down on the ground-floor, and desired to get an extended view of the surrounding country, it would be easy to raise your room to the desired elevation. Why, there's no end to the advantages to be gained from such an arrangement." "It's a fine idea," said Mr. Pedagog, "and one worthy of your mammoth intellect. It couldn't possibly cost more than a million of dollars to erect such a hotel, could it?" "No," said the Idiot. "And that is cheap alongside some of the hotels they are putting up nowadays." "It could be built on less than four hundred acres of ground, too, I presume?" said the Bibliomaniac, with a wink at the Doctor. "Certainly," said the Idiot, meekly. "And if anybody fell sick in one of the rooms," said the Doctor, "and needed a change of air, you could have a tower over each, I suppose, so that the room could be elevated high enough to secure the different quality in the ether?" "Undoubtedly," said the Idiot. "Although that would add materially to the expense. A scarlet-fever patient, however, in a hotel like that could very easily be isolated from the rest of the house by the maintenance of what might be called the hospital floor." "Superb!" said the Doctor. "I wonder you haven't spoken to some architectural friend about it." "I have," said the Idiot. "You must remember that young fellow with a black mustache I had here to dinner last Saturday night." "Yes, I remember him," said the Doctor. "Is he an architect?" "He is--and a good one. He can take a brown-stone dwelling and turn it into a colonial mansion with a pot of yellow paint. He's a wonder. I submitted the idea to him." "And what was his verdict?" "I don't like to say," said the Idiot, blushing a little. "Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Pedagog. "I shouldn't think you would like to say. I guess we know what he said." "I doubt it," said the Idiot; "but if you guess right, I'll tell you." "He said you had better go and live in a lunatic asylum," said Mr. Pedagog, with a chuckle. "Not he," returned the Idiot, nibbling at his biscuit. "On the contrary. He advised me to stop living in one. He said contact with the rest of you was affecting my brain." This time Mr. Pedagog did not laugh, but mistaking his coffee-cup for a piece of toast, bit a small section out of its rim; and in the midst of Mrs. Pedagog's expostulation, which followed the School-Master's careless error, the Idiot and the Genial Old Gentleman departed, with smiles on their faces which were almost visible at the back of their respective necks. [Illustration: THEY DEPARTED] V "Hullo!" said the Idiot, as he began his breakfast. "This isn't Friday morning, is it? I thought it was Tuesday." "So it is Tuesday," put in the School-Master. "Then this fish is a little extra treat, is it?" observed the Idiot, turning with a smile to the landlady. "Fish? That isn't fish, sir," returned the good lady. "That is liver." "Oh, is it?" said the Idiot, apologetically. "Excuse me, my dear Mrs. Pedagog. I thought from its resistance that it was fried sole. Have you a hatchet handy?" he added, turning to the maid. "My piece is tender enough. I can't see what you want," said the School-Master, coldly. "I'd like your piece," replied the Idiot, suavely. "That is, if it really is tender enough." "Don't pay any attention to him, my dear," said the School-Master to the landlady, whose ire was so very much aroused that she was about to make known her sentiments on certain subjects. "No, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "don't pay any attention to me, I beg of you. Anything that could add to the jealousy of Mr. Pedagog would redound to the discomfort of all of us. Besides, I really do not object to the liver. I need not eat it. And as for staying my appetite, I always stop on my way down-town after breakfast for a bite or two anyhow." There was silence for a moment. "I wonder why it is," began the Idiot, after tasting his coffee--"I wonder why it is Friday is fish-day all over the world, anyhow? Do you happen to be learned enough in piscatorial science to enlighten me on that point, Doctor?" "No," returned the physician, gruffly. "I've never looked into the matter." "I guess it's because Friday is an unlucky day," said the Idiot. "Just think of all the unlucky things that may happen before and after eating fish, as well as during the process. In the first place, before eating, you go off and fish all day, and have no luck--don't catch a thing. You fall in the water perhaps, and lose your watch, or your fish-hook catches in your coat-tails, with the result that you come near casting yourself instead of the fly into the brook or the pond, as the case may be. Perhaps the hook doesn't stop with the coat-tails, but goes on in, and catches you. That's awfully unlucky, especially when the hook is made of unusually barby barbed wire. [Illustration: "YOU FISH ALL DAY, AND HAVE NO LUCK"] "Then, again, you may go fishing on somebody else's preserves, and get arrested, and sent to jail overnight, and hauled up the next morning, and have to pay ten dollars fine for poaching. Think of Mr. Pedagog being fined ten dollars for poaching! Awfully unfortunate!" "Kindly leave me out of your calculations," returned Mr. Pedagog, with a flush of indignation. "Certainly, if you wish it," said the Idiot. "We'll hand Mr. Brief over to the police, and let _him_ be fined for poaching on somebody else's preserves--although that's sort of impossible, too, because Mrs. Pedagog never lets us see preserves of any kind." "We had brandied peaches last Sunday night," said the landlady, indignantly. "Oh yes, so we did," returned the Idiot. "That must have been what the Bibliomaniac had taken," he added, turning to the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "You know, we thought he'd been--ah--he'd been absorbing." "To what do you refer?" asked the Bibliomaniac, curtly. "To the brandied peaches," returned the Idiot. "Do not press me further, please, because we like you, old fellow, and I don't believe anybody noticed it but ourselves." "Noticed what? I want to know what you noticed and when you noticed it," said the Bibliomaniac, savagely. "I don't want any nonsense, either. I just want a plain statement of facts. What did you notice?" "Well, if you must have it," said the Idiot, slowly, "my friend who imbibes and I were rather pained on Sunday night to observe that you--that you had evidently taken something rather stronger than cold water, tea, or Mr. Pedagog's opinions." "It's a libel, sir!--a gross libel!" retorted the Bibliomaniac. "How did I show it? That's what I want to know. How--did--I--show--it? Speak up quick, and loud too. How did I show it?" "Well, you went up-stairs after tea." "Yes, sir, I did." "And my friend who imbibes and I were left down in the front hall, and while we were talking there you put your head over the banisters and asked, 'Who's that down there?' Remember that?" "Yes, sir, I do. And you replied, 'Mr. Auburnose and myself.'" "Yes. And then you asked, 'Who are the other two?'" "Well, I did. What of it?" "Mr. Auburnose and I were there alone. That's what of it. Now I put a charitable construction on the matter and say it was the peaches, when you fly off the handle like one of Mrs. Pedagog's coffee-cups." "Sir!" roared the Bibliomaniac, jumping from his chair. "You are the greatest idiot I know." "Sir!" returned the Idiot, "you flatter me." But the Bibliomaniac was not there to hear. He had rushed from the room, and during the deep silence that ensued he could be heard throwing things about in the chamber overhead, and in a very few moments the banging of the front door and scurrying down the brown-stone steps showed that he had gone out of doors to cool off. [Illustration: HE COULD BE HEARD THROWING THINGS ABOUT] "It is too bad," said the Idiot, after a while, "that he has such a quick temper. It doesn't do a bit of good to get mad that way. He'll be uncomfortable all day long, and over what? Just because I attempted to say a good word for him, and announce the restoration of my confidence in his temperance qualities, he cuts up a high-jinks that makes everybody uncomfortable. "But to resume about this fish business," continued the Idiot. "Fish--" "Oh, fish be hanged!" said the Doctor, impatiently. "We've had enough of fish." "Very well," returned the idiot; "as you wish. Hanging isn't the best treatment for fish, but we'll let that go. I never cared for the finny tribe myself, and if Mrs. Pedagog can be induced to do it, I for one am in favor of keeping shad, shark, and shrimps out of the house altogether." VI The Idiot was unusually thoughtful--a fact which made the School-Master and the Bibliomaniac unusually nervous. Their stock criticism of him was that he was thoughtless; and yet when he so far forgot his natural propensities as to meditate, they did not like it. It made them uneasy. They had a haunting fear that he was conspiring with himself against them, and no man, not even a callous school-master or a confirmed bibliomaniac, enjoys feeling that he is the object of a conspiracy. The thing to do, then, upon this occasion, seemed obviously to interrupt his train of thought--to put obstructions upon his mental track, as it were, and ditch the express, which they feared was getting up steam at that moment to run them down. "You don't seem quite yourself this morning, sir," said the Bibliomaniac. "Don't I?" queried the Idiot. "And whom do I seem to be?" "I mean that you seem to have something on your mind that worries you," said the Bibliomaniac. "No, I haven't anything on my mind," returned the Idiot. "I was thinking about you and Mr. Pedagog--which implies a thought not likely to use up much of my gray matter." "Do you think your head holds any gray matter?" put in the Doctor. "Rather verdant, I should say," said Mr. Pedagog. "Green, gray, or pink," said the Idiot, "choose your color. It does not affect the fact that I was thinking about the Bibliomaniac and Mr. Pedagog. I have a great scheme in hand, which only requires capital and the assistance of those two gentlemen to launch it on the sea of prosperity. If any of you gentlemen want to get rich and die in comfort as the owner of your homes, now is your chance." "In what particular line of business is your scheme?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. He had often felt that he would like to die in comfort, and to own a little house, even if it had a large mortgage on it. "Journalism," said the Idiot. "There is a pile of money to be made out of journalism, particularly if you happen to strike a new idea. Ideas count." "How far up do your ideas count--up to five?" questioned Mr. Pedagog, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tone. "I don't know about that," returned the Idiot. "The idea I have hold of now, however, will count up into the millions if it can only be set going, and before each one of those millions will stand a big capital S with two black lines drawn vertically through it--in other words, my idea holds dollars, but to get the crop you've got to sow the seed. Plant a thousand dollars in my idea, and next year you'll reap two thousand. Plant that, and next year you'll have four thousand, and so on. At that rate millions come easy." "I'll give you a dollar for the idea," said the Bibliomaniac. "No, I don't want to sell. You'll do to help develop the scheme. You'll make a first-rate tool, but you aren't the workman to manage the tool. I will go as far as to say, however, that without you and Mr. Pedagog, or your equivalents in the animal kingdom, the idea isn't worth the fabulous sum you offer." "You have quite aroused my interest," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Do you propose to start a new paper?" "You are a good guesser," replied the Idiot. "That is a part of the scheme--but it isn't the idea. I propose to start a new paper in accordance with the plan which the idea contains." "Is it to be a magazine, or a comic paper, or what?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Neither. It's a daily." "That's nonsense," said Mr. Pedagog, putting his spoon into the condensed-milk can by mistake. "There isn't a single scheme in daily journalism that hasn't been tried--except printing an evening paper in the morning." "That's been tried," said the Idiot. "I know of an evening paper the second edition of which is published at mid-day. That's an old dodge, and there's money in it, too--money that will never be got out of it. But I really have a grand scheme. So many of our dailies, you know, go in for every horrid detail of daily events that people are beginning to tire of them. They contain practically the same things day after day. So many columns of murder, so many beautiful suicides, so much sport, a modicum of general intelligence, plenty of fires, no end of embezzlements, financial news, advertisements, and head-lines. Events, like history, repeat themselves, until people have grown weary of them. They want something new. For instance, if you read in your morning paper that a man has shot another man, you know that the man who was shot was an inoffensive person who never injured a soul, stood high in the community in which he lived, and leaves a widow with four children. On the other hand, you know without reading the account that the murderer shot his victim in self-defence, and was apprehended by the detectives late last night; that his counsel forbid him to talk to the reporters, and that it is rumored that he comes of a good family living in New England. "If a breach of trust is committed, you know that the defaulter was the last man of whom such an act would be suspected, and, except in the one detail of its location and sect, that he was prominent in some church. You can calculate to a cent how much has been stolen by a glance at the amount of space devoted to the account of the crime. Loaf of bread, two lines. Thousand dollars, ten lines. Hundred thousand dollars, half-column. Million dollars, a full column. Five million dollars, half the front page, wood-cut of the embezzler, and two editorials, one leader and one paragraph. "And so with everything. We are creatures of habit. The expected always happens, and newspapers are dull because the events they chronicle are dull." "Granting the truth of this," put in the School-Master, "what do you propose to do?" "Get up a newspaper that will devote its space to telling what hasn't happened." "That's been done," said the Bibliomaniac. "To a much more limited extent than we think," returned the Idiot. "It has never been done consistently and truthfully." "I fail to see how a newspaper can be made to prevaricate truthfully," asserted Mr. Whitechoker. To tell the truth, he was greatly disappointed with the idea, because he could not in the nature of things become one of its beneficiaries. [Illustration: "HE WAS NOT MURDERED"] "I haven't suggested prevarication," said the Idiot. "Put on your front page, for instance, an item like this: 'George Bronson, colored, aged twenty-nine, a resident of Thompson Street, was caught cheating at poker last night. He was not murdered.' There you tell what has not happened. There is a variety about it. It has the charm of the unexpected. Then you might say: 'Curious incident on Wall Street yesterday. So-and-so, who was caught on the bear side of the market with 10,000 shares of J. B. & S. K. W., paid off all his obligations in full, and retired from business with $1,000,000 clear.' Or we might say, 'Superintendent Smithers, of the St. Goliath's Sunday-school, who is also cashier in the Forty-eighth National Bank, has not absconded with $4,000,000.'" [Illustration: "SUPERINTENDENT SMITHERS HAS NOT ABSCONDED"] "Oh, that's a rich idea," put in the School-Master. "You'd earn $1,000,000 in libel suits the first year." "No, you wouldn't, either," said the Idiot. "You don't libel a man when you say he hasn't murdered anybody. Quite the contrary, you call attention to his conspicuous virtue. You are in reality commending those who refrain from criminal practice, instead of delighting those who are fond of departing from the paths of Christianity by giving them notoriety." "But I fail to see in what respect Mr. Pedagog and I are essential to your scheme," said the Bibliomaniac. "I must confess to some curiosity on my own part on that point," added the School-Master. "Why, it's perfectly clear," returned the Idiot, with a conciliating smile as he prepared to depart. "You both know so much that isn't so, that I rather rely on you to fill up." VII A new boarder had joined the circle about Mrs. Pedagog's breakfast-table. He had what the Idiot called a three-ply name--which was Richard Henderson Warren--and he was by profession a poet. Whether it was this that made it necessary for him to board or not, the rewards of the muse being rather slender, was known only to himself, and he showed no disposition to enlighten his fellow-boarders on the subject. His success as a poet Mrs. Pedagog found it hard to gauge; for while the postman left almost daily numerous letters, the envelopes of which showed that they came from the various periodicals of the day, it was never exactly clear whether or not the missives contained remittances or rejected manuscripts, though the fact that Mr. Warren was the only boarder in the house who had requested to have a waste-basket added to the furniture of his room seemed to indicate that they contained the latter. To this request Mrs. Pedagog had gladly acceded, because she had a notion that therein at some time or another would be found a clew to the new boarder's past history--or possibly some evidence of such duplicity as the good lady suspected he might be guilty of. She had read that Byron was profligate, and that Poe was addicted to drink, and she was impressed with the idea that poets generally were bad men, and she regarded the waste-basket as a possible means of protecting herself against any such idiosyncrasies of her new-found genius as would operate to her disadvantage if not looked after in time. This waste-basket she made it her daily duty to empty, and in the privacy of her own room. Half-finished "ballads, songs, and snatches" she perused before consigning them to the flames or to the large jute bag in the cellar, for which the ragman called two or three times a year. Once Mrs. Pedagog's heart almost stopped beating when she found at the bottom of the basket a printed slip beginning, "_The Editor regrets that the enclosed lines are unavailable_," and closing with about thirteen reasons, any one or all of which might have been the main cause of the poet's disappointment. Had it not been for the kindly clause in the printed slip that insinuated in graceful terms that this rejection did not imply a lack of literary merit in the contribution itself, the good lady, knowing well that there was even less money to be made from rejected than from accepted poetry, would have been inclined to request the poet to vacate the premises. The very next day, however, she was glad she had not requested the resignation of the poet from the laureateship of her house; for the same basket gave forth another printed slip from another editor, begging the poet to accept the enclosed check, with thanks for his contribution, and asking him to deposit it as soon as practicable--which was pleasing enough, since it implied that the poet was the possessor of a bank account. Now Mrs. Pedagog was consumed with curiosity to know for how large a sum the check called--which desire was gratified a few days later, when the inspired boarder paid his week's bill with three one-dollar bills and a check, signed by a well-known publisher, for two dollars. [Illustration: THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL] By the boarders themselves the poet was regarded with much interest. The School-Master had read one or two of his effusions in the Fireside Corner of the journal he received weekly from his home up in New England--effusions which showed no little merit, as well as indicating that Mr. Warren wrote for a literary syndicate; Mr. Whitechoker had known of him as the young man who was to have written a Christmas carol for his Sunday-school a year before, and who had finished and presented the manuscript shortly after New-Year's day; while to the Idiot, Mr. Warren's name was familiar as that of a frequent contributor to the funny papers of the day. "I was very much amused by your poem in the last number of the _Observer_, Mr. Warren," said the Idiot, as they sat down to breakfast together. "Were you, indeed?" returned Mr. Warren. "I am sorry to hear that, for it was intended to be a serious effort." "Of course it was, Mr. Warren, and so it appeared," said the School-Master, with an indignant glance at the Idiot. "It was a very dignified and stately bit of work, and I must congratulate you upon it." "I didn't mean to give offence," said the Idiot. "I've read so much of yours that was purely humorous that I believe I'd laugh at a dirge if you should write one; but I really thought your lines in the _Observer_ were a burlesque. You had the same thought that Rossetti expresses in 'The Woodspurge': 'The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree to hill; I had walked on at the wind's will, I sat now, for the wind was still.' That's Rossetti, if you remember. Slightly suggestive of 'Blow Ye Winds of the Morning! Blow! Blow! Blow!' but more or less pleasing." "I recall the poem you speak of," said Warren, with dignity; "but the true poet, sir--and I hope I have some claim to be considered as such--never so far forgets himself as to burlesque his masters." "Well, I don't know what to call it, then, when a poet takes the same thought that has previously been used by his masters and makes a funny poem--" "But," returned the Poet, warmly, "it was not a funny poem." "It made me laugh," retorted the Idiot, "and that is more than half the professedly funny poems we get nowadays can do. Therefore I say it was a funny poem, and I don't see how you can deny that it was a burlesque of Rossetti." "Well, I do deny it _in toto_." "I don't know anything about denying it _in toto_," rejoined the Idiot, "but I'd deny it in print if I were you. I know plenty of people who think it was a burlesque, and I overheard one man say--he is a Rossetti crank--that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for writing it." "There is no use of discussing the matter further," said the Poet. "I am innocent of any such intent as you have ascribed to me, and if people say I have burlesqued Rossetti they say what is not true." "Did you ever read that little poem of Swinburne's called 'The Boy at the Gate'?" asked the Idiot, to change the subject. "I have no recollection of it," said the Poet, shortly. "The name sounds familiar," put in Mr. Whitechoker, anxious not to be left out of a literary discussion. "I have read it, but I forget just how it goes," vouchsafed the School-Master, forgetting for a moment the Robert Elsmere episode and its lesson. "It goes something like this," said the Idiot: "Sombre and sere the slim sycamore sighs; Lushly the lithe leaves lie low o'er the land; Whistles the wind with its whisperings wise, Grewsomely gloomy and garishly grand. So doth the sycamore solemnly stand, Wearily watching in wondering wait; So it has stood for six centuries, and Still it is waiting the boy at the gate." "No; I never read the poem," said Mr. Whitechoker, "but I'd know it was Swinburne in a minute. He has such a command of alliterative language." "Yes," said the Poet, with an uneasy glance at the Idiot. "It is Swinburnian; but what was the poem about?" "'The boy at the gate,'" said the Idiot. "The idea was that the sycamore was standing there for centuries waiting for the boy who never turns up." "It really is a beautiful thought," put in Mr. Whitechoker. "It is, I presume, an allegory to contrast faithful devotion and constancy with unfaithfulness and fickleness. Such thoughts occur only to the wholly gifted. It is only to the poetic temperament that the conception of such a thought can come coupled with the ability to voice it in fitting terms. There is a grandeur about the lines the Idiot has quoted that betrays the master-mind." "Very true," said the School-Master, "and I take this opportunity to say that I am most agreeably surprised in the Idiot. It is no small thing even to be able to repeat a poet's lines so carefully, and with so great lucidity, and so accurately, as I can testify that he has just done." "Don't be too pleased, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot, dryly. "I only wanted to show Mr. Warren that you and Mr. Whitechoker, mines of information though you are, have not as yet worked up a corner on knowledge to the exclusion of the rest of us." And with these words the Idiot left the table. "He is a queer fellow," said the School-Master. "He is full of pretence and hollowness, but he is sometimes almost brilliant." "What you say is very true," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I think he has just escaped being a smart man. I wish we could take him in hand, Mr. Pedagog, and make him more of a fellow than he is." Later in the day the Poet met the Idiot on the stairs. "I say," he said, "I've looked all through Swinburne, and I can't find that poem." "I know you can't," returned the Idiot, "because it isn't there. Swinburne never wrote it. It was a little thing of my own. I was only trying to get a rise out of Mr. Pedagog and his Reverence with it. You have frequently appeared impressed by the undoubtedly impressive manner of these two gentlemen. I wanted to show you what their opinions were worth." [Illustration: "I KNOW YOU CAN'T, BECAUSE IT ISN'T THERE"] "Thank you," returned the Poet, with a smile. "Don't you want to go into partnership with me and write for the funny papers? It would be a splendid thing for me--your ideas are so original." "And I can see fun in everything, too," said the Idiot, thoughtfully. "Yes," returned the Poet. "Even in my serious poems." Which remark made the Idiot blush a little, but he soon recovered his composure and made a firm friend of the Poet. The first fruits of the partnership have not yet appeared, however. As for Messrs. Whitechoker and Pedagog, when they learned how they had been deceived, they were so indignant that they did not speak to the Idiot for a week. VIII It was Sunday morning, and Mr. Whitechoker, as was his wont on the first day of the week, appeared at the breakfast table severe as to his mien. "Working on Sunday weighs on his mind," the Idiot said to the Bibliomaniac, "but I don't see why it should. The luxury of rest that he allows himself the other six days of the week is surely an atonement for the hours of labor he puts in on Sunday." But it was not this that on Sunday mornings weighed on the mind of the Reverend Mr. Whitechoker. He appeared more serious of visage then because he had begun to think of late that his fellow-boarders lived too much in the present, and ignored almost totally that which might be expected to come. He had been revolving in his mind for several weeks the question as to whether it was or was not his Christian duty to attempt to influence the lives of these men with whom the chances of life had brought him in contact. He had finally settled it to his own satisfaction that it was his duty so to do, and he had resolved, as far as lay in his power, to direct the conversation at Sunday morning's breakfast into spiritual rather than into temporal matters. So, as Mrs. Pedagog was pouring the coffee, Mr. Whitechoker began: "Do you gentlemen ever pause in your every-day labors and thought to let your minds rest upon the future--the possibilities it has in store for us, the consequences which--" "No mush, thank you," said the Idiot. Then turning to Mr. Whitechoker, he added: "I can't answer for the other gentlemen at this board, but I can assure you, Mr. Whitechoker, that I often do so. It was only last night, sir, that my genial friend who imbibes and I were discussing the future and its possibilities, and I venture to assert that there is no more profitable food for reflection anywhere in the larders of the mind than that." "Larders of the mind is excellent," said the School-Master, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Perhaps you would not mind opening the door to your mental pantry, and letting us peep within at the stores you keep there. I am sure that on the subject in hand your views cannot fail to be original as well as edifying." "I am also sure," said Mr. Whitechoker, somewhat surprised to hear the Idiot speak as he did, having sometimes ventured to doubt if that flippant-minded young man ever reflected on the serious side of life--"I am also sure that it is most gratifying to hear that you have done some thinking on the subject." "I am glad you are gratified, Mr. Whitechoker," replied the Idiot, "but I am far from taking undue credit to myself because I reflect upon the future and its possibilities. I do not see how any man can fail to be interested in the subject, particularly when he considers the great strides science has made in the last twenty years." "I fail to see," said the School-Master, "what the strides of science have to do with it." "You fail to see so often, Mr. Pedagog," returned the Idiot, "that I would advise your eyes to make an assignment in favor of your pupils." "I must confess," put in Mr. Whitechoker, blandly, "that I too am somewhat--er--somewhat--" "Somewhat up a tree as to science's connection with the future?" queried the Idiot. "You have my meaning, but hardly the phraseology I should have chosen," replied the minister. "My style is rather epigrammatic," said the Idiot, suavely. "I appreciate the flattery implied by your noticing it. But science has everything to do with it. It is science that is going to make the future great. It is science that has annihilated distance, and the annihilation has just begun. Twenty years ago it was hardly possible for a man standing on one side of the street to make himself heard on the other, the acoustic properties of the atmosphere not being what they should be. To-day you can stand in the pulpit of your church, and by means of certain scientific apparatus make yourself heard in Boston, New Orleans, or San Francisco. Has this no bearing on the future? The time will come, Mr. Whitechoker, when your missionaries will be able to sit in their comfortable rectories, and ring up the heathen in foreign climes, and convert them over the telephone, without running the slightest danger of falling into the soup, which expression I use in its literal rather than in its metaphorical sense." [Illustration: "YOU CAN MAKE YOURSELF HEARD IN SAN FRANCISCO"] "But--" interrupted Mr. Whitechoker. "Now wait, please," said the Idiot. "If science can annihilate degrees of distance, who shall say that before many days science may not annihilate degrees of time? If San Francisco, thousands of miles distant, can be brought within range of the ear, why cannot 1990 be brought before the mind's eye? And if 1990 can be brought before the mind's eye, what is to prevent the invention of a prophetograph which shall enable us to cast a horoscope which shall reach all around eternity and half-way back, if not further?" [Illustration: THE PROPHETOGRAPH] "You do not understand me," said Mr. Whitechoker. "When I speak of the future, I do not mean the temporal future." "I know exactly what you mean," said the Idiot. "I've dealt in futures, and I am familiar with all kinds. It is you, sir, that do not understand me. My claim is perfectly plausible, and in its results is bound to make the world better. Do you suppose that any man who, by the aid of my prophetograph, sees that on a certain date in the future he will be hanged for murder is going to fail to provide himself with an alibi in regard to that particular murder, and must we not admit that having provided himself with that alibi he will of necessity avoid bloodshed, and so avoid the gallows? That's reasonable. So in regard to all the thousand and one other peccadilloes that go to make this life a sinful one. Science, by a purely logical advance along the lines already mapped out for itself, and in part already traversed, will enable men to avoid the pitfalls and reap only the windfalls of life; we shall all see what terrible consequences await on a single misstep, and we shall not make the misstep. Can you still claim that science and the future have nothing to do with each other?" "You are talking of matters purely temporal," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I have reference to our spiritual future." "And the two," observed the Idiot, "are so closely allied that we cannot separate them. The proverb about looking after the pennies and letting the pounds take care of themselves applies here. I believe that if I take care of my temporal future--which, by-the-way, does not exist--my spiritual future will take care of itself; and if science places the hereafter before us--and you admit that even now it is before us--all we have to do is to take advantage of our opportunities, and mend our lives accordingly." "But if science shows you what is to come," said the School-Master, "it must show your fate with perfect accuracy, or it ceases to be science, in which event your entertaining notions as to reform and so on are entirely fallacious." "Not at all," said the Idiot. "We are approaching the time when science, which is much more liberal than any other branch of knowledge, will sacrifice even truth itself for the good of mankind." "You ought to start a paradox company," suggested the Doctor. "Either that or make himself the nucleus of an insane asylum," observed the School-Master, viciously. "I never knew a man with such maniacal views as those we have heard this morning." "There is a great deal, Mr. Pedagog, that you have never known," returned the Idiot. "Stick by me, and you'll die with a mind richly stored." Whereat the School-Master left the table with such manifest impatience that Mr. Whitechoker was sorry he had started the conversation. The genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed and the Idiot withdrew to the latter's room, where the former observed: "What are you driving at, anyhow? Where did you get those crazy ideas?" "I ate a Welsh-rarebit last night, and dreamed 'em," returned the Idiot. "I thought as much," said his companion. "What deuced fine things dreams are, anyhow!" IX Breakfast was very nearly over, and it was of such exceptionally good quality that very few remarks had been made. Finally the ball was set rolling by the Lawyer. "How many packs of cigarettes do you smoke a day?" he asked, as the Idiot took one from his pocket and placed it at the side of his coffee-cup. "Never more than forty-six," said the Idiot. "Why? Do you think of starting a cigarette stand?" "Not at all," said Mr. Brief. "I was only wondering what chance you had to live to maturity, that's all. Your maturity period will be in about eight hundred and sixty years from now, the way I calculate, and it seemed to me that, judging from the number of cigarettes you smoke, you were not likely to last through more than two or three of those years." "Oh, I expect to live longer than that," said the Idiot. "I think I'm good for at least four years. Don't you, Doctor?" "I decline to have anything to say about your case," retorted the Doctor, whose feeling towards the Idiot was not surpassingly affectionate. "In that event I shall probably live five years more," said the Idiot. The Doctor's lip curled, but he remained silent. "You'll live," put in Mr. Pedagog, with a chuckle. "The good die young." "How did you happen to keep alive all this time then, Mr. Pedagog?" asked the Idiot. "I have always eschewed tobacco in every form, for one thing," said Mr. Pedagog. "I am surprised," put in the Idiot. "That's really a bad habit, and I marvel greatly that you should have done it." The School-Master frowned, and looked at the Idiot over the rims of his glasses, as was his wont when he was intent upon getting explanations. "Done what?" he asked, severely. "Chewed tobacco," replied the Idiot. "You just said that one of the things that has kept you lingering in this vale of tears was that you have always chewed tobacco. I never did that, and I never shall do it, because I deem it a detestable diversion." "I didn't say anything of the sort," retorted Mr. Pedagog, getting red in the face. "I never said that I chewed tobacco in any form." "Oh, come!" said the Idiot, with well-feigned impatience, "what's the use of talking that way? We all heard what you said, and I have no doubt that it came as a shock to every member of this assemblage. It certainly was a shock to me, because, with all my weaknesses and bad habits, I think tobacco-chewing unutterably bad. The worst part of it is that you chew it in every form. A man who chews chewing-tobacco only may some time throw off the habit, but when one gets to be such a victim to it that he chews up cigars and cigarettes and plugs of pipe tobacco, it seems to me he is incurable. It is not only a bad habit then; it amounts to a vice." Mr. Pedagog was getting apoplectic. "You know well enough that I never said the words you attribute to me," he said, sternly. "Really, Mr. Pedagog," returned the Idiot, with an irritating shake of his head, as if he were confidentially hinting to the School-Master to keep quiet--"really you pain me by these futile denials. Nobody forced you into the confession. You made it entirely of your own volition. Now I ask you, as a man and brother, what's the use of saying anything more about it? We believe you to be a person of the strictest veracity, but when you say a thing before a tableful of listeners one minute, and deny it the next, we are forced to one of two conclusions, neither of which is pleasing. We must conclude that either, repenting your confession, you sacrifice the truth, or that the habit to which you have confessed has entirely destroyed your perception of the moral question involved. Undue use of tobacco has, I believe, driven men crazy. Opium-eating has destroyed all regard for truth in one whose word had always been regarded as good as a government bond. I presume the undue use of tobacco can accomplish the same sad result. By-the-way, did you ever try opium?" "Opium is ruin," said the Doctor, Mr. Pedagog's indignation being so great that he seemed to be unable to find the words he was evidently desirous of hurling at the Idiot. "It is, indeed," said the Idiot. "I knew a man once who smoked one little pipeful of it, and, while under its influence, sat down at his table and wrote a story of the supernatural order that was so good that everybody said he must have stolen it from Poe or some other master of the weird, and now nobody will have anything to do with him. Tobacco, however, in the sane use of it, is a good thing. I don't know of anything that is more satisfying to the tired man than to lie back on a sofa, of an evening, and puff clouds of smoke and rings into the air. One of the finest dreams I ever had came from smoking. I had blown a great mountain of smoke out into the room, and it seemed to become real, and I climbed to its summit and saw the most beautiful country at my feet--a country in which all men were happy, where there were no troubles of any kind, where no whim was left ungratified, where jealousies were not, and where every man who made more than enough to live on paid the surplus into the common treasury for the use of those who hadn't made quite enough. It was a national realization of the golden rule, and I maintain that if smoking were bad nothing so good, even in the abstract form of an idea, could come out of it." "That's a very nice thought," said the Poet. "I'd like to put that into verse. The idea of a people dividing up their surplus of wealth among the less successful strugglers is beautiful." "You can have it," said the Idiot, with a pleased smile. "I don't write poetry of that kind myself unless I work hard, and I've found that when the poet works hard he produces poems that read hard. You are welcome to it. Another time I was dreaming over my cigar, after a day of the hardest kind of trouble at the office. Everything had gone wrong with me, and I was blue as indigo. I came home here, lit a cigar, and threw myself down upon my bed and began to puff. I felt like a man in a deep pit, out of which there was no way of getting. I closed my eyes for a second, and to all intents and purposes I lay in that pit. And then what did tobacco do for me? Why, it lifted me right out of my prison. I thought I was sitting on a rock down in the depths. The stars twinkled tantalizingly above me. They invited me to freedom, knowing that freedom was not attainable. Then I blew a ring of smoke from my mouth, and it began to rise slowly at first, and then, catching in a current of air, it flew upward more rapidly, widening constantly, until it disappeared in the darkness above. Then I had a thought. I filled my mouth as full of smoke as possible, and blew forth the greatest ring you ever saw, and as it started to rise I grasped it in my two hands. It struggled beneath my weight, lengthened out into an elliptical link, and broke, and let me down with a dull thud. Then I made two rings, grasping one with my left hand and the other with my right--" [Illustration: "I GRASPED IT IN MY TWO HANDS"] "And they lifted you out of the pit, I suppose?" sneered the Bibliomaniac. "I do not say that they did," said the Idiot, calmly. "But I do know that when I opened my eyes I wasn't in the pit any longer, but up-stairs in my hall-bedroom." "How awfully mysterious!" said the Doctor, satirically. "Well, I don't approve of smoking," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I agree with the London divine who says it is the pastime of perdition. It is not prompted by natural instincts. It is only the habit of artificial civilization. Dogs and horses and birds get along without it. Why shouldn't man?" "Hear! hear!" cried Mr. Pedagog, clapping his hands approvingly. "Where? where?" put in the Idiot. "That's a great argument. Dog's don't put up in boarding-houses. Is the boarding-house, therefore, the result of a degraded, artificial civilization? I have seen educated horses that didn't smoke, but I have never seen an educated horse, or an uneducated one, for that matter, that had even had the chance to smoke, or the kind of mouth that would enable him to do it in case he had the chance. I have also observed that horses don't read books, that birds don't eat mutton-chops, that dogs don't go to the opera, that donkeys don't play the piano--at least, four-legged donkeys don't--so you might as well argue that since horses, dogs, birds, and donkeys get along without literature, music, mutton-chops, and piano-playing--" "You've covered music," put in the Lawyer, who liked to be precise. "True; but piano-playing isn't always music," returned the Idiot. "You might as well argue because the beasts and the birds do without these things man ought to. Fish don't smoke, neither do they join the police-force, therefore man should neither smoke nor become a guardian of the peace." [Illustration: "PIANO-PLAYING ISN'T ALWAYS MUSIC"] "Nevertheless it is a pastime of perdition," insisted Mr. Whitechoker. "No, it isn't," retorted the Idiot. "Smoking is the business of perdition. It smokes because it has to." "There! there!" remonstrated Mr. Pedagog. "You mean hear! hear! I presume," said the Idiot. "I mean that you have said enough!" remarked Mr. Pedagog, sharply. "Very well," said the Idiot. "If I have convinced you all I am satisfied, not to say gratified. But really, Mr. Pedagog," he added, rising to leave the room, "if I were you I'd give up the practice of chewing--" "Hold on a minute, Mr. Idiot," said Mr. Whitechoker, interrupting. He was desirous that Mr. Pedagog should not be further irritated. "Let me ask you one question. Does your old father smoke?" "No," said the Idiot, leaning easily over the back of his chair--"no. What of it?" "Nothing at all--except that perhaps if he could get along without it you might," suggested the clergyman. "He couldn't get along without it if he knew what good tobacco was," said the Idiot. "Then why don't you introduce him to it?" asked the Minister. "Because I do not wish to make him unhappy," returned the Idiot, softly. "He thinks his seventy years have been the happiest years that any mortal ever had, and if now in his seventy-first year he discovered that during the whole period of his manhood he had been deprived through ignorance of so great a blessing as a good cigar, he'd become like the rest of us, living in anticipation of delights to come, and not finding approximate bliss in living over the past. Trust me, my dear Mr. Whitechoker, to look after him. He and my mother and my life are all I have." The Idiot left the room, and Mr. Pedagog put in a greater part of the next half-hour in making personal statements to the remaining boarders to the effect that the word he used was eschewed, and not the one attributed to him by the Idiot. Strange to say, most of them were already aware of that fact. X "The progress of invention in this country has been very remarkable," said Mr. Pedagog, as he turned his attention from a scientific weekly he had been reading to a towering pile of buckwheat cakes that Mary had just brought in. "An Englishman has just discovered a means by which a ship in distress at sea can write for help on the clouds." "Extraordinary!" said Mr. Whitechoker. "It might be more so," observed the Idiot, coaxing the platterful of cakes out of the School-Master's reach by a dexterous movement of his hand. "And it will be more so some day. The time is coming when the moon itself will be used by some enterprising American to advertise his soap business. I haven't any doubt that the next fifty years will develop a stereopticon by means of which a picture of a certain brand of cigar may be projected through space until it seems to be held between the teeth of the man in the moon, with a printed legend below it stating that this is _Tooforfivers Best, Rolled from Hand-made Tobacco, Warranted not to Crock or Fade, and for sale by All Tobacconists at Eighteen for a Dime_." [Illustration: "THE MOON ITSELF WILL BE USED"] "You would call that an advance in invention, eh?" asked the School-Master. "Why not?" queried the Idiot. "Do you consider the invention which would enable man to debase nature to the level of an advertising medium an advance?" "I should not consider the use of the moon for the dissemination of good news a debasement. If the cigars were good--and I have no doubt that some one will yet invent a cheap cigar that is good--it would benefit the human race to be acquainted with that fact. I think sometimes that the advertisements in the newspapers and the periodicals of the day are of more value to the public than the reading-matter, so-called, that stands next to them. I don't see why you should sneer at advertising. I should never have known you, for instance, Mr. Pedagog, had it not been for Mrs. Pedagog's advertisement offering board and lodging to single gentlemen for a consideration. Nor would you have met Mrs. Smithers, now your estimable wife, yourself, had it not been for that advertisement. Why, then, do you sneer at the ladder upon which you have in a sense climbed to your present happiness? You are ungrateful." "How you do ramify!" said Mr. Pedagog. "I believe there is no subject in the world which you cannot connect in some way or another with every other subject in the world. A discussion of the merits of Shakespeare's sonnets could be turned by your dexterous tongue in five minutes into a quarrel over the comparative merits of cider and cod-liver oil as beverages, with you, the chances are, the advocate of cod-liver oil as a steady drink." "Well, I must say," said the Idiot, with a smile, "it has been my experience that cod-liver oil is steadier than cider. The cod-liver oils I have had the pleasure of absorbing have been evenly vile, while the ciders that I have drank have been of a variety of goodness, badness, and indifferentness which has brought me to the point where I never touch it. But to return to inventions, since you desire to limit our discussion to a single subject, I think it is about the most interesting field of speculation imaginable." "There you are right," said Mr. Pedagog, approvingly. "There is absolutely no limit to the possibilities involved. It is almost within the range of possibilities that some man may yet invent a buckwheat cake that will satisfy your abnormal craving for that delicacy, which the present total output of this table seems unable to do." Here Mr. Pedagog turned to his wife, and added: "My dear, will you request the cook hereafter to prepare individual cakes for us? The Idiot has so far monopolized all that have as yet appeared." "It appears to me," said the Idiot at this point, "that _you_ are the ramifier, Mr. Pedagog. Nevertheless, ramify as much as you please. I can follow you--at a safe distance, of course--in the discussion of anything, from Edison to flapjacks. I think your suggestion regarding individual cakes is a good one. We might all have separate griddles, upon which Gladys, the cook, can prepare them, and on these griddles might be cast in bold relief the crest of each member of this household, so that every man's cake should, by an easy process in the making, come off the fire indelibly engraved with the evidence of its destiny. Mr. Pedagog's iron, for instance, might have upon it a school-book rampant, or a large head in the same condition. Mr. Whitechoker's cake-mark might be a pulpit rampant, based upon a vestryman dormant. The Doctor might have a lozengy shield with a suitable tincture, while my genial friend who occasionally imbibes could have a barry shield surmounted by a small effigy of Gambrinus." "You appear to know something of heraldry," said the poet, with a look of surprise. "I know something of everything," said the Idiot, complacently. "It's a pity you don't know everything about something," sneered the Doctor. "I would suggest," said the School-Master, dryly, "that a little rampant jackass would make a good crest for your cakes." "That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "I do not know but that a jackass rampant would be about as comprehensive of my virtues as anything I might select. The jackass is a combination of all the best qualities. He is determined. He minds his own business. He doesn't indulge in flippant conversation. He is useful. Has no vices, never pretends to be anything but a jackass, and most respectfully declines to be ridden by Tom, Dick, and Harry. I accept the suggestion of Mr. Pedagog with thanks. But we are still ramifying. Let us get back to inventions. Now I fully believe that the time is coming when some inventive genius will devise a method whereby intellect can be given to those who haven't any. I believe that the time is coming when the secrets of the universe will be yielded up to man by nature." [Illustration: "DECLINES TO BE RIDDEN"] "And then?" queried Mr. Brief. "Then some man will try to improve on the secrets of the universe. He will try to invent an apparatus by means of which the rotation of the world may be made faster or slower, according to his will. If he has but one day, for instance, in which to do a stated piece of work, and he needs two, he will put on some patent brake and slow the world up until the distance travelled in one hour shall be reduced one-half, so that one hour under the old system will be equivalent to two; or if he is anticipating some joy, some diversion in the future, the same smart person will find a way to increase the speed of the earth so that the hours will be like minutes. Then he'll begin fooling with gravitation, and he will discover a new-fashioned lodestone, which can be carried in one's hat to counter-act the influence of the centre of gravity when one falls out of a window or off a precipice, the result of which will be that the person who falls off one of these high places will drop down slowly, and not with the rapidity which at the present day is responsible for the dreadful outcome of accidents of that sort. Then, finally--" "You pretend to be able to penetrate to the finality, do you?" asked the Clergyman. "Why not? It is as easy to imagine the finality as it is to go half-way there," returned the Idiot. "Finally he will tackle some elementary principle of nature, and he'll blow the world to smithereens." There was silence at the table. This at least seemed to be a tenable theory. That man should have the temerity to take liberties with elementary principles was quite within reason, man being an animal of rare conceit, and that the result would bring about destruction was not at all at variance with probability. "I believe it's happened once or twice already," said the Idiot. "Do you really?" asked Mr. Pedagog, with a show of interest. "Upon what do you base this belief?" "Well, take Africa," said the Idiot. "Take North America. What do we find? We find in the sands of the Sahara a great statue, which we call the Sphinx, and about which we know nothing, except that it is there and that it keeps its mouth shut. We find marvellous creations in engineering that to-day surpass anything that we can do. The Sphinx, when discovered, was covered by sand. Now I believe that at one time there were people much further advanced in science than ourselves, who made these wonderful things, who knew how to do things that we don't even dream of doing, and I believe that they, like this creature I have predicted, got fooling with the centre of gravity, and that the world slipped its moorings for a period of time, during which time it tumbled topsy-turvey into space, and that banks and banks of sand and water and ice thrown out of position simply swept on and over the whole surface of the globe continuously until the earth got into the grip of the rest of the universe once more and started along in a new orbit. We know that where we are high and dry to-day the ocean must once have rolled. We know that where the world is now all sunshine and flowers great glaciers stood. What caused all this change? Nothing else, in my judgment, than the monkeying of man with the forces of nature. The poles changed, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit that, if the north pole were ever found and could be thawed out, we should find embedded in that great sea of ice evidences of a former civilization, just as in the Saharan waste evidences of the same thing have been found. I know of a place out West that is literally strewn with oyster-shells, and yet no man living has the slightest idea how they came there. It may have been the Massachusetts Bay of a pre-historic time, for all we know. It may have been an antediluvian Coney Island, for all the world knows. Who shall say that this little upset of mine found here an oyster-bed, shook all the oysters out of their bed into space, and left their clothes high and dry in a locality which, but for those garments, would seem never to have known the oyster in his prime? Off in Westchester County, on the top of a high hill, lies a rock, and in the uppermost portion of that rock is a so-called pot-hole, made by nothing else than the dropping of water of a brook and the swirling of pebbles therein. It is now beyond the reach of anything in the shape of water save that which falls from the heavens. It is certain that this pot-hole was never made by a boy with a watering-pot, by a hired man with a hose, by a workman with a drill, or by any rain-storm that ever fell in Westchester County. There must at some time or another have been a stream there; and as streams do not flow uphill and bore pot-holes on mountain-tops, there must have been a valley there. Some great cataclysm took place. For that cataclysm nature must be held responsible mainly. But what prompted nature to raise hob with Westchester County millions of years ago, and to let it sleep like Rip Van Winkle ever since? Nature isn't a freak. She is depicted as a woman, but in spite of that she is not whimsical. She does not act upon impulses. There must have been some cause for her behavior in turning valleys into hills, in transforming huge cities into wastes of sand, and oyster-beds into shell quarries; and it is my belief that man was the contributing cause. He tapped the earth for natural gas; he bored in and he bored out, and he bored nature to death, and then nature rose up and smote him and his cities and his oyster-beds, and she'll do it again unless we go slow." "There is a great deal in what you say," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Very true," said Mrs. Pedagog. "But I wish he'd stop saying it. The last three dozen cakes have got cold as ice while he was talking, and I can't afford such reckless waste." "Nor we, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, with a pleasant smile; "for, as I was saying to the Bibliomaniac this morning, your buckwheat cakes are, to my mind, the very highest development of our modern civilization, and to have even one of them wasted seems to me to be a crime against Nature herself, for which a second, third, or fourth shaking up of this earth would be an inadequate punishment." This remark so pleased Mrs. Pedagog that she ordered the cook to send up a fresh lot of cakes; and the guests, after eating them, adjourned to their various duties with light hearts, and digestions occupied with work of great importance. XI "I wonder what would have happened if Columbus had not discovered America?" said the Bibliomaniac, as the company prepared to partake of the morning meal. "He would have gone home disappointed," said the Idiot, with a look of surprise on his face, which seemed to indicate that in his opinion the Bibliomaniac was very dull-witted not to have solved the problem for himself. "He would have gone home disappointed, and we would now be foreigners, like most other Americans. Mr. Pedagog would doubtless be instructing the young scions of the aristocracy of Tipperary, Mr. Whitechoker would be Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bibliomaniac would be raising bulbs in Holland, and----" [Illustration: "THE BIBLIOMANIAC WOULD BE RAISING BULBS"] "And you would be wandering about with the other wild men of Borneo at the present time," put in the School-Master. "No," said the Idiot. "Not quite. I should be dividing my time up between Holland, France, Switzerland, and Spain." "You are an international sort of Idiot, eh?" queried the Lawyer, with a chuckle at his own wit. "Say rather a cosmopolitan Idiot," said the Idiot. "Among my ancestors I number individuals of various nations, though I suppose that if we go back far enough we were all in the same boat as far as that is concerned. One of my great-great-grandfathers was a Scotchman, one of them was a Dutchman, another was a Spaniard, a fourth was a Frenchman. What the others were I don't know. It's a nuisance looking up one's ancestors, I think. They increase so as you go back into the past. Every man has had two grandfathers, four great-grandfathers, eight great-great-grandfathers, sixteen great-great-great-grandfathers, thirty-two fathers raised to the fourth power of great-grandness, and so on, increasing in number as you go further back, until it is hardly possible for any one to throw a brick into the pages of history without hitting somebody who is more or less responsible for his existence. I dare say there is a streak of Julius Cæsar in me, and I haven't a doubt that if our friend Mr. Pedagog here were to take the trouble to investigate, he would find that Cæsar and Cassius and Brutus could be numbered among his early progenitors--and now that I think of it, I must say that in my estimation he is an unusually amiable man, considering how diverse the nature of these men were. Think of it for a minute. Here a man unites in himself Cæsar and Cassius and Brutus, two of whom killed the third, and then, having quarrelled together, went out upon a battle-field and slaughtered themselves, after making extemporaneous remarks, for which this miserable world gives Shakespeare all the credit. It's worse than the case of a friend of mine, one of whose grandfathers was French and the other German." "How did it affect him?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "It made him distrust himself," said the Idiot, with a smile, "and for that reason he never could get on in the world. When his Teutonic nature suggested that he do something, his Gallic blood would rise up and spoil everything, and _vice versa_. He was eternally quarrelling with himself. He was a victim to internal disorder of the worst sort." "And what, pray, finally became of him?" asked the Clergyman. "He shot himself in a duel," returned the Idiot, with a wink at the genial old gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "It was very sad." "I've known sadder things," said Mr. Pedagog, wearily. "Your elaborate jokes, for instance. They are enough to make strong men weep." "You flatter me, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "I have never in all my experience as a cracker of jests made a man laugh until he cried, but I hope to some day. But, really, do you know I think Columbus is an immensely overrated man. If you come down to it, what did he do? He went out to sea in a ship and sailed for three months, and when he least expected it ran slam-bang up against the Western Hemisphere. It was like shooting at a barn door with a Gatling gun. He was bound to hit it sooner or later." "You don't give him any credit for tenacity of purpose or good judgment, then?" asked Mr. Brief. "Of course I do. Plenty of it. He stuck to his ship like a hero who didn't know how to swim. His judgment was great. He had too much sense to go back to Spain without any news of something, because he fully understood that unless he had something to show for the trip, there would have been a great laugh on Queen Isabella for selling her jewels to provide for a ninety-day yacht cruise for him and a lot of common sailors, which would never have done. So he kept on and on, and finally some unknown lookout up in the bow discovered America. Then Columbus went home and told everybody that if it hadn't been for his own eagle eye emigration wouldn't have been invented, and world's fairs would have been local institutions. Then they got up a parade in which the King and Queen graciously took part, and Columbus became a great man. Meanwhile the unknown lookout who did discover the land was knocking about the town and thinking he was a very lucky fellow to get an extra glass of grog. It wasn't anything more than the absolute justice of fate that caused the new land to be named America and not Columbia. It really ought to have been named after that fellow up in the bow." "But, my dear Idiot," put in the Bibliomaniac, "the scheme itself was Columbus's own. He evolved the theory that the earth is round like a ball." "To quote Mr. Pedagog--" began the Idiot. "You can't quote me in your own favor," snapped the School-Master. "Wait until I have finished," said the Idiot. "I was only going to quote you by saying 'Tutt!' that's all; and so I repeat, in the words of Mr. Pedagog, tutt, tutt! Evolved the theory? Why, man, how could he help evolving the theory? There was the sun rising in the east every morning and setting in the west every night. What else was there to believe? That somebody put the sun out every night, and sneaked back east with it under cover of darkness?" "But you forget that the wise men of the day laughed at his idea," said Mr. Pedagog, surveying the Idiot after the fashion of a man who has dealt an adversary a stinging blow. "That only proves what I have always said," replied the Idiot. "Wise men can't find fun in anything but stern facts. Wise men always do laugh at truth. Whenever I advance some new proposition, you sit up there next to Mrs. Pedagog and indulge in tutt-tutterances of the most intolerant sort. If you had been one of the wise men of Columbus's time there isn't any doubt in my mind that when Columbus said the earth was round, you'd have remarked tutt, tutt, in Spanish." There was silence for a minute, and then the Idiot began again. "There's another point about this whole business that makes me tired," he said. "It only goes to prove the conceit of these Europeans. Here was a great continent inhabited by countless people. A European comes over here and is said to be the discoverer of America and is glorified. Statues of him are scattered broad-cast all over the world. Pictures of him are printed in the newspapers and magazines. A dozen different varieties of portraits of him are printed on postage-stamps as big as circus posters--and all for what? Because he discovered a land that millions of Indians had known about for centuries. On the other hand, when Columbus goes back to Spain several of the native Americans trust their precious lives to his old tubs. One of these savages must have been the first American to discover Europe. Where are the statues of the Indian who discovered Europe? Where are the postage-stamps showing how he looked on the day when Europe first struck his vision? Where is anybody spending a billion of dollars getting up a world's fair in commemoration of Lo's discovery of Europe?" "He didn't know it was Europe," said the Bibliomaniac. "Columbus didn't know this was America," retorted the Idiot. "In fact, Columbus didn't know anything. He didn't know any better than to write a letter to Queen Isabella and mail it in a keg that never turned up. He didn't even know how to steer his old boat into a real solid continent, instead of getting ten days on the island. He was an awfully wise man. He saw an island swarming with Indians, and said, 'Why, this must be India!' And worst of all, if his pictures mean anything, he didn't even know enough to choose his face and stick to it. Don't talk Columbus to me unless you want to prove that luck is the greatest factor of success." [Illustration: "DIDN'T KNOW ENOUGH TO CHOOSE HIS OWN FACE"] "Ill-luck is sometimes a factor of success," said Mr. Pedagog. "You are a success as an Idiot, which appears to me to be extremely unfortunate." "I don't know about that," said the Idiot. "I adapt myself to my company, and of course--" "Then you are a school-master among school-masters, a lawyer among lawyers, and so forth?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "What are you when your company is made up of widely diverse characters?" asked Mr. Brief before the Idiot had a chance to reply to the Bibliomaniac's question. "I try to be a widely diverse character myself." "And, trying to sit on many stools, fall and become just an Idiot," said Mr. Pedagog. "That's according to the way you look at it. I put my company to the test in the crucible of my mind. I analyze the characters of all about me, and whatever quality predominates in the precipitate, that I become. Thus in the presence of my employer and his office-boy I become a mixture of both--something of the employer, something of an office-boy. I run errands for my employer, and boss the office-boy. With you gentlemen I go through the same process. The Bibliomaniac, the School-Master, Mr. Brief, and the rest of you have been cast into the crucible, and I have tried to approximate the result." "And are an Idiot," said the School-Master. "It is your own name for me, gentlemen," returned the Idiot. "I presume you have recognized your composite self, and have chosen the title accordingly." * * * * * "You were a little hard on me this morning, weren't you?" asked the genial old gentleman who occasionally imbibed, that evening, when he and the Idiot were discussing the morning's chat. "I didn't like to say anything about it, but I don't think you ought to have thrown me into the crucible with the rest." "I wish you had spoken," said the Idiot, warmly. "It would have given me a chance to say that the grain of sense that once or twice a year leavens the lump of my idiocy is directly due to the ingredient furnished by yourself. Here's to you, old man. If you and I lived alone together, what a wise man I should be!" And then the genial old gentleman went to the cupboard and got out a bottle of port-wine that he had been preserving in cobwebs for ten years. This he opened, and as he did so he said, "I've been keeping this for years, my boy. It was dedicated in my youth to the thirst of the first man who truly appreciated me. Take it all." "I'll divide with you," returned the Idiot, with a smile. "For really, old fellow, I think you--ah--I think you appreciate yourself as much as I do." XII "I wonder what it costs to run a flat?" said the Idiot, stirring his coffee with the salt-spoon--a proceeding which seemed to indicate that he was thinking of something else. "Don't you keep an expense account?" asked the Bibliomaniac, slyly. "Hee-hee!" laughed Mrs. Pedagog. "First-rate joke," said the Idiot, with a smile. "But really, now, I should like to know for how little an apartment could be run. I am interested." Mrs. Pedagog stopped laughing at once. The Idiot's words were ominous. She did not always like his views, but she did like his money, and she was not at all anxious to lose him as a boarder. "It's very expensive," she said, firmly. "I shouldn't ever advise any one to undertake living in a flat. Rents are high. Butcher bills are enormous, because the butchers have to pay commissions, not only to the cook, so that she'll use twice as much lard as she can, and give away three or four times as much to the poor as she ought, but janitors have to be seen to, and elevator-boys, and all that. Groceries come high for the same reason. Oh, no! Flat life isn't the life for anybody, I say. Give me a good, first-class boarding-house. Am I not right, John?" [Illustration: "JANITORS HAVE TO BE SEEN TO"] "Yes, indeed," said Mr. Pedagog. "Every time. I lived in a flat once, and it was an awful nuisance. Above me lived a dancing-master who gave lessons at every hour of the day in the room directly over my study, so that I was always being disturbed at my work, while below me was a music-teacher who was practising all night, so that I could hardly sleep. Worst of all, on the same floor with me was a miserable person of convivial tendencies, who always mistook my door for his when he came home after midnight, and who gave some quite estimable people two floors below to believe that it was I, and not he, who sang comic songs between three and four o'clock in the morning. There has not been too much love lost between the Idiot and myself, but I cannot be so vindictive as to recommend him to live in a flat." "I can bear testimony to the same effect," put in Mr. Brief, who was two weeks in arrears, and anxious to conciliate his landlady. "Testimony to the effect that Mr. Pedagog sang comic songs in the early morning?" said the Idiot. "Nonsense! I don't believe it. I have lived in this house for two years with Mr. Pedagog, and I've never heard him raise his voice in song yet." "I didn't mean anything of the sort," retorted Mr. Brief. "You know I didn't." "Don't apologize to me," said the Idiot. "Apologize to Mr. Pedagog. He is the man you have wronged." "What did he say?" put in Mr. Pedagog, with a stern look at Mr. Brief. "I didn't hear what he said." "I didn't say anything," said the lawyer, "except that I could bear testimony to the effect that your experience with flat life was similar to mine. This young person, with his customary nerve, tries to make it appear that I said you sang comic songs in the early morning." "I try to do nothing of the sort," said the Idiot. "I simply expressed my belief that in spite of what you said Mr. Pedagog was innocent, and I do so because my experience with him has taught me that he is not the kind of man who would do that sort of thing. He has neither time, voice, nor inclination. He has an ear--two of them, in fact--and an impressionable mind, but--" "Oh, tutt!" interrupted the School-Master. "When I need a defender, you may spare yourself the trouble of flying to my rescue." "I know I _may_," said the Idiot, "but with me it's a question of can and can't. I'm willing to attack you personally, but while I live no other shall do so. Wherefore I tell Mr. Brief plainly, and to his face, that if he says you ever sang a comic song he says what is not so. You might hum one, but sing it--never!" "We were talking of flats, I believe," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Yes," said the Idiot, "and these persons have changed it from flat talk to sharp talk." "Well, anyhow," put in Mr. Brief, "I lived in a flat once, and it was anything but pleasant. I lost a case once for the simple and only reason that I lived in a flat. It was a case that required a great deal of strategy on my part, and I invited my client to my home to unfold my plan of action. I got interested in the scheme as I unfolded it, and spoke in my usual impassioned manner, as though addressing a jury, and, would you believe it, the opposing counsel happened to be visiting a friend on the next floor, and my eloquence floated up through the air-shaft, and gave our whole plan of action away. We were routed on the point we had supposed would pierce the enemy's armor and lay him at our feet, for the wholly simple reason that that abominable air-shaft had made my strategic move a matter of public knowledge." [Illustration: "MY ELOQUENCE FLOATED UP THE AIR-SHAFT"] "That's a good idea for a play," said the Idiot. "A roaring farce could be built up on that basis. Villain and accomplice on one floor, innocent victim on floor above. Plot floats up air-shaft. Innocent victim overhears; villain and accomplice say 'ha ha' for three acts and take a back seat in the fourth, with a grand transformation showing the conspirators in the county jail as a finale. Write it up with lots of live-stock wandering in and out, bring in janitors and elevator-boys and butchers, show up some of the humors of flat life, if there be any such, call it _A Hole in the Flat_, and put it on the stage. Nine hundred nights is the very shortest run it could have, which at fifty dollars a night for the author is $45,000 in good hard dollars. Mr. Poet, the idea is yours for a fiver. Say the word." "Thanks," said the Poet, with a smile; "I'm not a dramatist." "Then I'll have to do it myself," said the Idiot. "And if I do, good-bye Shakespeare." "That's so," said Mr. Pedagog. "Nothing could more effectually ruin the dramatic art than to have you write a play. People, seeing your work, would say, here, this will never do. The stage must be discouraged at all costs. A hypocrite throws the ministry into disgrace, an ignoramus brings shame upon education, and an unpopular lawyer gives the bar a bad name. I think you are just the man to ruin Shakespeare." "Then I'll give up my ambition to become a playwright and stick to idiocy," said the Idiot. "But to come back to flats. Your feeling in regard to them is entirely different from that of a friend of mine, who has lived in one for ten years. He thinks flat life is ideal. His children can't fall down-stairs, because there aren't any stairs to fall down. His roof never leaks, because he hasn't any roof to leak; and when he and his family want to go off anywhere, all he has to do is to lock his front door and go. Burglars never climb into his front window, because they are all eight flights up. Damp cellars don't trouble him, because they are too far down to do him any injury, even if they overflow. The cares of house-keeping are reduced to a minimum. His cook doesn't spend all her time in the front area flirting with the postman, because there isn't any front area to his flat; and in a social way his wife is most delightfully situated, because most of her friends live in the same building, and instead of having to hire a carriage to go calling in, all she has to do is to take the elevator and go from one floor to another. If he pines for a change of scene, he is high enough up in the air to get it by looking out of his windows, over the tops of other buildings, into the green fields to the north, or looking westward into the State of New Jersey. Instead of taking a drive through the Park, or a walk, all he and his wife need to do is to take a telescope and follow some little sylvan path with their eyes. Then, as for expense, he finds that he saves money by means of a co-operative scheme. For instance, if he wants shad for dinner, and he and his wife cannot eat a whole one, he goes shares on the shad and its cost with his neighbors above and below." "Yes, and his neighbors above and below borrow tea and eggs and butter and ice and other things whenever they run short, so that in that way he loses all he saves," said Mr. Pedagog, resolved not to give in. "He does if he isn't smart," said the Idiot. "I thought of that myself, and asked him about it, and he told me that he kept account of all that, and always made it a point after some neighbor had borrowed two pounds of butter from him to send in before the week was over and borrow three pounds of butter from the neighbor. So far his books show that he is sixteen pounds of butter, seven pounds of tea, one bottle of vanilla extract, and a ton of ice ahead of the whole house. He is six eggs and a box of matches behind in his egg and match account, but under the circumstances I think he can afford it." "But," said Mrs. Pedagog, anxious to know the worst, "why--er--why are you so interested?" "Well," said the Idiot, slowly, "I--er--I am contemplating a change, Mrs. Pedagog--a change that would fill me--I say it sincerely, too--with regret if--" The Idiot paused a minute, and his eye swept fondly about the table. His voice was getting a little husky too, Mr. Whitechoker noticed. "It would fill me with regret, I say, if it were not that in taking up house-keeping I am--I am to have the assistance of a better-half." "What??" cried the Bibliomaniac. "You? You are going to be--to be married?" "Why not?" said the Idiot. "Imitation is the sincerest flattery. Mr. Pedagog marries, and I am going to flatter him as sincerely as I can by following in his footsteps." "May I--may we ask to whom?" asked Mrs. Pedagog, softly. "Certainly," said the Idiot. "To Mr. Barlow's daughter. Mr. Barlow is--or was--my employer." "Was? Is he not now? Are you going out of business?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "No; but, you see, when I went to see Mr. Barlow in the matter, he told me that he liked me very much, and he had no doubt I would make a good husband for his daughter, but, after all, he added that I was nothing but a confidential clerk on a small salary, and he thought his daughter could do better." "She couldn't find a better fellow, Mr. Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, and Mr. Pedagog rose to the occasion by nodding his entire acquiescence in the statement. "Thank you very much," said the Idiot. "That was precisely what I told Mr. Barlow, and I suggested a scheme to him by which his sole objection could be got around." "You would start in business for yourself?" said Mr. Whitechoker. "In a sense, yes," said the Idiot. "Only the way I put it was that a good confidential clerk would make a good partner for him, and he, after thinking it over, thought I was right." "It certainly was a characteristically novel way out of the dilemma," said Mr. Brief, with a smile. "I thought so myself, and so did he, so it was all arranged. On the 1st of next month I enter the firm, and on the 15th I am--ah--to be married." The company warmly congratulated the Idiot upon his good-fortune, and he shortly left the room, more overcome by their felicitations than he had been by their arguments in the past. The few days left passed quickly by, and there came a breakfast at Mrs. Pedagog's house that was a mixture of joy and sadness--joy for his happiness, sadness that that table should know the Idiot no more. Among the wedding-gifts was a handsomely bound series of volumes, including a cyclopædia, a dictionary, and a little tome of poems, the first output of the Poet. These came together, with a card inscribed, "From your Friends of the Breakfast Table," of whom the Idiot said, when Mrs. Idiot asked for information: "They, my dear, next to yourself and my parents, are the dearest friends I ever had. We must have them up to breakfast some morning." "Breakfast?" queried Mrs. Idiot. "Yes, my dear," he replied, simply. "I should be afraid to meet them at any other meal. I am always at my best at breakfast, and they--well, they never are." THE END * * * * * BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica. Mr. Bangs is probably the generator of more hearty, healthful, purely good-humored laughs than any other half-dozen men of our country to-day.--_Interior_, Chicago. The Idiot. "The Idiot," continues to be as amusing and as triumphantly bright in the volume called after his name as in "Coffee and Repartee."--_Evangelist_, N. Y. The Water Ghost, and Others. The funny side of the ghost genre is brought out with originality, and, considering the morbidity that surrounds the subject, it is a wholesome thing to offer the public a series of tales letting in the sunlight of laughter.--_Hartford Courant_. Three Weeks in Politics. The funny story is most graphically told, and he who can read this narrative of a campaigner's trials without laughing must be a stoic indeed.--_Philadelphia Bulletin_. Coffee and Repartee. Is delightfully free from conventionality; is breezy, witty, and possessed of an originality both genial and refreshing.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_, Boston. 
33218	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 33218-h.htm or 33218-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33218/33218-h/33218-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33218/33218-h.zip) A TOP-FLOOR IDYL by GEORGE VAN SCHAICK Author of "Sweetapple Cove," "The Son of the Otter," "The Girl at Big Loon Post" Illustrated by Chase Emerson Boston Small, Maynard & Company Publishers Copyright, 1917, By Small, Maynard & Company (Incorporated) Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. TO MY DEARLY LOVED SISTER ELISE [Illustration: And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend.] CONTENTS I THE NIGHT ALARM II FRIEDA THE ANGEL III I WATCH AN INFANT IV THE BOLT V GORDON HELPS VI A BIT OF SUNSHINE VII THE OTHER WOMAN VIII WE TAKE AN EXCURSION IX I HEAR RUMOURS ABOUT GORDON X THE WORK LOST XI GORDON VACILLATES XII GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED XIII DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK XIV I BEGIN TO PLOT XV THE LIGHTNING STROKE XVI FRANCES READS MY BOOK XVII MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS XVIII DIANA AMONG MORTALS XIX FRANCES GOES TO THE COUNTRY XX RICHETTI IS PLEASED XXI THE CONCERT XXII GORDON RETURNS XXIII THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND XXIV "THE MOTHER AND CHILD" LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend. No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony. Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite. A TOP-FLOOR IDYL CHAPTER I THE NIGHT ALARM I smiled at my friend Gordon, the distinguished painter, lifting up my glass and taking a sip of the _table d'hôte_ claret, which the Widow Camus supplies with her famed sixty-five cent repast. It is, I must acknowledge, a somewhat turbid beverage, faintly harsh to the palate, and yet it may serve as a begetter of pleasant illusions. While drinking it, I can close my eyes, being of an imaginative nature, and permit its flavor to bring back memories of ever-blessed _tonnelles_ by the Seine, redolent of fried gudgeons and mirific omelettes, and felicitous with gay laughter. "Well, you old stick-in-the-mud," said my companion, "what are you looking so disgruntled about? I was under the impression that this feast was to be a merry-making to celebrate your fortieth birthday. Something like a grin just now passed over your otherwise uninteresting features, but it was at once succeeded by the mournful look that may well follow, but should not be permitted to accompany, riotous living." At this I smiled again. "Just a moment's wool-gathering, my dear fellow," I answered. "I was thinking of our old feasts, and then I began to wonder whether the tune played by that consumptive-looking young man at the piano might be a wild requiem to solemnize that burial of two-score years, or a song of triumphant achievement." "I think it's what they call a fox-trot," remarked Gordon, doubtfully. "Your many sere and yellow years have brought you to a period in the world's history when the joy of the would-be young lies chiefly in wild contortion to the rhythm of barbaric tunes. I see that they are getting ready to clear away some of the tables and, since we are untrained in such new arts and graces, they will gradually push us away towards the doors. The bottle, I notice, is nearly half empty, which proves our entire sobriety; had it been _Pommard_, we should have paid more respectful attention to it. Give me a light, and let us make tracks." We rose and went out. A few couples were beginning to gyrate among the fumes of spaghetti and _vin ordinaire_. Gordon McGrath, unlike myself, lives in one of the more select quarters of the city, wherefore we proceeded towards Fifth Avenue. The partial solitude of Washington Square enticed us, and we strolled towards it, sitting of common accord upon one of the benches, in the prelude of long silence resulting from philosophic bent and indulgence in rather tough veal. It was finally broken by Gordon; being younger, speech is more necessary to him. "What about that sarcophagus you've lately selected for yourself?" he asked me. "They are pleasant diggings," I answered. "Being on the top floor, they are remote as possible from hand-organs and the fragrance of Mrs. Milliken's kitchen. The room is quite large and possesses a bath. It gives me ample space for my books and mother's old piano." "Wherefore a piano?" he asked, lighting another cigarette. "You can't even play with one finger." "Well, my sister Jane took out nearly all the furniture, and the remainder went to a junkman, with the exception of the piano. Jane couldn't use it; no room for it in her Weehawken bungalow, besides which she already has a phonograph, purchased at the cost of much saving. You see, Gordon, that old Steinway was rather more intimately connected with my mother, in my memory, than anything else she left. She played it for us when we were kiddies. You have no idea of what a smile that dear woman had when she turned her head towards us and watched us trying to dance! Later on, when she was a good deal alone, it was mostly 'Songs without Words,' or improvisations such as suited her moods. Dear me! She looked beautiful when she played! So, of course, I took it, and it required more room, so that I moved. I've had it tuned; the man said that it was in very good condition yet." "You were always a silly dreamer, Dave." "I don't quite see," I began, "what----" "I'll enlighten your ignorance. Of course you don't. David, old man, you've had the old rattle-trap tuned because of the hope that rises eternal. Visions keep on coming to you of a woman, some indistinct, shadowy, composite creature of your imagination. You expect her to float into your room, in the dim future and in defiance of all propriety, and sit down before that ancient spinet. "You keep it ready for her; it awaits her coming. To tell you the truth, I'm glad you had it tuned. It shows that you still possess some human traits. I'll come, some day, and we'll go over and capture Frieda Long. We will take her to dinner at Camus, and give her a benedictine and six cups of black coffee. After that we'll get a derrick and hoist her to your top floor, and she'll play Schubert, till the cows come home or the landlady puts us out. She's a wonder!" "She's a great artist and a dear, lovable woman," I declared. "That's probably why she never had a love story," conjectured Gordon. "Always had so much affection for the general that she could never descend to the particular. By the way, I went to her studio for a look at her portrait of Professor Burberry." "It's good, isn't it?" "Man alive! It's so good, I should think the old fellow would be offended. Through her big dabs of paint he's shown up to the life. You can see his complacency bursting out like a flaming sunflower. Upon his homely mug are displayed all the platitudes of Marcus Aurelius. He is instinct with ignorance that Horace was a drummer for Italian wines and an agent for rural residences, just a smart advertiser, a precursor of the fellows who write verse for the Road of Anthracite or canned soup, and Burberry has never found it out. He would buy splinters from the wooden horse of Troy, and only avoids gold bricks because they're modern. It's a stunning picture!" That's one reason why I am so fond of Gordon. He's a great portraitist, and far more successful than Frieda, but he is genuine in his admiration of good work. He is rather too cynical, of course, but at the bottom of it there usually lies good advice to his friends. I'm very proud he continues to stick to me. "I understand he was greatly pleased," I told him, "and I was awfully glad that Frieda got the commission. She needed it." "Yes, I told her that she ought to go off for a rest in the country," he remarked, "but it seems she has one of her other queer ideas that must be worked out at once. She itched to be at it, even while she was painting Burberry. Mythological, I think, as usual, that latest notion of hers. Some demigod whispering soft nothings to a daughter of men. Showed me a dozen charcoal compositions for it, all deucedly clever. And how are the other animals in the menagerie you live in now?" That's a way Gordon has. From one subject he leaps to another like a canary hopping on the sticks of his cage; but there is method in his madness. He swiftly exhausts the possibilities of a remark and goes to another without losing time. "The animals," I answered, "are a rather dull and probably uninteresting lot. First, come two girls who live in a hall bedroom, together." "It shows on their part an admirable power of concentration." "I suppose so; their conversation is chiefly reminiscent and plentifully dotted with 'says I' and 'says she' and 'says he.' They are honest young persons and work in a large candy-shop. Hence they must be surfeited with sweets at a deplorably early age." "Not with all of them; they will find some hitherto untasted, but just as cloying in the end," remarked Gordon. "I hope not. There is also an elderly couple living on the bounty of a son who travels in collars and cuffs. Sells them, you know. Then I've seen three men who work somewhere and occasionally comment upon what they see in the newspaper. Murders fill them with joy, and, to them, accidents are beer and skittles. I suspect that they esteem themselves as what they are pleased to call 'wise guys,' but they are of refreshing innocence and sterling honesty. One of them borrowed a dollar from me, the other day, to take the two girls to the movies. He returned it on next pay day." "Look out, David, he may be trying to establish a credit," Gordon warned me. "You are such an easy mark!" "I'll be careful," I assured him. "Then we have a poor relation of the landlady. He looks out for the furnace in winter and is a night watchman in a bank. An inoffensive creature who reads the papers the other boarders throw away." "Altogether it makes up a beautiful and cheering totality of ineptitude, endowed with the souls of shuttles or cogwheels," opined Gordon. "Well, as Shylock says, if you prick them, they bleed," I protested. "At any rate they must have some close affinity with the general scheme of Nature." "Nature, my dear Dave, is a dustbin in which a few ragmen succeed in finding an occasional crust of dry bread wherewith to help fill the pot and make their hearts glad. It is a horribly wasteful organization by which a lady cod produces a million eggs that one fish may possibly reach maturity and chowder. Four trees planted on a hill commonly die, but, if you stick in a few thousands, there may be a percentage of survivals, besides nuts for the squirrels. Humanity represents a few tall trees and a host of scrubs." Thus does Gordon always lay down the law, to which I generally listen with some amusement. He is dogmatic and incredulous, though he lacks scepticism in regard to his own opinions. "Then all honor to the scrubs, my dear Gordon!" I interjected. "I admire and revere the courage and persistency with which they keep on growing, seeking a bit of sunlight here and there, airing their little passions, bearing their trials bravely. But I forgot to mention another inmate of my caravanserai. She's only there for a day or two, in a room opposite mine, hitherto vacant and only tenanted yesterday. I met her as she was coming up the stairs. She walked heavily, poor thing. I could only see her by the dim light of the gas-jet on the landing. It was a young face, deeply lined and unhappy. Downstairs I came across Mrs. Milliken, my landlady, who explained that the person I had met expected to go next day to a hospital. The Milliken woman had known her husband. He went off to the war, months ago, and the young wife's been teaching French and giving piano lessons, till she couldn't work any longer. The French government allows her twenty-five or thirty cents a day." "I'm glad it keeps a paternal eye on the wives of its brave defenders," remarked Gordon. "It does, to that extent, but it doesn't go very far in this country. She has a remarkable face; looks a good deal like that Madonna of Murillo's in the Louvre." "That's a back number at this stage of the world's history. Most of us prefer snub noses. I notice that you said she plays the piano." "I don't see what----" "Well, you've just had yours tuned. Oh! I forgot you said she was going off to the hospital. Never mind, Dave, they come out again, so don't worry. I've known you to be disturbed for a whole week over somebody's sick dog and to go two blocks out of your way to steer a strayed and unpleasantly ragged blind man. What is it, appendicitis?" "Mrs. Milliken darkly hinted, I think, that it was an expected baby." "Oh! Well, I suppose a baby had to go with a Murillo; the picture would have been incomplete. I'm glad that this particular case appears to be a perfectly safe one." "What do you know about it?" I asked. "I mean from your standpoint. I dare presume that the Milliken female has a holy horror of sprouting infants, like all landladies. She would naturally foresee a notice to quit from the old couple, disturbed in their slumbers, and extravagance in the use of hot water and linen would stare her in the face. You have made me sympathize with you for nothing, for your Murillo-woman will vanish into space and become the handmaiden of a scrub in the making. Henceforth, the case will only interest the Bureau of Vital Statistics and the manufacturers of improvements on mother's milk. Give me another cigarette." I handed him the cardboard box, for, although I have a silver case, I never know where it is. If I did, I wouldn't use it since I don't believe in flaunting one's vices. He took a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, and engaged in conversation the lonely policeman, who had strolled over to see that we were not flouting the majesty of the law by dozing on the bench. He remarked that the night was fine but warm, Gordon assenting. Then my friend suddenly asked him what kind of boots he wore, and put down the address most carefully on his cuff, thanking him effusively, after which the guardian walked off, ponderously. "Will you kindly explain your object?" I asked Gordon, who has what the French call the _coquetterie du pied_ and asserts there's only one man in New York who can make boots, a delusion that costs him about fifteen dollars a pair. "You're not lacking in sympathy," he instructed me, "but, on your part, the feeling is but an unintelligent instinct. Any idiot can feel sorry for a cripple or a man compelled by poverty to smoke cheap tobacco. I now call your attention to the fact that this old minion is ancient and corpulent. He's on his feet during all working hours, and his cogitations must often turn to his nether extremities. He carefully nurses them, while he raps those of lawless slumberers on these seats. Civilly, I spoke to him of the subject uppermost in his mind, and now he has left us, happy in the thought that he has put a fellowman on the right road. That's what I call taking a sympathetic interest in a deserving old ass. You didn't suppose for a moment that I'd wear such beastly things, did you?" "You would rather go barefooted," I told him. "I would," he assented. "If Gordon McGrath appeared in the street, naked as to his toes, the papers would mention the fact. The _Banner_ would send me the famed Cordelia, who would insist on photographing my feet for publication in a Sunday supplement, with a hint to the effect that I am a rather well known painter. It would be an advertisement." "If I went without boots, benevolent old ladies would stop me and hand out copper pennies," I remarked, without jealousy. "You just wait till the 'Land o' Love' is out, old man," he told me, "and the same old dames will write for your autograph." Gordon is quite daffy over the book I sent to my publishers last week. He has read the first, one middle and the last chapter, and predicts great things for it. Of course, I know better, for it will be just like the others. From four to six thousand copies sold, a few flattering notices, mostly in journals unheard of, and swift oblivion after some months. But I care nothing that I may be a scrub among writers, for the occupation suits me. I am not ambitious, and I can rise late in the morning, pound the keys of my old machine for an hour before lunch, waste a good part of the afternoon in one of the libraries, and go to work again after the hand-organs and knife-grinders have been abed some hours. Then, some time before sunrise, the rattle of milk-carts remind me of Mrs. Milliken's bedspring and mattress, and I go to bed. I am not doing so badly, and sell one or two short stories every month. Last year I opened an account in the savings bank. The time may come when I shall be classed among the malefactors of great wealth. "But one reader ever wrote to me," I finally answered. "It was a young person anxious to know whether I could recommend the 'City's Wrath' as a birthday present to a Baptist aunt. I advised against it, thus cheating myself out of ten per cent. royalty on a dollar thirty-five." "Oh! She'd have sent a second-hand copy," he answered consolingly, and shifted to a discussion of the ultimate blackening of vermilions, which seemed to give him some concern. After this he looked at his watch and declared he had just twenty-five minutes to get to the Lambs Club. That's just like him; he will loll and sprawl around for hours with you, looking like a man without a responsibility in the world, and suddenly arise and sprint away to far regions, always arriving in the nick of time. My way is to prepare far in advance to meet my rare engagements, to think of them persistently, and, usually, to arrive ten minutes late. I walked over to the subway with him, at such a breathless pace that I wondered if the friendly policeman would change his mind about us, should we meet him in crossing the square. Gordon left me at the entrance, with a wave of one hand, the other searching for a nickel, and I was permitted to return leisurely to my domicile, in a profuse perspiration. I felt my wilted collar, knowing that Gordon would unquestionably reach the club, looking spick and span. That's also one of his traits. As I crossed the square again, I saw a belated tramp leading an emaciated yellow dog by a string. The man looked hungrier than the dog, and I broke all precepts of political economy by handing him a dime. He was blameworthy, for he should have looked out for himself, and not have assumed foolish responsibilities. He was entirely wrong. What business had he to seek affection, to require the faithfulness of a rust-colored mongrel? How dared he ask charity that should have gone to the widow and orphan, wherewith to feed a useless quadruped? I sat down again, for it was only midnight, and thought pleasantly upon the vagaries of human nature. Suddenly, a splendid story suggested itself to me about a dog and tramp. It would be good for about four thousand words, and I hurried away to Mrs. Milliken's lest the inspiration might vanish on the way. I would have a dog all but human, a tramp all but dog, and the animal would sacrifice itself for a master redeemed at last by the spectacle of canine virtue. I knew just what magazine might accept it. A few minutes later I reached the house, which, like the Milliken woman, has seen better days. The frittering brownstone and discolored brick suit me as naturally as a hole in the sand befits a prairie dog. I let myself in, softly, with due regard to the slumbers of people compelled by the tragedy of life to go to bed at the behest of a clock, and trod the creaking stairs in utter darkness, guided by a friendly but shaky balustrade. Then I reached my landing, opened my door, turned on the light, put on my slippers and fired my coat on the bed. As soon as I had dropped my collar and tie on the floor, I was ready for work and sat down to my machine. Thank goodness, the inspiration had remained; clearly and cogently the sentences flowed; after I had finished the first page, I was already weeping in spirit for my noble dog. Then, suddenly, came a rap at my door, hurried, eager, impatient. "Great Heavens!" I thought at once. "I am to be interrupted because that blessed woman objects to loud typewriting at one a.m. I'm glad she's going away to the hospital." I went to the door, assuming my most austere mien, and opened it. CHAPTER II FRIEDA THE ANGEL "Please help me!" cried the woman hoarsely. "My God! What shall I do?" It was, as I had surmised, the Murillo-faced occupant of the room on the other side of the landing. In my dismay the desperate thought came to me that a lonely bachelor was the last individual she should have sought aid from. But her look of haggardness, the teeth pressed into her lips, the clenched hands, the chin carried forward in an expression of agonized supplication rebuked my egotism. "I--I don't know," I confessed humbly. She turned half way around, seized the balustrade and stared at me vacantly. "Allow me to help you back to your room," I suggested shakily. "Then I'll run downstairs and get Mrs. Milliken." She went with me, haltingly, and threw herself upon the decrepit horsehair sofa, as I abandoned her and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my neck on account of my slovenly old slippers. At the landlady's door I pounded till I chanced to remember she had informed me that she expected to spend the night at her married daughter's, in Fort Lee. In despond I bethought myself of the young women who sold candy. No! Such problems were not of their solving. Of course there was the negro cook, hidden in some ancillary cavern of the basement, but cowardice prevented me from penetrating such darkness, and I ran out of the house, coatless. Half way down the block were two doctors' signs. One shining in the freshness of new nickelling; the other an old thing of battered tin, with faded gold letters. "This," I decided, "is a case requiring the mature experience of age," and I rang furiously, awaiting the appearance of the venerable owner of the ancient sign. A shock-headed and red-haired youth opened the door, clad in pajamas and rubbing his eyes. "Yes," he said pleasantly. "I need the doctor's services at once," I informed him. "Hustle him up immediately, my good fellow. Please be quick, it may be a matter of life and death." "Oh! I'm the doctor," he said, "and I'll be with you in a few seconds. Sit right down." He left me in the darkness of the hallway and I sank down on a wooden seat, upon a palm leaf fan that crackled dismally beneath my slender weight. Faintly, in the back, I discerned a ghostly folding bed and heard the swishing of garments flying across the room. In spite of my feverish impatience the doctor came out again as fast as if he had been clothed by some magic art. "What kind of a case?" he asked. "I believe you are wanted to help increase and multiply," I answered. "Should have told me at once. Got the wrong bag!" he reproved me, disappearing. At once he returned. I went out first, and he followed me, slamming the door with a sound that reverberated through the quiet street, and we sprinted off. I used the key with a shaking hand. "Top floor," I informed him. "All my patients seem to live on top floors," he replied. At the woman's door I knocked. "I--I have brought you assistance," I told her. "This--this young gentleman knows all about such things; he's a doctor. I--I'll be in the next room, if there's anything else I can do for you." "Is there no woman in the place?" inquired the young man. "No. Only some girls who know nothing save the price of caramels and the intricacies of tango. But I can find one inside of twenty minutes; I'll go and get her." "That's good," he assented cheerfully, going to his patient, who looked at him in some fear. But I reflected that the doctor seemed kindly, and by no means overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him, so that I took the time to slip on my boots, after which I ran to Eleventh Street, where Frieda Long burrows in a small flat. Her studio, shared with another woman, is farther uptown. Finally she opened the door, clad in a hoary dressing-gown and blinking, for she had not been able to find her spectacles. "Who is it?" she demanded placidly, as if being awakened at two fifteen in the morning had been a common incident of her life. "It's Dave, just Dave Cole," I answered. "I want you, Frieda--that is to say, a woman wants you badly, at my house--taking her share of the primal curse. Don't know who she is, but Mrs. Milliken's away. She's alone with a little half-hatched doctor, and--and----" "Come in. Sit there in the front room. Cigarettes on that table. I'll close the door and be with you in five minutes," she assured me tranquilly. I tried to smoke, but the thing tasted like Dead Sea fruit and I pitched it out of the open window. An amazingly short time afterwards Frieda was ready, bespectacled and wearing an awful hat. I think she generally picks them out of rag bags. As we walked along, she entertained me with her latest idea for a picture. It would be a belted Orion pursuing the daughters of Pleione, who would be changing into stars. She explained some of the difficulties and beauties of the subject, and her conception of it, while I looked at her in wonder. I must say that, from her stubby, capable fingers, there flow pure poetry of thought and exquisiteness of coloring. Her form, reminding one of a pillow tied none too tightly in the middle, her tousled head containing a brain masculine in power and feminine in tenderness, her deep contralto, might be appanages of some back-to-the-earth female with an uncomfortable mission. But she's simply the best woman in the world. She panted to the top floor and, at my desire, followed me into my room, where I had left the door open and the gas burning. She gave a swift glance around the place, and her eyes manifested disapproval. "I wonder how you can ever find anything on that desk," she reproved me, as I searched in a bureau drawer. To my utter terror she began to put some papers in order. "Here's an unopened letter from _Paisley's Magazine_," she announced. I pounced upon it and tore it open, to discover a check for eighty dollars. "Good!" I exclaimed. "I'd forgotten that story. It was called 'Cynthia's Mule'; I wonder what possessed me to write about a mule? Don't know anything about them." "That's why it sold, most likely," said Frieda. "The public prefers poetry to truth in its prose. What are you wasting time for, fooling in that drawer?" "I have it. It's a twenty-dollar bill," I told her. "I put it among my socks so that I shouldn't spend it. Might be very handy, you know. She might need something, and you could go out and buy it." "Can you afford it, Dave?" she asked me. "Of course, and you forget the check I've just received. Mrs. Milliken will cash it for me at her butcher's. He's very obliging." Just then we heard something. Frieda stuffed the bill in some part of her ample bosom and ran away. I heard her knock at the door and go in. There was nothing for me to do but to look at the nearly finished page that was still in the embrace of my typewriter. For some silly reason my gorge rose at the idea of the virtuous dog, but I remembered, as I was about to pull out and lacerate the paper, that my mind sometimes plays me scurvy tricks. When I am interrupted in the beginning of a story, and look over it again, it always seems deplorably bad. Another day I will look at it more indulgently. Moreover, what was the use of thinking about such trivialities when the world's great problem was unfolding itself, just seven steps away over the worn strip of Brussels on the landing. So I settled down in my old Morris chair to ponder over the matter of babies coming to the just and the unjust, provided with silver spoons or lucky to be wrapped up in an ancient flannel petticoat. The most beautiful gift of a kindly Nature or its sorriest practical joke, welcome or otherwise, the arriving infant is entitled to respect and commiseration. I wondered what might be the fate of this one. In a few hours it will be frowned down upon by Mrs. Milliken, who will consider it as an insult to the genus landlady. The mother, naturally, will smile upon the poor little thing; she will dote upon it as women do on the ordinarily useless articles they purchase with money or pain at the bargain counter of life. This wee white and pink mite, since its daddy's away fighting and the mother is poor, must prove a tragedy, I am afraid. It will be a little vampire, pretending to feed on milk but really gorging itself on a heart's blood. My cogitations were interrupted by the rattle of a thousand milk cans, more or less, clattering through the street, on top of a huge, white motor truck. I took off my coat, instinctively thinking that it was time to go to bed, and put it on again because my door was open and it behooved me to keep awake, since I might be required to run other errands. The question of sleep thus disposed of, I brought out my percolator. For a wonder there was alcohol in the lamp, and I found the coffee in a can I discovered in my cardboard hat-box. Two months before, my sister Jane had told me that a silk hat was proper for the following of one's mother to the grave, and I obeyed her. Poor darling! It was the least and last thing I could do for her. The lamp was alight and the steam coming, when the doctor came out, looking rather spectral in a white gown. "Thank goodness!" I exclaimed, dropping some pulverized bean on the floor. "So it is all over!" "Not yet," he informed me, smiling, "but so far everything goes well. The big, fat Providence in gig-lamps is sitting by the patient. Sometimes three make poor company. The solid dame came in and called her 'my dear' and rummaged things out of the trunk and fixed up the bed, and tears began to flow. It must be a wonderful thing for a woman, who feels abandoned of God and man, to have such a big brave creature come in to pound the pillows and make one feel that there is yet corn in Egypt. I left them with their heads together. The poor thing was crying a bit and beginning to tell the story of her past life. Yes, thanks! I'll be glad of a cup, with three lumps of sugar. Great little machine, that! And so I thought I'd walk in here for a minute. Some things a woman tells another must be pretty sacred, don't you think?" I poured out the coffee appreciatively. "The person whom you call the solid dame," I told him, "is no less a woman than Frieda Long, the poet in pigments." "Keeps a Beauty Shop?" he inquired. "If you mean to ask whether she shampoos and manicures females and supplies them with hair," I answered, "your guess is utterly wrong. She paints women, and men too, on canvas, and any ordinary individual, such as you and I, ought to grovel before her." "Just say the word," he answered, "and I'll make a start. She's the best old girl I've come across in many a long day." "Frieda Long is hardly thirty-eight," I told him, "and, to change the subject for a moment, I will acknowledge that I deemed such cases best attended by the sere and ancient. I rang you up because your sign suggested long experience." "Not half bad, is it?" he replied. "I aged it by setting it up in the backyard and firing brickbats at it. Old Cummerly, next door to me, had his replated." He swallowed his coffee, without winking, though I thought it was boiling hot, and left me hurriedly again. I took greater leisure in my own beverage and leaned back in my chair. This young fellow appealed to me. The man of tact is born, not made. What serves him for a soul possesses refinement to dictate his leaving, for a few minutes, while one woman poured out her heart to another. I think he is considerate and kindly; he is probably destined to make many friends and little money. I rose and looked out of the window. The dawn was beginning and promised another stifling, red-hot day. A very _décolleté_ baker had come out of a cave beneath the bread and cake shop, opposite, and sponged off his forehead with the back of his hand. An Italian woman, clad in violent colors, passed with a hundredweight or so of broken laths poised on her head. At the corner the policeman was conversing with a low-browed individual, issued from the saloon with a mop. New York was awakening, and I decided I might as well shave, to pass away the time. Taking my strop and razor I sat down to give the latter a thorough overhauling. I suppose I fell asleep during the process. "Contemplating suicide?" I heard Frieda ask suddenly. I jumped up, startled, with the weapon in my hand. "Put that thing down," she ordered me. "It makes me nervous. She's sleeping quietly, and the doctor's gone. An awfully nice fellow. It's a boy with brown hair." "Not the doctor," I objected, somewhat dazed. "No, the baby, you silly! The doctor is very nice. I am going out to get my washerwoman's sister to come and stay with Madame Dupont--might as well say Mrs. Dupont. Her husband's French, but she comes from Rhode Island. You can go with me. Never mind about shaving now, you can stop at a barber's later on. Your hair needs cutting. Put on a clean collar. After I get that woman, we'll stop at the flat; the milk will be there and I'll give you some breakfast. Come along!" Frieda is a woman of the compelling kind, but it's a joy to obey her. After I had adjusted my collar and tie we started, but when we reached the door opposite she opened it, very quietly, while I waited, and tiptoed in. "She's awake," she said, again opening the door. "She says she would like to thank you for your kindness. She knows she would have died, if you had not sought help for her." "Stuff and nonsense," I said, quite low. "You don't expect me to go in there, do you?" "I certainly do, because she wishes it. Don't be stupid!" So I entered, rather embarrassed, thinking to see the face of a woman crucified. But her smile was the sweetest thing I had ever beheld, I'm very sure. I could hardly recognize her after that memory of haggard and tortured features. She put out her hand to me, weakly. "I--I want to thank you--ever so much," she said. "It was so awfully kind of you, and--and you sent me an angel." "Oh, yes," said Frieda, grinning. "I see myself with wings sprouting from my shoulder-blades. Good-by for a short time, my dear. You'll only be alone for a few minutes. Yes, the baby will be all right; don't you worry. No, he won't be hungry for a long time, the doctor said, and you are to let him sleep and do the same yourself. Now come along, David." I was delighted to have Frieda's escort, as I scented danger below. Her support gave me boundless joy when, at the foot of the stairs, I saw Mrs. Milliken, returned on some frightfully early ferryboat. She looked at us with amazement and suspicion. "My dear Mrs. Milliken," I began, in my most ingratiating tones, "a new boarder has arrived during the night. I can assure you the young man would not have intruded had he possessed greater experience of life. We will have to forgive him on account of his tender youth." "They must be packed off at once," cried the woman. "How could you?" "I beg to observe that it was not my tender heart but yours that gave her shelter," I said. "My own responsibility is extremely limited, and my part in the affair a most subsidiary one." "And besides, Mrs. Milliken," put in Frieda, "no one but David Cole lives on that floor. If he makes no complaint, no others are very likely to, and then it would be inhuman to put the poor thing out now. In a few days she will be able to move. I am going to send a woman immediately, and you won't have the slightest trouble." "For any little matter of extra expense, Mrs. Milliken, I will see that you are properly compensated," I added. Had I been alone, Mrs. Milliken would probably have argued the matter for an hour, at the end of which I should have retired in defeat. But I think Frieda's size overawed her. She only stammered rather weakly that she knew it would all end badly. "Don't mind her, David," said my friend, as we went out. "You can't expect the keeper of a cheap boarding-house to be an optimist. Her prediction may or not come true, but no one thinks that the bit of humanity upstairs can turn the world topsy-turvy for some time." I felt greatly relieved and followed her towards the river, where, just west of Ninth Avenue, we found a tenement on the fourth floor of which there was a sort of rabbit-hutch where dwelt two women and a bevy of infants. I remained on the landing, while Frieda went in. Some of the children came out and contemplated me, all with fingers in their mouths. Remembering that I had changed a nickel on the previous evening, while waiting for Gordon, in order to obtain a cent's worth of assorted misinformation from my favorite paper, I pulled out the four remaining pennies and distributed them. By the infants my action was accepted as gentlemanly and urbane, I think, for they no longer considered me as a suspicious character and the gravity of their expressions changed into a look of unstinted approval. "It's all right," said Frieda, coming out in a cloud of soapy steam. "She'll go at once. Putting her hat on now. Come along. I'm hungry as a hyena." So I breakfasted with her at her flat. She had certainly worked much harder than I, during the night, and taken a great deal more out of herself, but she insisted on my sitting down while she juggled with a gas-stove and bacon and eggs and a pot of jam. Her coffee, I thought, was better than mine. At eight o'clock we parted at the corner of the street. "I must hurry along," she said. "I have an appointment with a man who can pose as Orion." I had time but for a few words of heartfelt thanks before she was in the middle of the avenue, waving a hand to the motorman of her car. She scrambled aboard, smiling at me cheerfully from the step, and I was alone, wondering at the luck of a chap who could pose as Orion for Frieda. I would rather have her think well of me than any one I know of, I am very sure, and I regretted that my lank form and ill-thatched head were so unsuited to the make-up of a Greek demigod. Never mind, I know that when my next book comes out she will send for me, hurriedly, and make me feel for some minutes as if I were really worthy of tying her big, ugly, sensible shoes. She has read every one of my stories and possesses all the books I ever perpetrated, bless her soul! It is good indeed for a man to be able to look up to a woman, to know in his heart of hearts that she deserves it, and that she doesn't want to marry him, and he doesn't want to marry her. It is fine to think they are a pair of great friends just because they're capable of friendship, a much rarer accomplishment than most people are aware of. So I returned to the scene of the night's invasion and climbed up the stairs, rather wearily. I had the morning paper, three circulars and a fresh box of cigarettes. Upon my landing I met a large female with a moustache and decided it must be the washerwoman's sister. She smiled pleasantly at me and I returned the courtesy. In such words as I remembered from my erstwhile residence in Paris I asked how the mother and child were doing. The lady, she informed me, was doing ever so well. As for the infant, it had beautiful eyes and was a cherished little cabbage. Wondering upon the philosophy of endearments as attained by foreign nations I entered my room, closing the door carefully, and looked over those pages about the virtuous dog. They were promising, I thought. After putting them down, I took up my razor, for I hate a barber's scraping, and indulged in the luxury of a shave. The instrument, I thought, possessed a splendid edge. Who knows, some day I might bequeath it to a cherished cabbage. CHAPTER III I WATCH AN INFANT It was all very well for Frieda to tell Mrs. Milliken that, if I had no objection to that baby, no one else could resent its presence. She assumes too much. If I had really belonged to the order of vertebrates I should have objected most strenuously, for its presence is disturbing. It diverts my attention from literary effort. But of course, since I am as spineless as a mollusk, I sought to accept this heaven-sent visitation with due resignation. My endeavor to continue that story was a most pitiful farce. Four times, in reading over a single page, I found the word _baby_ inserted where I had meant to write _dog_ or one of the few available synonyms. I wondered whether it was owing to lack of sleep that my efforts failed and threw myself upon the bed, but my seeking for balmy slumber was more ghastly than my attempt at literature. Never in all my life had I been more arrantly wakeful. A desperate resolve came to me and I flipped a quarter. Heads and I would sit down and play solitaire; tails and I would take a boat to Coney Island, a place I abhor. The coin rolled under the bed, and I was hunting clumsily for it with a stick when a tremendous knock came at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of the washerwoman's sister, whom I afterwards knew as Eulalie Carpaux. I explained my position, half under the bed, feeling that she had caught me in an attitude lacking in dignity, but the good creature sympathized with me and discovered my money at once, after which she insisted on taking my whiskbroom and vigorously dusting my knees. "I have come, Monsieur," she informed me, "to ask if your door may be left open. The heat is terrible and the poor, dear lamb has perspiration on her forehead. I know that currents of air are dangerous, but suffocation is worse. What shall I do?" "You will open as many doors as you please," I answered meekly. "Thank you. One can see that Monsieur has a good heart, but then any friend of Mademoiselle Frieda must be a good man. She is adorable and uses a great deal of linen. May I ask who does Monsieur's washing?" "A Chinaman," I answered shortly. "He scrubs it with cinders and irons it with a nutmeg grater. I keep it in this closet on the floor." "My sister," she informed me, "has four children and washes beautifully. I am sure that if Monsieur allowed me to take his linen, he would be greatly pleased." "Take it," I said, and waved my hand to signify that the interview was closed, whereupon she mopped her red face, joyfully, with her apron and withdrew. Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Immediately the most gorgeous ideas for my story crowded my brain and the language came to me, beautiful and touching. But the Murillo-woman's door was open and so was mine. Since Eulalie had ventured to leave the room, it was most probable that her charge was sleeping. The typewriter, of course, would awaken her at once. Was that infant destined to deprive me of a living, to snatch the bread from my mouth? But I reflected that temperatures of ninety in the shade were inconstant phenomena. It would be but a temporary annoyance and the best thing I could do, since I was driven out of house and home, was to take my hat and go to the beach for a swim. The die was cast and I moved to the door, but had to return to place a paperweight on loose sheets littering my desk, whereupon my eyes fell on the old pack of cards and I threw the hat upon the bed and began solitaire. My plans often work out in such fashion. Ten minutes later I was electrified by a cry, a tiny squeak that could hardly have disturbed Herod himself. But it aroused my curiosity and I tiptoed along the hallway, suspecting that the woman Eulalie might not be attending properly to her duties, whatever they were. Everything was still again, and the unjustly mistrusted party was rocking ponderously, with an amorphous bundle in her lap. She smiled at me, graciously. Upon the bed I caught a glimpse of wonderful chestnut hair touched by a thread of sunlight streaming tenuously from the side of a lowered blind; also, I saw a rounded arm. Eulalie put a fat finger to rubicund lips and I retired, cautiously. How in the world could I have been bothering my head about a trumpery and impossible dog? In that room Nature was making apologetic amends. A woman had obeyed the law of God and man, which, like all other laws, falls heaviest on the weak. She was being graciously permitted to forget past misery and, perchance, dream of happier days to come, while David Cole, scrub coiner of empty phrases, bemoaned the need of keeping quiet for a few hours. I decided that I ought to be ashamed of myself. "The Professor at the Breakfast Table" was at my hand and I took it up, the volume opening spontaneously at the "Story of Iris," and I lost myself in its delight. An hour later came a light step, swiftly, and the little doctor appeared. He is as tall as I, but looks so very young that he seems small to me. He entered my room, cheerfully, looking as fresh and nice as if rosy dreams had filled his night. "Well! How are things wagging?" he inquired breezily. He was fanning himself with his neat straw hat, and I asked him to sit down for a moment. "Sure! But only for a minute or two. I have a throat clinic to attend at one o'clock. There's just time for this visit, then a bite at Childs' and a skip to Bellevue." I looked at my watch and found he had allowed himself just fifty minutes for these various occupations. "Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I--I just wanted to say that I haven't the least idea whether--whether that young creature in the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me--I think that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you will consider me responsible--er--within the limits of a moderate income." "Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you." His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City's Wrath." "Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother's copy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows something about the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city. He's looked pretty deep into people's lives." No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave me greater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad. "Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him. "Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered. I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindest regards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me. "D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, and wrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in some time and--and chat about things with you, any evening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about--about people." "My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to run away with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now, since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient." He tucked his book under his arm and went down the hallway. After remaining in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour, he came out again, cheerfully. "Doing exceedingly well," he called to me. "By-by; see you again very soon, I hope." He vanished down the stairs, and I took up my book again, holding it in one hand while I went to the windows, intending to draw down a blind against the sunlight that was streaming in. The heat was entering in gusts and, for a second, a sparrow sat on my window ledge with head drooping, as if it were about to succumb. Then I drew down the blinds and immediately let them up again, reflecting that in the room opposite mine they were lowered for the sake of darkness and air and that my action would lessen the latter. So I sponged off my cranium and panted. It was being revealed to me that babies, whatever their other qualifications, were exquisitely complicated nuisances. Yet an Arab, I told myself, refuses to step on a piece of paper, lest upon it might be written the name of the Deity, while some Hindoos carry little brooms and sweep the path before them, that they may not tread upon one of Buddha's creatures. Who knows whether divinity does not leave its signature on every infant, and who can reasonably doubt that infinite goodness possesses an equity in prospective men and women. Shall I be less civil than a sand-washed Bedouin or the monk of a Benares shrine? It behooves me to welcome a chance to acquire merit by showing patience. The book I held was as charming as ever, of course, but since I knew the story by heart I dropped it on my knees and waged a losing fight against a fly, which persisted in perching itself on my brow. Before me flitted the idea that a skull-cap made of sticky fly-paper might be patentable and sell by the million, combining protection and revenge; I must look into the matter. Finally hunger troubled me and I decided to go out for refreshment. Before my neighbor's door I stopped for an instant, my eyes seeking to penetrate the dimness. Eulalie came to me at once and began to whisper. "Would Monsieur be so very kind as to remain here for a few moments and watch?" she said. "I am going to run over to my sister's and tell her to buy a chicken and make broth. It will be very good for our poor, dear lady. In ten minutes I will be back." Man's freedom of action is apparently a mere academic concept. Theoretically, I was entirely at liberty to refuse, to look down upon this woman from the superior height of my alleged intellectuality and inform her that my soul craved for an immediate glass of iced tea and some poached eggs on toast. I could have asserted that I did not purpose to allow myself to be bulldozed by an infant seven hours and ten minutes old. As a matter of fact, I was helpless and consented, Eulalie shaking the stairs during her cautious, down-ward progress. It was with some of the feelings of an apprentice in the art of lion-taming that I entered the room. Would the proceeding be tranquil and dignified, or accompanied by roars? I sat down upon the rocker just vacated by Eulalie and gazed on the horsehair sofa as if the package resting on it were explosive, with a fuse alight. I had feared that it would be thrust upon my lap, but it is likely that my competency had been justifiably suspected. I dared not move the chair, fearing to make a noise, and could see nothing of the white arms or the Murillo face. Suddenly, an orgy of steam-whistling began, rousing my apprehensions while recalling workers to their factories. It proved but a false alarm and stillness prevailed in the top-floor back, for at least three minutes, when the dreaded wail arose. "Please, Eulalie," came a husky, low voice. "Give me my baby." It was then that my already damp brow began to stream. She wanted her baby and wouldn't be happy till she got it. My duty, I realized, was to go to the sofa and pick up the animated and noisy parcel. It would then have to be conveyed to the bed! Nervously, I prepared to obey. "Eulalie has gone out for a few minutes," I explained, in the subdued tones I deemed suitable to a sickroom. "Here--here is the bundle. I think it wriggles." "Thank you ever so much and--and please turn him the other way--yes, those are the feet. And would you pull up the shade a little bit, I think I would have more air." I raised the thing, letting in a flood of light, and feasted my eyes in utter liberty. Poor child, she must have a cold, for she suffers from hoarseness. She paid little more heed to me than did the ancient Roman ladies to the slaves they refused to recognize as men. I realized my small importance when she tenderly pushed aside the little folds and revealed diminutive features over which she sighed, contentedly, while I drew my chair a little nearer to the bed. Since a Murillo was on free exhibition, I might as well gaze upon it and admire. That faint little wailing had stopped at once. "Don't you think he is ever so good and well-behaved?" she asked me, after a while. I assented, forbearing to tell her that his existence had not yet been sufficiently long to prove him entirely free from all taint of original sin. "It's such a comfort," she assured me. Already, by the saintly grace of a mother's heart, she was endowing her offspring with all the virtues. The wondrous optics of motherhood revealed beauty, wisdom, good intent, the promise of great things to come, all concentrated in this tabloid form of man. So mote it be! The tiny head rested on her outstretched rounded arm and she closed her eyes once more. The plentiful chestnut hair had been braided tight and pinned at the top of her head. "I wish Gordon McGrath could see her," I told myself. "No, Frieda wouldn't do the picture justice. She would seek to improve on Nature's handiwork; she would etherealize it, make it so dainty that it would become poetry instead of the beautiful plain language the universal mother sometimes speaks. Gordon would paint something that lived and breathed. He would draw real flesh and blood, recognizing that truth unadorned is often very splendid." At this time I bethought myself of the baby's father. The man was over there, taking his part in the greatest tragedy ever enacted. At this very moment, perhaps, he was engaged in destroying life and knew nothing of this little son. I pitied him. Ye Gods! But for the strength and insolence of some of the mighty ones of this earth he would have been in this room, and I should have been quietly engaged in consuming poached eggs. He would have been appeasing the hunger of his eyes and the longing of his soul with the sight of the picture now before me, in the solemn happiness that must surely come to a man at such a time. A feeling of chilliness came over me as I inopportunely remembered an interview I had some months ago with a fellow called Hawkins. I was in his office downtown when the telephone rang, and he took down the receiver. "A son," he called back. "Good enough! I was afraid it might be another girl!" Then he dictated a short letter to his stenographer and calmly picked up his hat. "Come along, Cole," he said. "They tell me I have a boy. Let's go out and have a highball." Knowing Hawkins as I do, I am certain he would have had the drink anyway. This new-born offspring of his merely served him as a peg whereon to hang the responsibility for his tipple. The great and wonderful news really affected him little. But why was I thinking of such monsters? The father of this little baby, I am sure, must be a decent and normal man. He would have come in, hatless and breathless, and thrown himself upon his knees to worship and adore. The very first clumsy touch upon the tiny cheek would have sent a thrill through him, and tears would have welled up in his eyes! Such were my thoughts when I remembered that, as a delver in fiction, it was probably becoming my second nature to exaggerate a little. To me, after all, a recent father was perhaps like the mule whose story had brought the check. My notions in regard to them were of pure imagination, and I only knew them as potentially picturesque ingredients of literary concoctions. Yet, on further reflection, I conceded to myself the right to imagine newly made fathers as I saw fit. Millions of them are produced every year and among them must be some counterparts of my special conception of the type. I was thus comforting myself when I heard a familiar wheezy breathing on the stairs. It was Frieda, who presently irrupted into the room. "David," she commanded, "you go right out and have something to eat. I'm sure you are starving. I will stay here till that woman comes back. I left her at the corner, carrying a fowl to her sister's, and she told me I would find you here." She deposited voluminous parcels on the sofa, handled the infant with absolute confidence in her ability, and waved me out of the room. Some men are born meek and lowly, while others become monarchs and janitors; my place was to obey, after I had caught the smile suddenly come to the Murillo-woman's pale features. Frieda, I know, sees more affectionate grins than any one in Greater New York. Her presence suffices to make them sprout and grow. Mrs. Dupont had also smiled at me, true enough, but I think it was but a ray of sunshine really intended for the baby, and I had found myself in the same general direction and intercepted a trivial beam of it. Downstairs, Mrs. Milliken met me with a frown, but her features relaxed when I handed her my week's rental and board, which I seldom partake of. Seeing her in such a happy disposition, I hastened to the door. "I'm going upstairs to take a look at it," she announced gloomily. I thanked Providence that Frieda was on guard and felt that I had no cause for worry. The landlady, after all, is undeniably a woman and I believe she is the erstwhile mother of several. Her asperity must surely be smoothed down by the sight of the baby's face. As I put my hand upon the door, the old lady appeared. "How is that baby?" she shouted, putting a hard-rubber contrivance to her ear. "Doing splendidly and endowed with all the virtues," I clamored in the instrument. "I'd give him sugared water for it," she responded severely. I rushed out. Dr. Porter had strictly forbidden the stuff, calling it a fount of potential colic. I must say that I felt a sneaking sympathy with the old lady's view. Why refuse a bit of sweetness to a tiny infant, perhaps destined to taste little of it in afterlife? But, fortunately, the realization of my ineptitude came uppermost. That silly, romantic tendency of mine was leading me to think more of future privations than immediate pains in a diminutive stomach. I wondered whether I should ever become a practical member of society. The doctor's orders must and shall be obeyed, or my name is not David Cole! CHAPTER IV THE BOLT "And by the way," asked Gordon, a few days later, "how's Frieda getting along?" "Very well," I answered. "I think she's painting nymphs and angels, as usual." "Angels, eh? The natural history of such fowl is interesting." I had met him in the middle of Bryant Park as I was on the way to the Public Library to look up information in regard to feminine garb of the Revolutionary period. It appeared that he was returning from an interview with a Fifth Avenue picture dealer. At once we sought a bench and found seats between a doubtfully-clean young gentleman, reading the sporting page of a dilapidated paper, and an old lady, with rheumy eyes, who watched a ragged urchin. I nodded, much interested, and he pursued the subject. "You may have noticed that the very first angels all belonged to the masculine persuasion and you are, perhaps, also aware that it was rather late in the world's growth before women were accorded the possession of a soul. Hence, at the time, there could be no female angels, either worthy or evil. To-day, we have changed all that, as Molière said. In order to flatter the feminine taste people began to talk of little boy angels, because women think more of boy babies than of girl ones. The time arrived when men forgot about the women, the dogs and the walnut trees and, instead of taking a club to the ladies, they began to write sonnets to them. It is evident that no one can rhyme words without everlastingly trying to gild the lily. To call a spade a spade, or a woman a woman, became scant courtesy, and, hence, the poets devised female angels. The painters and sculptors naturally pounced upon them, for their decorative effect, and the she-angel took a firmly-established place in art and fiction. Let me see, I think you said that your Murillo lady describes her little sprout as an angel. This merely shows her to be a normal creature of her sex." "You are entirely wrong, if by normal you mean just average," I retorted reproachfully. "Frieda declares that she is the most beautiful thing she ever saw." "Frieda is a waddling and inspired goose, whose goslings are all swans," he asserted disrespectfully. "Through her unbecoming goggles humanity assumes pink and mauve colors instead of remaining drab. It may be good for Frieda and enables her to turn out some very attractive stuff, but it isn't the real thing. Well, I'll have to run away! Couple of fellows waiting to drive me over to Long Beach. By-by!" He was gone with his usual startling suddenness, and I went off to the library, pondering. When Gordon is talking to me, I can hardly help believing him. Indeed, if the man had been a life insurance agent he would have made a fortune. At first, one feels absolutely compelled to accept all his statements, and it is only after he departs that I begin to wonder whether some flaws can't be picked in his arguments. I occasionally discover a few, I am quite sure. Humanity is no more drab than the flowers of the field, except in terms of the million. There is but slight beauty in violets by the ton, as I have seen them in Southern France, brought in cartloads to the perfume factories. They become but a strongly-scented mass of color. I desire to pick mine as I wander afield, one at a time, and admire the petals, while making myself believe that they grew for my pleasure. Gordon would scoff at the idea and declare it an accidental meeting, but what does he know of the forces that may direct our footsteps? There is comfort in the Mohammedan belief that everything is written before-hand. The particular book I wanted was being read by a snuffy old gentleman, seated at the long table in the Department of History. I wondered why he should be interested in the frocks and flounces of a past century, and asked for a volume on Charles the Great, a ponderous tome I carried reverently to the big oaken table. It was exceedingly warm, and flies were buzzing drowsily. A big handsome girl was extracting wisdom from a dusty folio and taking notes on sheets of yellow paper. I remember that her face was finely colored and her lashes long. Three chairs away, on the opposite side, a little deformed man looked up from his book, stealthily, and glanced at her. She never saw him, I am very certain, nor was she ever conscious of the deep-set and suffering eyes that feasted on her beauty. To him she could be no more than a splendid dream, something as far from his reach as the Koh-i-noor might be from mine. But I wondered whether such visions may not be predestined parts of life, making for happiness and charm. The young women at Mrs. Milliken's, who sell candy, will hand you out material sugar-plums, yet even those have but an evanescent flavor and become only memories. Frieda has returned my twenty-dollar bill, which I stuffed in my pocket. "One has to be very careful about such things," she told me. "Neither of us would offend the poor thing for any consideration. I have found out that she has a little money, but it cannot be very much because she was very anxious about the doctor's fee and how much Eulalie would charge. But I didn't think it best to proffer any help just now, saving such as we can render by making her feel that she has a friend or two in the world. Isn't it hot?" I assured her that it was and said I was very glad that Mrs. Dupont was not quite destitute. By this time the baby was a week old and most reasonably silent. Mrs. Milliken felt reassured, and the two young women who sold candy had come up, one evening, to admire the infant. From the goodness of their hearts they had brought an offering of gummy sweets, which I subsequently confiscated and bestowed upon Eulalie for her sister's children, who, she assures me, are to be envied in the possession of iron stomachs. The commercial young men have instinctively slammed their doors less violently, and the deaf old lady, precluded by age from ascending to top floors, sent up a pair of microscopic blue and white socks and a receipt for the fashioning of junket, which, I understand, is an edible substance. "Tell you what!" exclaimed Frieda. "You might take me to Camus this evening. Dutch treat, you know. I insist on it. I'm tired to-day and don't want to wrestle with my gas-stove. Besides, I want to talk to you about Kid Sullivan." "I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with the youthful Hibernian," I said. "Is it another baby that you take a vicarious interest in?" "No, he would have been the lightweight champion, but for his losing a fight, quite accidentally," she explained. "He told me exactly how it happened, but I don't remember. At any rate, it was the greatest pity." "My dear Frieda," I told her, "no one admires more than I a true democracy of acquaintance and catholicity of friendship, but don't you think that consorting with prizefighters is a little out of your line?" "Don't talk nonsense," she said, in her decided way. "I just had to get a model for Orion, and he's my janitress's brother. The most beautiful lad you ever saw. He already has a wife and two little children, and his shoulders are a dream!" "So far," I told her, "I have fought shy of the squared circle in my literary studies and know little about it. But I surmise that, if your Orion continues his occupation, he is likely to lose some of his good looks. Be sure and paint his face first, Frieda, while the painting is still good, and before his nose is pushed askew and he becomes adorned with cauliflower ears." "I know nothing of such things," she answered, "and he's a delight to paint." "But for that perfectly accidental defeat, the man would have refused to appear as a demigod," I asserted. "A champion would think himself too far above such an individual." "That's neither here nor there," she asserted, impatiently. "When I try to talk, you're always wandering off into all sorts of devious paths. What I wanted to say was that, if any of your acquaintances happen to require a very competent truck-driver, the Kid is out of a job. Of course I can't afford to pay him much. He poses for me to oblige his sister." "The youth appears to have several strings to his bow," I remarked, wondering why Frieda should ever think I could possibly know people in need of truck-drivers. But then, she never leaves a stone unturned, when she seeks to help more or less deserving people. In my honor she put on her most terrific hat, and we went arm in arm to Camus, where she revelled in olives and radishes and conscientiously went through the bill of fare. "Do you know, Frieda, I am thanking goodness for the advent of that baby," I told her. "It has permitted me to enjoy more of your company than I have for months and months. Every minute I can feel that you are growing nearer and dearer to me." She showed her fine teeth, laughing heartily. She delights in having violent love made to her by some one who doesn't mean it. To her it constitutes, apparently, an excruciatingly funny joke. Also to me, when I consider her hat, but, when she is bareheaded, I am more serious, for, then, she often looks like a real woman, possessing in her heart the golden casket wherein are locked the winged passions. _Quien sabe?_ She is, perhaps, fortunate in that filmy goddesses and ethereal youths have so filled her thoughts that a mere man, to her, is only the gross covering of something spiritual that has sufficed for her needs. Poor, dear, fat Frieda! A big gold and crimson love bursting out from beneath the varnish covering her hazy pigments would probably appal and frighten her. "Will you have some of the _sole au vin blanc_?" she asked, bringing me down to earth again. I thanked her and accepted, admiring the witchery whereby the Widow Camus can take a vulgar flounder and, with magic passes, translate it into a fair imitation of a more heavenly fish. One nice thing about Frieda is that she never appears to think it incumbent upon her companion to devote every second of his attention to her. If I chance to see a tip-tilted nose, which would serve nicely in the description of some story-girl, and wish to study it carefully and, I hope, unobtrusively, she is willing to let her own eyes wander about and enjoy herself, until I turn to her again. I was observing the details of a very fetching and merry little countenance, when a girl rose from an adjoining table and came up to Frieda. "I happened to turn my head and see you," she exclaimed. "So I just had to come over and say howdy. I'm so glad to see you. I have my cousin from Mackville with me and am showing him the town." She was a dainty thing, modestly clad, crowned with fluffy auburn, and with a face pigmented with the most genuine of cream and peaches. Frieda presented me, and she smiled, graciously, saying a few bright nothings about the heat, after which she rejoined her companion, a rather tall and gawky youth. "She posed for me as Niobe two years ago," said my friend. "At present, she teaches physical culture." "What!" I exclaimed, "that wisp of a girl." "Yes, I don't know how many pounds she can lift; ever so many. She's a perfect darling and looks after an old mother, who still deplores Mackville Four Corners. Her cousin is in safe hands." I took another look at the six-footer with her, who smoked a cigarette with evident unfamiliarity. "Would," I said, "that every youth, confronted by the perils of New York for the first time, might be guided in such security. She is showing him the revelry of Camus and has proved to him that a slightly Bohemian atmosphere is not incompatible with personal cleanliness and a soul kept white. It will broaden his horizon. Then she will take him home at a respectable hour, after having demonstrated to him the important fact that pleasure, edible viands and a cheerful atmosphere may be procured here out of a two-dollar bill, leaving a little change for carfare." "If I were a man," said Frieda, "I should fall in love with her." "If you were a man, my dear, you would fall in love a dozen times a day." "Gordon McGrath says it's the only safe way," she retorted. "Don't be quoting him to me," I advised her. "To him it is a mere egotistic formula. Like yourself, he has always been afraid to descend from generalities. I don't like the trait in him, whereas, in you, I admire it, because, with you, it is the mere following of a tendency to wholesale affection for your fellow-beings. Yet it is a slightly curious and abnormal condition." "Like having to wear spectacles," she helped me out. "Just so, whereas in Gordon it is simply the result of a deliberate policy, a line of conduct prepared in advance, like a chess-opening. Some day, in that game of his, a little pawn may move in an unexpected way, and he will be hoist with his own petard." "I hope so," she answered cheerfully. "It will probably be very good for him." "But it might also break his heart," I suggested. "Don't get gloomy," Frieda advised me. "What about yourself? Here you are abusing your friends because they fight shy of the archer godling. I should like to know what you have done to show any superiority." "Well, if my memory serves me right, I have proposed to you, once or twice." "O dear no! You may have meant to, perhaps, but never really got to the point," she answered, laughing. "I haven't the slightest doubt that once or twice you came to my flat all prepared for the sacrifice. But, suddenly, you doubtless became interested in some other trifling matter. Give me three lumps of sugar in my coffee, and don't let them splash down. This is my best gown." We left Camus and returned together to Mrs. Milliken's. Frieda had a curious notion to the effect that, as she hadn't seen the baby since several hours, something very fatal might happen to it, if she failed to run in again. My landlady and her ancient male relative were sitting on the steps, fanning themselves and discussing the price of coal. By this time, the woman ate right out of Frieda's hand, although the latter does not seem to be aware that she has accomplished the apparently impossible. The old night-watchman informed us that he was enjoying a week's holiday from the bank. He was spending it, cheerfully, dividing his leisure between the front steps and the backyard. He also told us of a vague and ambitious project simmering in his mind. He was actually planning to go all the way to Flatbush and see a niece of his. For several years he had contemplated this trip, which, he apprised us, would take at least an hour each way. I bade him good courage, and we went upstairs. While Frieda went into Mrs. Dupont's room, I turned on the gas in mine and sat before my window, with my feet on the ledge, smoking my calabash. "Has Monsieur looked upon his bed?" Eulalie startled me by asking suddenly. Now, in order to respond with decent civility, I was compelled to remove my feet from their resting place, to take the pipe from my mouth and turn in my chair. Women can sometimes be considerable nuisances. "No," I answered, "I have not looked upon the bed. Why should I? A bed is the last resource of the weary and afflicted, it is one of the things one may be compelled to submit to without becoming reconciled to it. I take good care never to look at it so long as I can hold a book in my hand or watch passers-by in the street." "Very well, Monsieur," she answered placidly. "It is all there, and I have darned the holes in the socks." This was highly interesting and I hastily rose to inspect her handiwork. She had placed my washing on the coverlet and the result looked like an improvement on Celestial efforts. I took up the topmost pair of socks and gazed upon it, while a soft and chastened feeling stole over me. "Thank you, Eulalie," I said, with some emotion. "It is exceedingly nice; I am glad you called my attention to it. In the future I shall be obliged, if you will stuff it in the chiffonier. Had I first seen all this on going to bed, I am afraid I should have pitched it on the floor, as usual, and been sorry for it next morning." She smilingly complied at once with my request and withdrew, bidding me a good night, while I sat again, feeling great contentment. I had now discovered that a man, if lucky, might have his socks darned without being compelled to take a wife unto himself, with all the uncomfortable appurtenances thereof. It was a new and cheering revelation. No sooner had I begun to cogitate over the exquisiteness of my fate than I was disturbed again, however. Frieda partly obeyed conventionality by knocking upon my open door and walking in. "Frances Dupont wants me to thank you ever so much for the pretty roses, David," she told me. "It was really very kind of you to bring them. I have snipped the stems and changed the water and put them on the window sill for the night." "Yes," I explained, "I had to change that twenty-dollar bill, and there was a hungry-looking man at the corner of Fourteenth Street, who offered them to me for a quarter. So we had to go over to the cigar store to get the note broken up into elementals. The fellow really looked as if he needed money a great deal more than roses, so I gave him a dollar." "But then why didn't you take a dollar's worth of flowers?" asked Frieda, high-priestess of the poetic brush, who is a practical woman, if ever there was one. "Never thought of it," I acknowledged; "besides, he had only three bunches left." "And so you didn't want to clean out his stock in trade. Never mind, Dave, it was very sweet of you." She hurried away, and, finally, I heard the front door closing, after which I made a clean copy of that dog story, flattering myself that it had turned out rather neatly. It was finished at two o'clock, and I went to bed. The next morning was a Sunday. I dawdled at length over my dressing and sallied forth at eleven, after Mrs. Milliken had knocked at my door twice to know if she could make the room. If I were an Edison, I should invent an automatic room-making and womanless contrivance. These great men, after all, do little that is truly useful and practical. My neighbor's door was open. I coughed somewhat emphatically, after which I discreetly knocked upon the doorframe. "Come in, Mr. Cole," said a cheery, but slightly husky, voice. "Come in and look at the darling." "That was my purpose, Madame Dupont," I said most veraciously. "Eulalie has gone out again," I was informed, after the infant had been duly exhibited, as it slept with its two fists tightly closed. "She has gone for a box of Graham crackers and the Sunday paper." I smiled, civilly, and opined that the day's heat would not be so oppressing. "Don't you want to sit down for a moment?" she asked me. I was about to obey, when I heard the elephantine step of the washerwoman's sister, who entered, bearing her parcels and the _Courrier des Etats Unis_. "Excuse me for just a second," said the husky little voice. I bowed and looked out of the window, upon yards where I caught the cheery note of a blooming wisteria. Suddenly, there came a cry. The bedsprings creaked as the young woman, who had raised herself upon one elbow, fell back inertly. "_Oh, mon Dieu!_" bellowed Eulalie, open-mouthed and with helpless arms hanging down. I rushed to the bed, with some vague idea of bringing first aid. In the poor little jar of roses I dipped my handkerchief and passed it over Mrs. Dupont's brow, scared more than half to death. Presently, she seemed to revive a little. She breathed and sighed, and then came a flood of tears. She stared at me with great, deep, frightened eyes, and with a finger pointed to a column of the paper. I took it from her and held it out at a convenient distance from my eyes, about two feet away. There was a printed list referring to reservists gone from New York. For many weeks, doubtless, she had scanned it, fearing, hopeful, with quick-beating heart that was only stilled when she failed to find that which she tremblingly sought. I caught the name, among other announcements of men fallen at the front. --Paul Dupont-- I also looked at her, open-mouthed, stupidly. She stared again at me, as if I could have reassured her, sworn that it was a mistake, told her not to believe her eyes. Then, she rose again on her elbow and turned to the slumbering mite at her side, but, although the salty drops of her anguish fell on the baby's face, he continued to sleep on. CHAPTER V GORDON HELPS The passing of the next week or two can only be referred to in a few words, for how can a man gauge the distress of a soul, measure the intensity of its pangs, weight the heavy burden of sorrow? That good little Dr. Porter came in very often. Most tactfully he pretended that his visits were chiefly to me, and would merely drop into the other room on his way out of mine; at any rate the smallness of the bill he rendered long afterwards made me surmise that this was the case. In the meanwhile, the weather remained very warm and the doors were often left open. I went into the room quite frequently. Eulalie is the salt of the earth, but she still has a little of the roughness of the unground crystal so that, for conversational purposes, Frances Dupont perhaps found my presence more congenial. Her faithful, but temporary, retainer was always there, exuding an atmosphere of robust health and lending propriety to my visits. She was generally darning socks. The hungry one snatches at any morsel presented to him, while those who are dying of thirst pay little heed to the turbidity of pools they may chance upon. The poor Murillo-girl, perforce, had to be content with such friendship and care as her two new friends could give her. Frieda always came in once a day, but she was tremendously busy with her Orion. Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses of comfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies in efficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take. From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude, and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. I believe that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited the infant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that he smiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blow had been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to grow shorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought a little consolation. I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatly made up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. I insisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair, knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to my consternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she did not want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyes were a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that it gave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter of confidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp and woof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads and heart-strings sorely strained. She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing in Providence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel of great price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad, the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over. There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointments and rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher had begun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other young women had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge of merit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, Paul Dupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize of the _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man. There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sung Gounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was then that, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to the vibrant notes the man could cause to weep and cry out in hope, her song had sounded like a solemn pæan of victorious achievement. Critics had written of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution. And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, and she had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cry out the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftness of a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends present to witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness. Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espouse a Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never show her face in Providence again! But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosy and bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to Aunt Lucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might be looked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautiful songs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together. Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to America and give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought she was getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a little husky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest would certainly make everything all right. But in New York she had been compelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, with hosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to take and charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growing huskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagement had been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be better by and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everything went on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a most marvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been very happy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul had taken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She would follow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would wait for him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people, cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They had been ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them several times, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that the small village in which they lived had been razed to the ground. It was over there on the other side of the Marne. And now it was ever so long since she had received any word from Paul, and they had saved very little, because money came so easily, and--and now Paul was dead and she couldn't sing! Frieda was in the room with me when the tale was told. She rushed out, and I found her, a few minutes later, in my room, her nose swollen and her eyes devastated by weeping. But she used my wash-basin and towels for plentiful ablutions and returned to the room where I left her alone with Frances Dupont, realizing the futility of a man in such circumstances. At the end of another week our stout angel burst again into my room. Eulalie had been discharged, with mutual regrets, and little Paul was growing apace. Three and a half ounces in seven days! "Dave! We've got to find something for Frances to do! In a very short time she will not have a penny left. Go to work at once and, in the meanwhile, I'll do my best also. Yes, I know perfectly well that the two of us will see that she doesn't suffer, but she doesn't want charity; she wants work!" She was off again, and I knew that she would at once inquire of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker in regard to positions suited to a young woman with a Murillo-face and a baby. I put on my hat and went at once to Gordon's studio, facing Central Park. I was lucky enough to find him in. "Sit down and don't bother me," he said pleasantly. "I must use up the last of this light." Before him stood an easel with a wonderful portrait of a young woman endowed with splendid neck and arms. He was working at some detail of the gown, which the lady had evidently sent over for him, since the garment was disposed about a large mannikin with a vacuous face. I watched delightedly the sure touches with which he reproduced the sheen of the silk. Gordon doesn't want to talk while he paints, pretending that in order to do his best work a man must bend all his energies to it, whether he is sawing wood or writing elegies. "People wouldn't begin chatting to a fellow while he played Chopin," he told me one day. "What right have they to disturb the harmonies in a man's mind when he's creating melodies in color? Hang their impertinence!" I presume, however, that painting a silk dress was somewhat mechanical work to him, for, after some minutes of silent toil, during which he only stepped back once to survey his work, he began to speak. Like many other people, he has not the slightest objection to the infringing of his own rules. It only behooves others to obey them. "That's Miss Sophia Van Rossum," he told me, taking his short pipe out of his mouth and putting it down on his stool. "She's been coming in from Southampton three times a week, to pose. Drives her own car, you know, and has been arrested a dozen times for speeding. So I finished the face and hands first, and now I'm sticking in the dress. Don't need her for that." "Very rich people, are they not?" I asked. "You bet. Zinc and lead, I believe; the old man made it in. Fine buxom creature, isn't she? And mighty good hearted in her way. She hasn't much more brains than a linnet, I think, and she swims and rows and shoots. Golf and tennis, too. Found her rather hard to paint, because it's difficult for her to keep still. Keeps on asking indignantly why I put blue on her nose, and reaching out for the box of chocolates. I told her last time I couldn't paint her with one cheek all bulged out with _pralinés_. It made her laugh, and I lost fifteen minutes before I could quiet her down." He worked hard for another ten minutes, during which I considered that he was rather severe on the young lady, or else had idealized her, which is not a habit of his. To me she looks kindly and not a bit unintelligent, a rather fine specimen of the robustious modern young woman. Gordon picked up his brushes. "That'll do," he said. "The light is changing. Now what the devil do you want? Awfully glad to see you." My friend is a good listener. I told him about Frances Dupont, giving him a brief account of her story and explaining that Frieda and I wanted to find something for her to do. "Of course," I finally said, "I suppose that you are going away very soon to spend the rest of this hot summer in the country. Otherwise, I would have asked if you couldn't make use of her for a model, at least till we can find something else." "I'm not going away yet," he answered, "and I emphatically cannot employ her, or, at any rate, I won't, which comes to the same thing. Hitherto I have kept my serenity of mind unimpaired by the simple process of fighting shy of females in distress. There are lots of models who can be depended on to keep their mouths shut and not bother a fellow. My interest is in my picture and nothing else, and I refuse to have it diverted by the economical problems of ladies on their uppers. If you want a check, I'll give it to you for her, not on her account, but because you're the best, old, weak-minded idiot in this burg and I'm glad to help you out, however silly your quixotic ideas may be. Wait a minute, I'll write one out for you." "No," I answered, "I've just sold two stories and got some advance royalty on my novel. I'd come and ask you for money, if I needed it, urgently. I might have to, some day. But this poor thing's worrying herself to death and that's what I want to remedy at once, if possible. A little occupation would give her something else to think about. If I tell her that she will have to pose in silence, that it's a part of the work she's engaged for, she won't say a word. She's an intelligent woman." "Why doesn't Frieda employ her?" he asked. "Because she's no slender, ethereal sprite. Doesn't have anything of the woodland nymph about her, that's why. Besides, Frieda's doing an Orion with a covey of Pleiades scattering before him, at present." "I have nothing for the Winter Academy, just now," said Gordon, appearing to relent a little. "Strangely enough, Miss Van Rossum doesn't care to have her portrait exhibited. If I really found a remarkable type, I'd like to do a mother and child. If you really think this Mrs. Dupont will keep still and is willing to earn a few weeks of bread and cheese by the silence of her tongue and some ability to sit quietly in a chair without getting the fidgets, I shouldn't mind trying her. But, of course, she'd have to come up to specifications. I'll have to look at her first. Have you spoken to her about it?" "Not a word," I answered, "I didn't want to see her disappointed." "Of course, it's a foolish thing to do," he said, "but you're so anxious about it that I'll see whether it can be managed. She's just heard of her husband's death, has she? Well, she won't be thinking of other men for a while and won't expect to be made love to. Take up your hat, and we'll go over to that nursery of yours. I'll look her over." If I hadn't known him so well, I should have been provoked at his speaking as if the woman had been some second-hand terrier I wanted to dispose of. We took the elevator and were shot down to the ground floor. "Mind you," he warned me, "it's ten to one that I'll discover something that will make this errand useless. The mere fact of a woman's having a broken-down voice and a baby doesn't necessarily qualify her to pose as a mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her with good looks that exist only in your imagination." To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented to investigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes later we were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoological boarding-house. On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turned to me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of his sarcastic grins. "Who's that playing your piano?" he asked. "I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's very much alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing and walked in, not knowing that I should return so soon." "Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if a policeman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear old boy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you old Bactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamite in New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit the laying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were I the world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way. They're dangerous things." Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural to one who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simple language, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer; also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs. I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending the remaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thing with recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; I think it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, and she ceased at once, startled and coloring a little. "I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I told her. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhaps once in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; she wasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is a great painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda." This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend of Frieda's must be very welcome to her. "Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't you oblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act and deserve the penalty of being humbly begged to play that over again." She looked at me, uncertainly. "It would give me ever so much pleasure," I assured her. At once she sat again and touched the keys. I know so little of music that my opinions in regard to it are utterly worthless, but I knew at once that she was no marvelous pianist. No, she was only a woman with a soul for harmony, which found soft and tender expression on my mother's old Steinway. Gordon, I noted, sat down in my worst chair, with an elbow on his knee, his chin resting on the closed knuckles. It was evident that he was watching her, studying her every motion, the faint swaying of her shapely head, the wandering of her hands over the keyboard. Once, she stopped very suddenly and listened. [Illustration: No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.] "I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought it was Baby." She went on, reassured, to an ending that came very soon. It left in me a desire for more, but I could not ask her to continue. She had brought a tiny bit of herself into the room, but she belonged body and soul to the mite in the other. "I am ever so much obliged to you," I said, as she rose. "Madame," said Gordon, "it was indeed a treat." "I am very glad you liked it," she said very simply, "and--and now I must go back." She smiled, faintly, and inclined her head. We had both risen and thanked her again. She passed out of the room and, once she had regained her own, I heard her faint, husky voice. "It's mother's own wee lamb!" it said. Gordon picked up one of my cigarettes, looked at it, put it down, and took one of his own from his case. Then, he went and stood in front of my open window, looking out, with his hands stuffed deeply in his trousers pockets. I maintained a discreet silence. "Come over here," he ordered, brusquely, as is often his way, and I complied, holding on to my calabash and filling it from my pouch. "Dave," he said, very low, that his voice might not carry through the open doors into the next room. "Those powder-wagons aren't in it. When the dynamite happens to blow up some Dago, it's a mere accident; the stuff itself is intended for permissible purposes. A woman like that is bound to play havoc with some one, and I'm afraid you're the poor old idiot marked by fate. You're as weak as a decrepit cat. I can see the whole programme; sympathy at first and the desire to console, all mixed up with the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o' Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in some decent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!" "Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe. "All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes. And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal telling you that the coast is clear." "I know nothing about fishing," I answered. "Then go and learn." "You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him. "I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if she takes to posing, properly." I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot. "Come in with me," I told him. "Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face." I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window with the baby in her arms. "Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you. It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By the way, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so they can't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep very still. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work." The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up to it and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had been revealed. "A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I--I don't know----" Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone. "It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be a picture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when we came in. Of course, if you don't care to----" "Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and--and grateful," she answered, very low. "I will do my best to please you." "Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten." "Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered. "Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish I could dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment to meet some people at Claremont. Good-by." He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone. "Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimes rather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right." "Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff, but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done." "Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered. "Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully. "You're the best and kindest of friends." With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordon wouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement of all his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble with being so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism. CHAPTER VI A BIT OF SUNSHINE The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellent and far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriously sustained a thesis upon "_De Omne Scibile_." Now we have to confess that human knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, is altogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all. The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at an encyclopedia always fill me with humility. Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and, foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, and then at me, with a rather pitiful air. "I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But this black one might do, if----" This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my own limitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by the garment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who was talented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This one looked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityingly informed that some things were to be added and others removed, before it could possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, were either too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and the skirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or, possibly, too wide. Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed the matter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the East River. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directing her attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received a confident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with an ample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, and pulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the result of their excursion. "How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam of triumph. "I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to put it on," I told her. My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from many angles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudly informed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eight seventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Street before they had unearthed it. "It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't much choice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits her remarkably well." "It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may be glad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and are to bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait. I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is rather doubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a risky departure from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such as it is." "Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it will sell just like the others." "I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by going over to Camus for dinner?" "Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont. "In--in the first place it is much too soon--after--and then you know I haven't a thing to wear." "In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Frieda firmly, "and, in the second, you have a hat anyway, and I'm going to fix that black dress a little. Just a dozen stitches and some pins. Come into your room with me." She dragged her out of the room, and I was left to wonder how that complicating baby would be disposed of. I had begun to think the infant sometimes recognized me. When I touched one of his little hands with my finger, he really appeared to respond with some manifestations of pleasure; at least it never seemed to terrify or dismay him. His mother was confident that he liked it. Perhaps an hour later they came out, and I looked at Frances in some surprise. I gained the impression that she was taller and more slender than I had thought. "You give me that baby," commanded Frieda. "I want you to save your strength, my dear. I should make David carry it, but he would drop it or hold it upside down. Come along, my precious, we're going out to walk a by-by." Master Paul seemed to make no objection. I call it a dreadful shame that Frieda never married and had a half a dozen of her own. She's the most motherly old maid in the world, and infants take to her with absolute enthusiasm. I followed them, somewhat doubtfully, wondering what figure Master Paul would cut at Camus. I knew that they allowed little dogs and there was a big tortoise-shell cat that wandered under the chairs and sometimes scratched your knee for a bit of fish, but I had never seen any young babies in the widow's establishment. This one might be deemed revolutionary or iconoclastic. Should we be met by uplifted and deprecating palms and informed with profuse apologies that the rules of the house did not favor the admission of such youthful guests? In a few minutes my doubts were set at rest, for we walked off to the hive inhabited by the washerwoman. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Dupont kissed her baby, as if she were seeing it for the last time. Then Frieda hastened upstairs with it and came down, two minutes later, blowing like a porpoise. "He'll be perfectly safe," she declared. "Madame Boivin says he is an angel, and Eulalie was there. She said he would sleep straight on end for two hours. I told her we should be back before--I mean in good time. Now come along!" I could see that the young mother only half approved of the scheme originated in Frieda's fertile brain. Two or three times she looked back as if minded to return at once and snatch up her baby, never to leave it again. "My dear," said Frieda, "don't be getting nervous. Nothing can possibly happen, and you know how very careful Eulalie is. Little by little you must get back into the world. How are you going to face it, if it frightens you? Put on a brave, bold front. Here is a chance for you to have a few moments of enjoyment. Seize upon it and don't let go. A dark cellar is no place to pick up courage in, and you must come out of the gloom, child, and live a little with the others so that you may be able to live for Baby Paul. There's a good girl!" Frances opened a little black bag and pulled out a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes once or twice. Then she looked up again. "Oh! Frieda! I ought to be thanking God on my bended knees for sending you to me, and--and Mr. Cole too. Indeed I'll do my best to be brave. It's--it's difficult, sometimes, but I'm going to try, ever so hard." I am afraid that the little smile with which she ended these words was somewhat forced, but I was glad to see it. It was a plucky effort. She was seeking to contend against a current carrying her out to sea and realized that she must struggle to reach the shore in safety. I saw Frieda give her arm a good hug, and the three of us walked to Seventh Avenue, then north a couple of blocks, after which we turned to the right till we came to the electric lights of the Widow Camus's flamboyant sign, that winked a welcome at us. I remember little about the dinner itself, but, after the rather insipid fare at Mrs. Milliken's, I know that Frances enjoyed it. The place did not surprise her, nor the people. During her life in Paris, after her marriage, she had probably been with her husband to some more or less Bohemian resorts, such as are beloved of artists. At first, she choked a little over the radishes and olives, but took her _consommé_ with greater assurance and was quite at her ease before the chicken and salad. With her last leaf of lettuce, however, came over her a look of anxiety, and I pulled out my watch. "Don't be afraid," I told her, "we have only been away from the washerlady for fifty minutes. See yourself, there is no deception." "I am absolutely certain that he is sleeping yet," Frieda assured her, and turned to the perspiring waiter, ordering three Nesselrodes and coffees. Now, when I treat myself to a _table d'hôte_ dinner, I love to linger over my repast, to study the people about me, or at least pretend to. Also, I sip my coffee very slowly and enjoy a Chartreuse, in tiny gulps. Frieda, if anything, is more dilatory than myself. But the dear old girl positively hurried over the little block of ice-cream, and I suspect that she scalded her mouth a trifle with her coffee. A few minutes later we were out in the street again, hurrying towards Madame Boivin's, and I wondered whether such unseemly haste could be compatible with proper digestion. We reached the tenement in a very short time. "Frances is going upstairs with me," announced Frieda. "You had better not wait for us, for we might be detained a little. I'll bring her home, and we shall be perfectly safe. You go right back and smoke your old pipe till we return." "Don't hurry," I told her. "I might as well wait here as anywhere else. It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll stroll home; take your time." So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned against a decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men were assembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, in repeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fat man sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gave me an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs. Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly and assumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as a policeman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewhere west of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but, suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressed to a deep bass by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sins were proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expression that excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man's head appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplating self-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in the street, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armed with an empty beer-pail. With this he faded away in the corner saloon, to come forth again with his peace-offering. With such observations I solaced myself and whiled away the time. Humanity in the rough is to me fully as interesting as the dull stones picked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed, while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of the first water. Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon the railing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with Sadie Briggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me in the way of love and passion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married a blacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family, while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, in shirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviable mortal responsible for no human being's bread and butter but his own. Then Frieda and Frances appeared. The latter held her baby in her arms, surely feeling that it had received enough vicarious attention. "Why, Dave!" exclaimed the former. "I'm awfully sorry you waited so long. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessed angel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, and we just talked about starch and cockroaches and things, and then Paul awoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearly time anyway and--and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleeping again." I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyed himself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lips had not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a _ravigote_ that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. I wished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting now for whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be little of sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow are indispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease. I noticed how well the young mother walked with her burden. It appeared to lend her form added grace and to complete her beauty. On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearly all the lodgers were assembled, taking the cool of the evening. The two girls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old lady looked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been in bed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained a neutral attitude. One of the young men assured Mrs. Dupont that her baby was a corker. "This," said Mrs. Milliken, urbanely waving her hand towards a heavy and florid gentleman, who had kept in the background, "is Mr. O'Flaherty. He owns the garage on the next block and has the second floor back." This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and gave me a crushing grasp. I rejoiced for Mrs. Milliken that she had the room rented, but promised myself to keep my hands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to share the steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the baby down on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you ever so much. Indeed I enjoyed every minute of it." So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feeling that I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont says that my typewriting does not trouble her at all, and I went to work, having thought of a story about a blind man. I wrote a couple of pages and then had to stop and close my eyes. How do blind men really feel, and through what gift from on high does that peculiar smile come, which their faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in the place of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, but he answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I have spoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of course I laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call the other chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one's heart. Then Frieda came in for a moment, to say good night. "It has done the poor child a lot of good," she said. "I am sure she will have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged to you." She went away, ponderously and yet swiftly. The night was becoming cooler and the door opposite was closed. I also shut mine and lit the calabash. It didn't seem so difficult, after all, to write about the blind man. When you think of it, it is possible that the difference between him and ourselves is merely one of degree. A few more days passed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shame that I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paul to keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for having failed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her good luck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problem of keeping body and soul together, poor girl. Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the Erie Basin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fall into it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon some accuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, was condensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word for them, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasing the small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with a gentleman on a canal boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's buttons in a box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to his wife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one that offered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along the tranquil borders of canals, edged with lush grasses and silvery willows. It was ideal! What more could a man require for happiness? When I returned, I was very anxious to interview Frances and ask about her experiences with her first day's posing, but her door was closed. No longer was she a sick woman, one whose bed was the clothing of illness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since I could bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right to intrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimed her again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She was working now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for her child. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. All that I could do now was to hope that, if she chanced to need any aid, she would recognize some little claim upon her friendship by coming to me again, as a bee may return for honey, leaving behind some of the pollen that means life prolonged and other flowers to come. To me such fertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life that was sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger and mayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All this she could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have been like asking for a return of the few half-faded roses I had brought her, or payment for the running of a few errands. So I closed my door also and took up the "Light That Failed" and my calabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading and puffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. I was wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she had found the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinking wearily about having to return there on the morrow? Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. I have not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen as mine, and, of course, she could not have a man's reasons for discretion, knowing that her coming would be hailed with an exclamation of pleasure, or, perhaps, only a sigh of relief. I recognized her weighty steps on the landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again to cogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda can always be relied on. Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den. "Oh! You're in!" she exclaimed. "I asked Frances, and she said you must be away since you would surely have knocked at the door. Of course she wouldn't take the chance of disturbing you, if you had returned." "Well, I didn't want to intrude either," I answered; "she might have been changing--changing her boots for slippers or--or refreshing the baby." "You might have tried to find out." "Yes, that's obvious. I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duty," I replied, duly chastened. Thus it was that the best of intentions had, as usual, gone to the place paved with such things. Yet I was rather pleased than otherwise. I learned that I was firmly enough established in the good graces of these dear women to be permitted to lay aside minor points of etiquette and act according to my first impulses. Since these must always be based on high regard and friendship, I can have little fear that they will ever be misunderstood. CHAPTER VII THE OTHER WOMAN As we were speaking, Frances came to my room and I advanced a chair for her. "Thanks," she said, "I am not at all tired, Mr. Cole." "Yet I beg that you will sit down for a moment," I asked her. "I shall take the piano-stool and you ladies will give me the delightful feeling of receiving a pleasant visit. I shall do my best to entertain two callers charitable enough to penetrate a sere and yellow bachelor's quarters. I shall proceed to make some tea." "Gracious, Dave!" exclaimed Frieda hungrily, "you live in the lap of luxury." "At least your presence here gives me the illusion of it," I answered, pulling out my alcohol lamp and other utensils. There is little excuse for poor tea, unless it be considered as a vulgar flavoring intended to lend a different taste to the water taken from the faucet. A pound of the best lasts me for the greater part of a year, for I take it seldom, and a dollar more than the price of green and fibrous rubbish permits me to offer my friends and delight myself with a cup such as brings joy and an eagerness for a second filling. "Of course, I was a little afraid at first," confessed Frances, as I measured out a spoonful for each of us and one for the greedy pot. "Mr. McGrath was exceedingly civil, however, and briefly explained that for the time being I must consider myself as one of his materials, like a tube of paint or his easel." "That's just like Gordon," I interjected. "Well, it seemed quite right," she went on. "He made me sit down a dozen times, in various ways, and then he'd look at me and move my chin a little, or change the position of my arm. It took him quite a long time and the more he shifted me around, the more he frowned, so that at last I asked him just what he wanted. "'I want you to hold that baby and look at it as if it were the biggest thing on earth, and forget me, and forget that you're posing,' he said, and I asked him to let me try all by myself. So I moved around a bit and held my head differently, and he said that was just what he was looking for. He told me to keep still and went to work at once. In a half an hour he asked me if I didn't want to rest, and I told him I had pins and needles in my legs, and he said I must get up and walk a few times around the studio. A few minutes later I sat down again, and--and that's all, I think." "What did he talk about?" asked Frieda. "He didn't talk; just kept on glaring at me and then staring at his canvas and working away, ever so quickly. At the end of an hour he asked me how it was that the baby kept so quiet, and I told him it was asleep. "'When he wakes up he'll howl, won't he?' he asked me. "'I don't think so. Paul never howls,' I told him, and just then the poor wee thing woke up and began. It was perfectly dreadful! He never cried so loud before. Then Mr. McGrath told me to go into the next room and see if it was pins or hunger and to take my own time. So when I came back he was walking up and down in front of his canvas and paid no attention to me for the longest time. Then he said we might as well go on, and I suppose he worked for another hour. He stopped suddenly and told me I could take off the queer shawl he'd put about my shoulders and run away. He warned me to be on time to-morrow, because he didn't like to wait. After that he took his hat and went away and his Japanese man showed me out, when I was ready." "I told you it wouldn't be so dreadfully hard," said Frieda, "and Gordon, in spite of his queer ways, is a very nice and decent fellow. He paints like an angel, he does, but he's as cold-blooded about his work as a pawnbroker." "I'm glad," said Frances. "It makes it much easier." I poured out the tea and produced a small box of vanilla wafers, which Frieda is ever so fond of. "I wonder Gordon didn't get mad, when Baby Paul began to scream," she said. "My dear," I remarked, "a man generally gets angry only at the unexpected. He had made up his mind that the weather would be squally and would have been rather disappointed if no shower had come. Before I had the pleasure of Master Paul's acquaintance, I mistakenly thought that every interval between waking and feeding, in a baby's life, must be taken up with lusty shrieking. I'm positively frightened and hopeless, sometimes, when I think of how much there is for me to learn. I know I'll never catch up." "You know good tea, for one thing," answered Frieda. "Give me another cup." I complied, and, presently, Frances, at our urging, sat down to the old piano and played something that was very pretty and soft. And then the old desire to sing must have come upon her, suddenly, for her low and husky voice brought forth a few words of a sweet, old French song. This, all at once, must have evoked some of the memories that weighed so heavily upon her heart. Her hands went up to her face and she sobbed. Frieda rose, swiftly and silently, and put her big, able hand upon the girl's shoulder. "I--I can't even sing to my baby!" Frances moaned. What a cry from the heart! All else would have amounted to so little, if she could only have poured out some of the melody in her soul to the poor little mite. She was brave; working for Baby Paul was of small moment; even the loss of the gallant soldier lad who had poured his stream of life for the motherland was not for the moment the paramount source of her distress. No! She could not sing for the diminutive portrait of himself, the man had left behind! As usual, in the presence of a woman's tears, I was mute and incapable of giving comfort. I feared to utter some of the platitudes which cause the sorrowing to revolt against the futility of wordy consolation. Frieda's kindly touch was worth more than all I could have said in a dog's age. Soon, the streaming eyes had been dabbed again to dryness, but the smile I had hoped for did not return. "I--I am sorry I was so weak," said Frances, and ran away to her room, possibly for the powder surely invented by a great benefactor of humanity, since it may serve to obliterate the traces of women's tears and enables them to look at you again, hopefully and with courage renewed. * * * * * After this, three weeks went by. The literary agent upon whose kindly head I pour my short stories announced the sale of my virtuous dog's tale, on the strength of which I took Frieda and Frances to a moving-picture theatre, one Saturday night. The latter's posing for Gordon was always a subject of conversation. The picture, it appeared, was now quite finished, and we were moving heaven and earth in our endeavors to find something wherewith a woman with a young baby might earn a few dollars. Frances spoke little of her experiences at the studio, except to gratify our curiosity. It was always the same thing. Baby was generally ever so good and Mr. McGrath fairly patient with his occasional relapses from slumbering silence. An impression made its way in my mind to the effect that Gordon rather awed his model. She had watched the picture's growth and this process of creation, utterly new to her, seemed to fill her with some sort of amazement. "Tell me just what it is like," I asked her, as we sat on the stoop, waiting for Frieda to turn up. "I suppose it looks like me," she said, doubtfully, "but then, it isn't a portrait, of course. I--I don't think I look just like that. Sometimes he stands in front of me for the longest time and glares, looking more and more disappointed, and all at once he says I've got a Sphynx of a face or a deuce of a mouth, or something just as complimentary. Then he turns to the picture again and changes something, with merely a touch of one of those big brushes, and plasters on another dab of paint and moves off to look at it. After this, he says it's much better, or declares he's spoiled everything, and he lights his pipe and goes to work again. Sometimes he wears the expression of a bulldog worrying a bone, and a minute later he'll be just as nice as nice can be. He's a strange man." "He certainly is," I assented. "At any rate, I am glad that your experience with him, on the whole, has not proved a disagreeable one." "Indeed, sometimes I have rather enjoyed it. Yesterday, I didn't. He began, _à propos_ of nothing, to tell me about one of your books, and said that your idea about a girl called Laura was so silly he had no patience with you, because you had idealized her until it was rather a caricature than a portrait, and you didn't know any more about women than the baby did. So, of course, I got angry at him and he looked at me, with a smile that was half a sneer, and told me to keep on looking just like that. It seems that I had just the expression he wanted to bring out. When you look too long at the baby,' he said, 'you get the likeness of a girl who's been scolded at table and is going to cry into the soup. I thought I'd wake you up!' I was ever so provoked, and he painted right along without minding me in the least. When he was through, he put on his most polite air and told me that all he had said about that Laura was nonsense, and that she was just a fool girl like any other. As for the picture, he said it would make some fellows sit up and take notice. He appeared to be intensely pleased with it and thanked me for being so patient with him." "I am not surprised," I told her. "When our good little friend, Dr. Porter, who is the best-hearted chap you'll meet in a long day's journey, becomes very interested in some dreadful malady and wants to make experiments, I am sure he considers guinea-pigs and rats in the light of mere material. Gordon will not have the slightest compunction about vivisecting a model, if it suits his purpose." "But he can be ever so kind. He very often is," declared Frances. "On the very first day he told me not to allow myself to get overtired, and he's kept on asking me ever since, if I didn't want to take a rest. Sometimes he made me stop, when I could very well have kept on." Frieda appeared, coming around the corner under full steam, and we got in the car and went off to the movies. The services of Eulalie had been obtained, to mind the baby for a couple of hours. She likes to do it, and it gives her an opportunity to go into my room and rummage in my bureau drawers, where she hunts for missing buttons with the eagerness of a terrier looking for rats. When we returned, satiated with picturesque tragedy and second-rate vaudeville, Frances, as usual, flew upstairs, obsessed with the idea that obviously grease-painted and false-whiskered villains such as we had seen on the screen must have penetrated the citadel and stolen her baby. Frieda had left us at the door, and I climbed up in more leisurely fashion, meeting Eulalie on the stairs, loaded with my soiled linen, who bade me good evening, pleasantly. Frances was waiting for me on her door-sill. "Paul is all right. Nothing has happened," she confided to me. "Good night, Mr. Cole, and thank you ever so much." She smiled at me, and I was pleased that I had been able to divert her thoughts for a few moments. How glad I should be if I could render more permanent that little look of happiness she showed for an instant! On my desk I found a message from Gordon, asking me to come to the studio next day, which was a Sunday, for lunch. I kept the appointment, walking all the way up. As I passed Bryant Park, I noticed that the leaves were becoming slightly yellow. It was evident that the summer was giving a hint of impending departure. I reached the big building, just before noon, knowing that I should be somewhat ahead of time, but glad to have a chat with Gordon. "I know you've been dying to see that canvas," he told me. "That young woman's a wonder. A clever and intelligent woman's the one to really understand what a fellow's after and help him out. I really think she took some interest in the thing. If she isn't otherwise occupied when I return from Southampton, I might possibly make use of her for another week or two. And there's Spinelli, the sculptor, who has a commission for a big group of sirens, for a fountain. He was in here and looked at the picture. Asked about her, he did, but I told him I didn't think she'd pose that way." "I should think not," I declared. "You needn't get mad," he retorted. "I've been looking around to see if I could get her something to do. Come in the front room and light your pipe, if you want to. Windows are open. I'm expecting a couple of women in to lunch. Glad you came in early. Yumasa's juggling in the kitchenette; the chap's an artist, when it comes to playing tunes on a chafing-dish. Well, how does it strike you?" The picture stood before me. It was practically finished. I sank down on the cushioned bench that ran beneath the broad window facing the north and stared at the canvas. "Great Heavens, Gordon!" I exclaimed. "It hits right out from the shoulder, doesn't it," he said. "Ever see anything much more alive than this?" "She's going to lift her eyes from the baby," I answered. "She's going to indulge in that little half-timid and half-boastful look of the young mother challenging the whole world to say that her infant isn't perfection in flesh and blood!" Gordon made no answer. He was standing before the canvas, his left arm crossed over his breast with the right elbow resting upon it and the square bluish chin in the grasp of long thin fingers. "You've evidently stuck to the model a great deal," I commented further, "but you've also idealized, made poetry of her." "And you're talking like a donkey," my friend told me, rather impatiently. "I simply have better eyes than you. Of course, I suppose you've seen a lot of her, for she seems to think the sun rises and sets on you, but you haven't studied every bit of her face as I've done. I've idealized nothing at all, but my own appreciation of her, and perhaps a trick or two, have caught you. The light came right through this open window, naturally, and caused that glint of the fluffy ends of hair, like powdered sunlight dusted over the dark chestnut. It also threw those strong high lights over the edges of the features. Then, I stuck those roses between her and the window and they gave the reflected tints. It's just a portrait, you old idiot, and nothing else, except perhaps for the fancy shawl. Of course, everything that wasn't directly illumined was in subdued tones, which account for the softness. You may think it's rather ideal, but that's only because I saw her right and got an effective pose. Hang it all, man! If I gave you a pond and a bunch of trees and blue hills back of them, you might describe them accurately, and yet make the picture an interesting one, in one of those fool stories of yours." "She is very beautiful," I said, knowing that he expected no direct answer to his tirade. "If she hadn't been, I shouldn't have bothered with her," he replied, in a tone that rather rasped on my feelings. "That's just what's the matter with her; she's a good-looker and you daren't change anything. If I were to use her again for anything important, fellows would ask if I intend to stick to the same old model, all my life. If I get her to pose just once more, it will be about the end of her usefulness to me, and I'd do it just for the fun of making another study of an interesting type, something to stick among the unframed things piled up against the wall and show people, after this one's sold." He moved off to get a cigarette from the small square stool on which he keeps brushes and tubes, leaving me to stare in great desolation at the picture of Frances and her baby. So he's going to sell it! Indeed, the more I looked at it the better I realized that it was the woman herself, described by a master. He had naturally seen things I had not noticed, that was all. I think I've never had a great desire for money, but the idea was very irksome that her portrait would be sold and that it would hang on some rich man's wall, stared at only by people merely concerned with the beauty their dollars had bought. It is, perhaps, just as well that I have some sense of humor. The idea of this wonderful thing hanging in my rather dingy room suddenly struck me as rather incongruous. As well think of a necklace of brilliants about some ragged pauper's neck. To the best of my belief I have never envied the people who can afford to possess the gauds I have sometimes admired in the windows of shops, in which only the rich can ever deal. Why this sudden obsession of a desire to have that picture of the young woman where I could look at it, daily, and delight in its perfection? I have often thought that in my den or in her own room she is as nearly out of place as her picture would be. She impresses one as being able to lend further grace to the most splendid dwelling-place. Once more I catch myself communing with my folly. After all, Madame Dupont is just a woman; her smile gives charm to her surroundings. When she sits in my old Morris chair, she converts it into the throne of beautiful motherhood and the place into a palace of grace. Why should I care for daubs, for splashes of paint never so cleverly put on, since I can see the model from time to time and rejoice that she counts me among her friends? "You're the grumpiest old curmudgeon I ever knew," said Gordon, interrupting my cogitations. "You haven't said a word for ten minutes. And so you like it, do you?" "You've never done anything half so good," I affirmed. "To tell you the truth, I've a notion I've happened to do something pretty big," he said, nodding. "But a fellow's apt to get hypnotized by his own work, sometimes. I'll have to stop looking at the thing. It'll stay here while I go off to the country for a few weeks and, when I come back, I'll have the right perspective again. But I know it's devilish good. I feel as I did once at the _Salon_, when I got the _Mention Honorable_ for that codfish and lobster on a marble table. You know, the one Tilson bought. I knew it was right, as soon as I'd finished it." Mutely, I committed him to the devil and all his fallen angels. What had this picture to do with still-life in a fishmonger's shop? Hang it, I really believe Gordon has no soul! Or can it be a part of the pose inseparable from him, of which he certainly is sometimes unconscious? At this moment, the bell rang and Yumasa came out of some cubby and rushed to the outer door. Gordon followed him and warmly welcomed a rather stout lady of uncertain age and very youthful hair, after which he held out his hand to the original of Miss Van Rossum's portrait. "The steamer was awfully early," explained the young lady, "but she took forever to dock. Don't you think we were awfully good to come in town on such a warm day? I could have played thirty-six holes, you know, but, of course, we hadn't seen Dad for a long time. Mamma asked him to come with us, but he said he'd have to run over to the Club. He'll join us here at three." "Let me see, he was gone four months, wasn't he?" said Gordon. "Yes, something like that," answered the mother, holding up a tortoise-shell lorgnette and looking at me. "I want to introduce my friend, David Cole, Mrs. Van Rossum," hastened Gordon. "Miss Van Rossum, David is my very best pal. He's the novelist, you know." "How very interesting!" clamored the young lady. "Gordon has given me two of your books to read. Now that I have met you, I shall certainly have to begin them. You see, there is so much to do in summer, Mr. Cole." "Indeed there is, Miss Van Rossum," I assented. "I hardly find time even to look over the morning paper." "Oh! Newspapers are such rubbish," she declared, airily. "Why, Sophia!" cried Mrs. Van Rossum. "One of them had your picture last week." "It was rotten," said Miss Sophia, with some firmness. "Oh, my dear! Why will you use such dreadful language?" the mother reproved her. "That's all right, Ma, every one says it now." Miss Van Rossum, having thus established the status of her vocabulary, at least to her own satisfaction, took a few steps across the big studio and stopped before the picture. "Oh! I say! Did you do that, Gordon?" she asked. "Isn't she a stunner? Was it her own baby or did she borrow it? Cunning little mite, isn't it?" "A study from a model," Gordon informed her. "Yes, it is her own baby." The older lady also came forward and inspected the painting. "Of course, you must have flattered her a great deal," she opined. "You have _such_ an imagination, my dear Mr. McGrath!" "It isn't a patch on David's," he replied. "Novelists can beat painters all hollow at that sort of thing." "I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Miss Van Rossum. "Had to get up at an unearthly hour to come down and meet Dad." At once we went to the small table in the next room. The flowers were exquisite. The young lady crunched radishes, with enthusiasm, and spoke disparagingly of a certain hackney which, according to her, had unfairly been awarded a blue ribbon at Piping Rock, gaining a decision over her own palfrey. Also, she discussed Mrs. Pickley-Sanderson's form at tennis and spoke of the new shotgun her father had brought over for her, from England. "What's your handicap at golf, Mr. Cole?" she asked me, graciously. "I'm afraid David's a fossil," put in Gordon. "He's utterly ignorant of the most important things of life." "What a pity," she sympathized. "And how do you manage to spend the time?" "I--I don't spend it, Miss Van Rossum," I answered, inanely. "I try to save it and make it last as long as possible." "How funny," she declared, and gave me up as hopeless, directing the remainder of her conversation at Gordon. Finally, I took my leave, conscious that I had been asinine in my remarks and had made a deplorable impression. Upon the picture I cast one more look before leaving. Those wonderful eyes of Frances were directed towards the baby, of course, but for an instant I felt that she was about to raise them and smile at me. At any rate she doesn't consider me as a useless incumbrance of the earth because I can't play golf or shoot birds. She is restful and gentle, whereas Miss Van Rossum appears to me to have the soothing qualities of a healthy bass drum. But then, I may be mistaken. CHAPTER VIII WE TAKE AN EXCURSION The day was a hot one. In Gordon's studio a slight breeze had blown in and mingled with the scent of the flowers with which his table was adorned, and the behavior of my collar had been of the best. The ladies, secure in the absence of starched things such as we men throttle ourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in the street I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey the instinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed for time. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few, leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the most harrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day, whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages. I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in the studio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by his first name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probably old acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them in Paris. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his knees when she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, for she outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger and just as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon is a misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly, artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a young lady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name. Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for the portrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality. The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsome creature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as she does the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she is too ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her very simple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scale she is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions in regard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she had come, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs with truffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the baby belonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life, but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beauty that is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be already considered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that a model was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it is likely that she would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. But then, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deem beneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but the outward semblance of humanity. The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actually resented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had looked at the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it a valuable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. But then, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a Van Rossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of such moderate worth. Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who stand behind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of aching heads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the million considered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part of fate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens, destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and the constant effort to smile in spite of these. And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child. It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the most glorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward lies in the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep body and soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms, in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail to be squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Her gift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bring bitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, there would have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, no tiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a nice schoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her care and tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there might have been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day, when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach little pupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come to all. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who was looking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, and who shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, at other times, they deepen his darkness. Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I have just formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of an actuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way he speaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may, perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge such weakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model. He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas, destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezed out paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He has obliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playing golf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality in paint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tennis court inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facial characteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had shown a little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability to employ her further. After all, she has inspired him to great accomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of our mutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the door was a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where we had left the ladies. "I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said. The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture of Frances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady he thus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. The man's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probably turn out to be that of a fish. My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidated state of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as I reached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer and lighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When I came out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting in the armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted me with could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey to unhappy thoughts. "Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality. "It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers from it. Do you think he is looking pale?" At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea would probably not have entered my head without her suggestion, but an uneasy feeling came over me, born probably of reading something in the paper about infant mortality. I took a blessed refuge in prevarication. "He is looking splendidly," I told her. "But they take sick babies and give them long jaunts out on the bay, with nurses and doctors. If that sort of thing can cure an ailing infant, it must make a healthy one feel like a fighting-cock. Get ready, and we'll take the boat to Coney Island and spend a couple of hours at sea. It will put better color in the little man's cheeks and do no harm to your own. I'm craving for the trip, come along and hurry up!" She began the usual objections, to which I refused any attentions. I suspect I have a little of the bully in my nature. At any rate we sallied forth, soon afterwards, and went to the Battery, where we percolated through the crowd into a couple of folding seats on the upper deck. "Oh! It is such a blessed relief," she said, after the boat had started and made a breeze for us, since, on the water, none but the tiniest flaws rippled the surface. I called her attention to the remarkable sight of Manhattan fading away behind us in a haze that softened the lines, till they appeared to be washed in with palest lavenders and pinks. "The insolence of wealth and the garishness of its marts are disappearing," I told her. "Our moist summer air, so worthless to breathe and cruel to ailing babes, is gilding a pill otherwise often hard to swallow. All about us are people, most of whom live away from the splendors we behold. Some of them, like ourselves, burrow in semi-forgotten streets and some dwell on the boundary where humanity rather festers than thrives. They are giving themselves up to the enjoyment of a coolness which, an hour ago, appeared like an unrealizable dream. Let us do likewise." Frances smiled at me, indulgently. Like all really good women, she has an inexhaustible patience with the vagaries and empty remarks of a mere man. Women are more concerned with the practicalities of life. About us the fairer sex was apparently in the majority and the discussions carried on around us concerned garments, the price of victuals and the evil ways of certain husbands. Young ladies, provided with male escorts, sprinkled poetry, or at least doggerel, over the conversation of more staid matrons. Their remarks and exclamations seldom soared to lofty heights, but in them there was always the undertone of present pleasure and anticipated joys. One thin little thing, who had mentioned a ribbon-counter, looked up with something akin to awe at a broad-faced and pimply youth, who spoke hungrily of a potential feast of Frankfurter sausages. I have no doubt that to her he represented some sort of Prince Charming. Close to her a buxom maiden addressed a timid-looking giant, all arms and legs, and described the bliss of shooting the chutes. It was evident that he aspired to the dignity and emoluments of a gay suitor, but was woefully new or incompetent at the game. She was helping him to the best of her ability, with a perseverance and courage entitling her to my respect. In her companion she must have discerned the makings of a possible husband or, at least, the opportunity to practise a talent of fascination she thinks ought not to lie fallow. "And how is Baby Paul enjoying himself?" I asked my companion. "For the time being, he is asleep," she answered, "and so, I suppose, is having an excellent time. He's an exceedingly intelligent child and of the happiest disposition. I'm sure he is aware that he has a mother to love him, and that's enough to keep him contented." "Of course," I assented. "That somewhere there is a good woman to love him is all that a baby or a grown man needs to know in order to enjoy perfect bliss. Those who are fortunate enough to reach such a consummation are the elect of the world." She looked at me with a smile, and I saw a question hanging on her lips. It was probably one I had heard very often. Frieda and some others, when hard put to it for a subject of conversation, are apt to ask me why I don't get married. I tell them that the only proof of the pudding is the eating and that, strangely enough, all the good wives I know are already wedded. Moreover, I know that very few women would deign to look with favor upon me. I have always deemed myself a predestined bachelor, a lover of other people's children and a most timid venturer among spinsters. Frances, however, permitted the question to go unasked, which showed much cleverness on her part. She recognized the obviousness of the situation. As we went on, she gazed with admiration upon the yachts, many of which were lying becalmed, but picturesque. The big tramps at anchor awakened in her the wonder we all feel at the idea of sailing for faraway shores where grow strange men and exotic fruits. Then, when the steamer had turned around the great point of the island and her eyes caught the big open sea, I saw them filling, gradually. She was thinking of the gallant lad who had fallen for his first and greatest mother. Recollections came to her of sailing away with him, with hopes and ambitions rosier than the illumined shores before us, that were kissed by the sun under a thin covering veil of mist. She remembered the days of her toil, rewarded at last by the ripening of her divine gift, and the days of love crowned by the little treasure on her lap. But now, all that had been very beautiful in her life was gone, saving the tiny one to whom she could not even sing a lullaby and whose very livelihood was precarious. I knew that when she was in this mood it was better to say nothing or even appear to take no notice. Suddenly, a child running along the deck fell down, a dear little girl I ran to and lifted in my arms. Confidingly, she wept upon my collar which, fortunately, was a soft one. A broad shouldered youth made his way towards me. "Hand her over, Mister," he said, pleasantly, "she's one o' mine." He took the child from me, tenderly, and I looked at him, somewhat puzzled, but instant recognition came to him. "Say," he declared, breezily, "you's the guy I seen th' other day when I wuz havin' me picture took." He extended a grateful hand, which I shook cordially, for he was no less a personage than Kid Sullivan, who would have been champion, but for his defeat. On my last call upon Frieda at her studio I had seen him in the lighter garb of Orion, with a gold fillet about his brow, surmounted by a gilt star. I bade him come with me, but a couple of steps away, to where Frances sat, and I had left a small provision of chocolate drops. "This," I said, "is my friend Mr. Sullivan. The child belongs to him, and I have come to see whether I cannot find consolation for her in the box of candy." Frances bowed pleasantly to him, and he removed his cap, civilly. "Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kids over to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's only a coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses. They're them big French dappled gray ones." I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bring back to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing the Montmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is the throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers. "I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly. At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was averted. "She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances. "Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter see Buster. Wait a minute!" About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous infant. "Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole." "No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a cigar?" "I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the ring now, so I don't train no more." The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon a pleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindly to the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she was interested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs. Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls one sees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable information in regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in a millinery shop. "I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in a high-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain't the feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat. It's the head it goes on to." As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She was unconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated a deduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was the black one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out on the sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me. Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms of endearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeks old, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veteran as compared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the same age, there might have been comparisons, and possibly some trace of envy, but in the present case there could be nothing but mutual admiration. "Is you folks going ashore?" asked the Kid. "We were thinking of remaining on the boat," I told him. "Say, what's the matter with goin' on the pier and sittin' down for a while? 'Tain't as cool as the boat, but it's better'n town, and the later ye gets back, the cooler it'll be." Mrs. Sullivan confirmed her husband's statements. I looked enquiringly at Frances, who listened willingly to the words of experience. In a few minutes we landed and found a comfortable seat. Suddenly, as we were chatting pleasantly, there passed before us Mr. O'Flaherty, of the second floor back. He wore a cap surmounted by goggles and an ample gray duster, and with him walked several other large and florid-looking gentlemen. His eyes fell on Frances and then upon me. I thanked goodness that her head was turned so that she could not possibly have seen the odious wink and the leer he bestowed upon me. "Say," whispered Mr. Sullivan, in my ear. "D'ye see that big guy look at ye? Made ye mad, didn't he? For two cents I'd have handed him one." "My good friend," I whispered back, "none of us are beyond reach of the coarse natured." "That's so," he answered, "but a wallop in the jaw's good for 'em." An hour later we took the boat back. The little girl slept all the way home, in her father's arms. Frances gazed dreamily on the water. Little Mrs. Sullivan sat on a chair very close to her husband, with the baby secure on her lap. Her head soon rested on the young prizefighter's shoulder, and she dozed off. I am sure he endured exquisite discomfort with pins and needles rather than disturb her. And I, like a fool, worried on account of a man perpetually scented with gasoline and spotted with transmission grease who had taken the infernal liberty of winking at me because of my being with poor Frances, taking the air on a proletarian pier. "The world," Gordon had told me, one day, "utterly refuses to permit a man and woman to be merely good friends. Since the days of Noah's Ark, it has been recognized as an impossibility, and, therefore, society has ever frowned down upon any attempt in so foolish a direction." I replied hotly that the world was evil-minded, at times, and he retorted that the world was all right, but some men were jackasses. He remarked that Carlyle had been too lenient when he declared that his countrymen were mostly fools. But then, Carlyle was insular, after all, and unduly favored the inhabitants of his isle, as any British subject would. Nearly all men all over the world were fools, Gordon asserted. Coyotes and foxes had an instinctive dread of traps, but men walked into them so innocently that merely to behold them was enough to drive a man to drink. After all, I don't care what O'Flaherty and such cattle think! As long as I can save Frances, or any other good woman, from shedding one more tear than has been ordained for her, I shall do so. I refuse to be envious of the intelligence of foxes and coyotes, and I will always resent uncouthness and mean thoughts. She looked rather tired when we came down the steps of the elevated road. I begged her to let me take Baby Paul in my arms, and she finally consented, after first declining. It did not awaken him, and we reached the house in becoming tranquillity. Some of our fellow lodgers were on the steps and greeted us civilly. They were the three young men and the two girls. Thank goodness they appeared to be too unversed in the wickedness of this world to entertain such ideas as must have passed through the bullet-head of O'Flaherty! * * * * * On the next day, I went up to Gordon's studio, and I confess it was with the purpose of looking again at that picture. He was superintending the packing of his suit cases and a trunk. I told him something of my experience, my indignation throbbing in my throat. "You're a donkey, Dave," he consoled me. "What right or title have you to the belief that the millennium has come? I suppose the poor girl is entitled to some commiseration, for her troubles are in the nature of a series of accidents and misfortunes which no one could foresee. Yours, on the other hand, are simply due to congenital feebleness of some parts of your gray matter. By-by, old fellow, my taxi's waiting for me!" CHAPTER IX I HEAR RUMORS ABOUT GORDON When we reached the top floor, Frances took the baby from me, while I lit her gas-jet. She kissed Baby Paul effusively, and placed him on the bed, after which she turned to me. "It has done him ever so much good," she declared. "See how splendidly he looks now. Tell me, why are you so kind to me?" Women have been in the habit of propounding riddles ever since the world began. This was a hard one, indeed, to answer, because I didn't know myself. I could hardly tell her that it was because, at least theoretically, every beautiful woman is loved by every man, nor could I say that it was because she had inspired me with pity for her. "We have had a few pleasant moments together," I replied, "and I am ever so glad that Baby Paul has derived so much benefit. The kindness you speak of is mere egotism. I have given myself the great pleasure of your company. I do not suppose you realize how much that means to a chap whose usual confidant is his writing machine, and whose society, except at rare intervals, is made up of old books. My dear child, in this transaction I am the favored one." I was surprised to see a little shiver pass over her frame. "Oh! Mr. Cole, sometimes I can't help feeling such wonder, such amazement, when I think of how differently all these things might have come to pass. I--I was going off to the hospital on the next day. I should surely have met kindness and good enough care, but no one can understand what it was to me to have Frieda come in, with her sweet sympathetic face. It was as if some loving sister had dropped down to me from Heaven, and--and she told me about you. I--I remember her very words; she said that you were a man to be trusted, clean of soul as a child, the only one she had ever met into whose keeping she would entrust all that she holds most dear." "Frieda is much given to exaggeration," I remarked, uneasily. "She is not. Think of what my feelings would have been on the day when they would have sent me out of the hospital, with not a friend in the world, not a kindly heart to turn to!" "My dear child," I said, "I believe that, if you have not been altogether forgotten by the gods and goddesses, it was because you were worthy of their kindest regard. I am confident that our little trip on the water will make you sleep soundly, and I trust that you will have pleasant dreams." Yes! I occasionally call her my dear child, now. Neither my forty years nor the thinness of my thatch really entitles me to consider myself sufficiently venerable to have been her parent. But I am the least formal of men and find it difficult to call her Madame or Mrs. Dupont. If I did so now, I think that she would wonder if I was aggrieved against her, for some such foolish reason as women are always keen on inventing and annoying themselves with. Once in a while I even call her Frances, but it is a habit I ought not to permit to grow upon me. There are altogether too many O'Flaherty's in the world, masculine, feminine and neuter. She closed her door, after a friendly pressure of our hands, and I went to my room to write. The ideas, however, came but slowly and, upon arrival, were of the poorest. I, therefore, soon took my pipe, put my feet on the window ledge and listened to a distant phonograph. At last, came silence, a gradual extinguishing of lights in windows opposite, and yawns from myself. I must repeat these trips, they make for sound slumber. On the next day I took it upon myself to go to the small house in Brooklyn where Frances had formerly boarded. She was anxious to know if any letters might have come for her that had not been forwarded. She had wondered why her husband's parents had never written to announce the dreadful news which, however, had been briefly confirmed on inquiry at the Consulate. In the eastern section of our Greater City, which is about as familiar to me as the wilds of Kamchatka, I promptly lost myself. But kindly souls directed me, and I reached a dwelling that was all boarded up and bore a sign indicating that the premises were to be let. Thence, I went to a distant real estate office where the people were unable to give me any indication or trace of the former tenants, who had rented out rooms. On my return I found Eulalie rummaging among my bureau drawers. She held up two undergarments and bade me observe the perfection of her darning, whereupon I assured her that she was a large, fat pearl without price. "_Oui, Monsieur_," she assented, without understanding me in the least. "Madame Dupont has gone to my cousin, Madame Smith. Her name was Carpaux, like mine, but she married an American painter." "An artist?" I inquired. "_Oui, Monsieur._ He used to paint and decorate and put on wallpaper. Then, he went away to Alaska after gold and never sent his address. So Félicie has opened a cleaning and dyeing shop and is doing very well. She has not heard from Smith for sixteen years, so that she thinks he is, perhaps, lost. She has told me that she wanted an American person, who could speak French, to wait on customers and keep the books and send the bills and write names and addresses on the packages. She lives in the back of the store. There is a big bed that would be very commodious for putting the baby on. Madame Dupont has gone to see. Next week I go to work there also and I will keep an eye on the baby when Madame is at the counter." I know the shop; it is on Sixth Avenue, not far away. In the window always hang garments intended to show the perfection of dyeing and cleaning reached by the establishment. There is a taxidermist on one side of it and a cheap restaurant on the other. When weary of the odor of benzine and soap suds, Frances will be able to stand on the door-sill for a moment and inhale the effluvia of fried oysters or defunct canaries. Eulalie left my room, and I remained there, appalled. I wish I could have found some better or more pleasant occupation for Frances. When the latter returned, she looked cheerfully at me and announced that she had accepted the position tendered to her. "I shall be able to have Baby with me," she explained, "and it will keep our bodies and souls together. I hope I shall suit Madame Smith. Do you know anything about how to keep books?" At once I took paper and pencil and launched into a long explanation, undoubtedly bewildering her by the extent of my ignorance. Then I went out and got her a little book on the subject, over which she toiled fiercely for two days, after which she went to work, bearing little Paul in her arms, and returned at suppertime, looking very tired. "It is all right," she announced. "Félicie is a very nice, hard-working woman, and tells me that Baby is a very fine child. I'll get along very well." When a woman is really brave and strong, she makes a man feel like rather small potatoes. Her courage and determination were fine indeed, and I must say my admiration for her grew apace. After the hopes she had entertained; after the years spent in study, the fall must have seemed a terrible one to her. Yet she accepted the pittance offered to her, gratefully and with splendid pluck. A week after this Gordon ran up to town in somebody's car, to make a selection of cravats at the only shop in New York where, according to him, a man could buy a decent necktie. "Your limitations are frightful," I told him. "I know of a thousand." "I know you do," he replied, "and most of your ties would make a dog laugh. The rest of them would make him weep. Come along with me for a bite of lunch at the Biltmore." Over the Little Neck clam cocktails he announced some great triumphs he had achieved at golf. "And I can nearly hold my own with Miss Van Rossum at tennis," he said. "She's a wonder at it. We got arrested last Friday on the Jericho turnpike for going fifty miles an hour, but she jollied the policeman so that he only swore to thirty, and we were let off with a reprimand. Good thing she was at the wheel. If I'd been driving, I'd have been fined the limit." "You would have deserved it," I told him. "I think the old judge knew her father; pretty big gun on the island, you know. By the way, what's become of--of the Murillo young woman?" I explained to him how she was occupied. "The deuce! You could certainly have found something easier for her to do, if you'd tried hard enough," he reproached me. "I did all I could, and so did Frieda, but our hunt was in vain, on account of the baby." "Yes, there's that plagued infant," he said, reflectively. "I'll be glad, if you can shed the light of your genius on the situation, old man," I told him. "Among your enormous circle of friends----" "You go to the devil! I'm not going to have people saying that Gordon McGrath is so interested in his model that he's trying to get rid of her by placing her somewhere or other. No, old boy, if I should hear of anything, I will let you know, but I'm not going to hunt for it. Do you know, that woman's got a wonderful face. Did you ever see such a nose and mouth? When she opens those big eyes of hers and looks at you and speaks in that hoarse voice, it's quite pathetic. I--I think I'll take her on again, for a short time." "I'm afraid you won't," I replied. "I wouldn't advise her to lose steady employment for the purpose of posing a couple of weeks for you." "I suppose not. How do you like that Spanish omelette?" Thus he cut short all reference to Frances, and, soon afterwards, we parted on the Avenue. * * * * * During the next two months there was little worthy of being chronicled. Frances, I think, grew a little thinner, but always asserted that she was in the best of health. Baby Paul was rapidly accumulating weight, and Frieda and I offered him a small baby carriage, which folded up most cleverly and took little room in the shop or at home. It was on the occasion of the completion of his fourth month that the presentation was made by my dear old friend. "There, my dear, is a gimcrack thing David insisted on buying. The man at the store swore it couldn't possibly fold up suddenly with the baby in it. And now what do you think of my having that old blue dress of mine dyed black?" The reply of Frances was a heartfelt one as to the perambulator, but discouraging in regard to the garment. "Oh, never mind," said Frieda. "I'll make paint rags out of it, then. I only thought I'd help out the shop. Now let us get David to give us a cup of tea." We were talking cheerfully together, when Gordon dropped in from the skies, most unexpectedly. We were glad to see him and, since four people in my room crowded it considerably, my friend took a seat on the bed. I had first met him in the Bohemia of the Latin Quarter, when his necktie out-floated all others and any one prophesying that he would become the portrayer in ordinary to the unsubmerged would have been met with incredulous stares. At that time, for him, Béranger was the only poet and Murger the only writer. And now his clothes are built, while his shoes are designed. Yet, in my top floor, he showed some of the old Adam, joining gladly in our orgy of tea and wafers and utterly forgetting all pose. I noticed that he looked a great deal at Frances, but it was no impertinent stare. She was quite unconscious of his scrutiny or, if at all aware of it, probably deemed it a continuation of his method of artistic study. She had become accustomed to it in his studio. "David tells me that you are lost to me as a model," he said, suddenly, with a sort of eagerness that showed a trace of disappointment. "I must now plod along without interruption," she answered. "I had thought of making another study. The finished thing is all right, but one doesn't come across a face like yours very often." "No," put in Frieda, "and it's a good thing for you that you've had the exclusive painting of it. If she had continued as a model and been done by every Tom, Dick and Harry----" "True. Since I can't paint her again, I'm glad no one else will. No, thank you, I won't have any more tea. How's the new picture, Frieda?" For a few minutes the two monopolized the conversation. To some extent they spoke a jargon of their own, to which Frances and I listened with little understanding. "And what do you think of it, Dave?" he asked, turning abruptly to me. "It is a beautiful thing," I answered. "If I had Frieda's imagination and her sense of beauty, I should be the great, undiscovered American novelist. She makes one believe that the world is all roses and violets and heliotropes, touched by sunshine and kissed by soft breezes. It is tenanted only by sprites and godlings, according to her magic brush." "The world is no such thing," he retorted, sharply. "The world is what one's imagination, one's sentiment and one's conscience makes it," I asserted, "at least during some precious moments of every lifetime." "Oh! I know. You can sit at that old machine of yours and throw your head back and see more upon your ceiling than the cracked plaster, and Frieda does the same thing. Now my way is to take real flesh and blood, yes, and dead lobsters and codfish and dowagers and paint them in the best light I can get on them, but it's the light I really see." "It is nothing of the kind," I emphatically disclaimed. "It is the light your temperament sees, and your rendering of it is not much closer to truth than Caruso's 'Celeste Aïda' can be to an ordinary lover's appeal. There is no such thing as realism in painting, while, in literature, it has chiefly produced monsters." "Isn't he a dear old donkey?" Gordon appealed to the two women. "One of those animals once spoke the truth to a minor prophet," remarked Frances, quietly. "You are quoting the only recorded exception," he laughed, "but the hit was a good one. Yet Dave is nothing but an incurable optimist and a chronic wearer of pink glasses." "That, I think, is what makes him so loveable," put in Frieda, whereat Frances smiled at her, and I might have blushed had I not long ago lost the habit. Gordon rose, with the suddenness which characterizes his movements, and declared he must run away at once. He shook hands all around, hastily, and declined my offer to see him down to the door. "In Italy," said Frieda, "I have eaten a sauce made with vinegar and sweet things. They call it _agrodolce_, I believe, and the Germans make a soup with beer. Neither of them appeal to me at all. Gordon is a wonderful painter, but he's always trying to mix up art with iconoclasm. It can't spoil his pictures, I'm sure, but it may--what was the expression Kid Sullivan was fond of using? Oh yes, some day it may hand out a jolt to him. He has a perfectly artistic temperament and the greatest talent, but he stirs up with them a dreadful mess of cynicism and cold-blooded calculation. My dear Dave, let you and I stick to our soft colors and minor tones. If either of us ever abandoned them, we should be able to see nothing but dull grays." "We understand our limitations, Frieda," I told her, "and there is nothing that fits one better to enjoy life. Gordon says that it is all foolishness, and can't understand that a fellow should walk along a mile of commonplace hedge and stop because he has found a wild rose. The latter, with due respect to him, is as big a truth as the privet, and a pleasanter one." Presently, Frieda, after consuming a third cup of tea and finishing the crackers, said that she must be going home. I insisted on accompanying her down the stairs and naturally followed her to her domicile, where she informed me that she was going to wash her hair and forbade my entering. On the other side of the street, on my return, I saw Frances going into Dr. Porter's office. He has prevailed upon her to let him do something to her throat, and she goes in once or twice a week. He has begged her to come as a special and particular favor to him. I'm sure I don't know what he expects to accomplish, for he is somewhat reticent in the matter. Perhaps he may have thought it well to arouse a little hope in her. I am afraid that in her life she sees a good deal of the dull grays Frieda was speaking of. * * * * * And now a few more weeks have gone by and the middle of winter has come. On Sunday afternoons we always have tea in my room, except when we go through the same function at Frieda's. To my surprise, Gordon's visits have been repeated a number of times. Frieda and he abuse one another most unmercifully, like the very best of friends, and he persistently keeps on observing Frances. It looks as if she exerted some strange fascination upon him, of which she is perfectly ignorant. He never goes beyond the bounds of the most simple friendliness, but, sometimes, she sharply resents some cynical remark of his, without seeming to disturb him in the least. Meanwhile, my friend Willoughby Jones has told me that Gordon is doing Mrs. Van Rossum's portrait, while the younger lady roams about the studio and eats chocolates, talking about carburetors and tarpon-tackle. The family will leave soon in search of the balmy zephyrs of Florida. My friend's chatter also included the information that Gordon might soon take a run down there. "They say he's becoming a captive of her bow and spear," he told me. "It looks as if he were trying to join the ranks of the Four Hundred. It has been said that the Van Rossums, or at least Miss Sophia, show some willingness to adopt him. Wouldn't it be funny?" Funny! It would be tragic! I can't for an instant reconcile myself to such an idea, for I hardly think that Miss Van Rossum is the sort of young woman who would inspire Gordon with a consuming love. Come to think of it, I have never known him to be in love with any one, so how can I know the kind of fair charmer that will produce in him what the French call the lightning stroke? And then, Willoughby Jones is known as an inveterate and notorious gossip. The whole matter, if not an utter invention, is simply based on Gordon's policy to cultivate the people who can afford to pay five thousand for a full-length portrait. I wonder whether it would not be well for me to give him a word of warning? No! If I did such a thing, he would certainly tell me not to be a donkey, and I should deserve the rebuke. CHAPTER X THE WORK LOST However platitudinous it may sound, I am compelled to remark how the time flies. From the calendar's standpoint there are but three weeks to come before the advent of Spring, and I trust the sprite will be better clad than she is in one of Frieda's pictures. In this particular latitude March is not very apt to temper the wind to such a shorn lamb as smiles out of that painting, clad with Cupid-like garments of infinite grace, but questionable warmth. She should have worn a heavy sweater. Day by day I have watched the growth of Baby Paul, but it is only on Sundays that I have been able to see much of his mother, who comes home rather weary, as a rule, and always has ever so much sewing to do after her return. I have heard her discuss ways and means with Frieda, till I felt my small allowance of brains positively addling. Together they have been planning tiny garments for the babe and larger ones for themselves, while I sat there conscious of my inferiority and looking at them admiringly, but with something of the understanding of an average lap-dog. I find them very indulgent, however. Dear me! What a time we had of it at Christmas. My midday meal took place at my sister's, in Weehawken, but the dinner was at Frieda's, where I was permitted to contribute the turkey. It could not be made to penetrate the exiguous oven of the little gas-stove, but we bribed the janitress to cook it for us. I had been in grave consultation with my dear old friend in regard to the toys I might purchase for Baby Paul, being anxious that his first experience of the great day should be a happy one, but Frieda frowned upon woolly lambs, teddy bears and Noah's Arks. "If you will insist, Dave," she told me, "you can go and buy him a rubber elephant or some such thing, but he is altogether too young to play games. I know you have a sneaking desire to teach him checkers. If you will persist in wasting your money on presents, give me a five-dollar bill and I'll go around and buy him things he really needs. I'll put them in a box and send them with your best love." "What about Frances?" I asked. "A good pair of stout boots would be wisest," she informed me, "but perhaps you had better make it flowers, after all. More useful things might remind her too much of present hardship and poverty. A few American Beauties will give her, with their blessed fragrance, some temporary illusion of not being among the disinherited ones of the earth. I--I can give her the boots." And so we had that dinner, just the three of us together, with Baby Paul just as good as gold and resting on Frieda's sofa. There was a box of candy sent by Kid Sullivan to his benefactress, and, although the contents looked positively poisonous, they came from a grateful heart, and she appreciated them hugely. I had brought a little present of flowers in a tiny silver vase, and they graced the table. I wore a terrible necktie Frieda had presented me with. It was a splendid refection. The little dining-room was a thing of delight. From the walls hung many pictures, mostly unframed. They were sketches and impressions that had met favor from their gifted maker and been deemed worthy of the place. The table was covered with a lovely white cloth, all filmy with lace, and there was no lack of pretty silver things holding bonbons and buds. It all gave me a feeling of womanly refinement, of taste mingled with the freedom of an artistic temperament unrestrained by common metes and bounds. Frances had one of my roses pinned to her waist, and often bent down to inhale its fragrance. When will some profound writer give us an essay on the Indispensability of the Superfluous? Again we had a feast on New Year's eve, in my room. Gordon, who was going to a house-party at Lakewood, lent me his chafing-dish. I'll say little about the viands we concocted; at least they were flavored with affection and mutual good wishes, with the heartiest hopes for good things to come. It was not very cold, that night, and on the stroke of twelve I threw my window wide open. We listened to the orgy of sound from steam-whistles and tin horns. There floated to us, through the din, a pealing of faraway chiming bells. When I closed the window again, Frieda took the chafing-dish for a housewifely cleaning. Baby Paul had been sleeping on my bed and Frances was kneeling beside him, looking at the sleeping tot. For a moment she had forgotten us and the trivialities of the entertainment, and was breathing a prayer for her man-child. Thus passed the New Year's eve, and on the next morning Frances was up early, as usual, and went off to work. I pottered idly about my room till Mrs. Milliken chased me out. On the afternoon of the first Sunday of the year Gordon came in again. Until last Autumn he had invaded my premises perhaps once in a couple of months, but, now, he is beginning to come as regularly as Frieda herself. He gives me the impression of being rather tired, and I explain this by the fact that he leads too active a life and takes too much out of himself. I am sure few men ever painted harder than he does. When I watch him at his work, it looks very easy, of course, but I know better. His is powerful, creative work, such as no man can accomplish without putting all his energy into his toil. I am often exhausted after a few hours of writing, and I am sure that Gordon also feels the drag and the travail of giving birth to the children of his soul. Then, after a day of this sort of thing, he goes out to the theatres or the Opera and prolongs the night at the club and delves into books, for he is a great reader, especially of what he terms modern thought and philosophy. The first rays of good working light find him again at his canvas, sometimes pleased and sometimes frowning, giving me often the impression of a latter-day Sisyphus. "I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that. The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and dried." "I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But----" "Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for." "I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a leisurely way as you hope to." "Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and how to go to work to obtain it." "I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next Sunday." "Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply. "Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on that day." "I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry." I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at him, he seemed slightly embarrassed, although I may have erred in so thinking. Frieda seized upon the chocolates, greedily. She is one of those dear stout people, who assure you that they hardly ever eat anything and whom one always finds endowed with a fine appetite. "It's too bad about Baby Paul," she said. "He is yet too young to be stuffed with sweets or amused with toys." "I presume that a nursling is the only really normal human being," remarked Gordon. "He possesses but the most natural desires, has no ambitions unconnected with feeding and sleeping, and expresses his emotions without concealment. Affectation is foreign to him, and his virtues and vices are still in abeyance." "Paul," declared Frances, indignantly, "is extremely intelligent and has no vices at all." "I stand corrected, Mrs. Dupont. He is the exception, of course, and I only spoke in general. Frieda, my dear, won't you be so obliging as to open the piano and play something for us? I don't suppose it will awaken the baby, will it?" "He just loves music," asserted his mother. "When I play, he often opens his eyes and listens quietly, ever so long. I know that it pleases him, ever so much. His--oh! He must have music in his soul! How--how could it be otherwise?" Frieda hurried to the piano and opened it, after giving the stool a couple of turns. She began with some Mendelssohn. Frances was holding her baby in her arms, her wonderful head bent towards the little one, with a curve of her neck so graceful that it fascinated me. Gordon was also looking at her with a queer, eager look upon his features. He knew as well as I that she had heard again some vibrant music of former days, had felt the sound-waves that trembled in her own soul, and that, to her, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a lost happiness. "Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some Chopin." At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and, in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano, though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand; what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution. Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips. I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most wonderful musicians of the world. Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berçeuse_." Then the young mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and sweetness with a blessed peace of soul. When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about, searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the street or, even, I may attempt to read books upside down. Is it possible that Gordon suffers from similar limitations and needs to muse and toil and delve before he can bring out the art that is in him? Only yesterday I saw in the paper that he led a cotillon at the Van Rossums. Moreover, at the Winter Exhibition I had the shock of my life. I hurried there to see again the "Mother and Child," instead of which I found his signature on the portrait of a railroad president. The papers spoke of it as a wonderful painting, and one of them reproduced it. I freely acknowledge that it deserves all the encomiums lavished upon it, for it is a bold and earnest piece of work. But he has never done anything like the picture of Frances. I met him there and looked at him, questioningly. He understood me at once. "I'll get half the financial big guns now," he told me coolly, and left me to greet a millionaire's bride. I am not so foolish as to think he can be in love with Frances, and I doubt very much whether he is in love with any one else, in spite of the gossip that has reached me. No, he must simply be thinking of some great composition with which he expects, in his own good time, to take the world by storm. And yet, what if I should be mistaken? The mere idea makes me feel very cold and uncomfortable, for no reason that I know of. When he finally took his leave, he thanked Frieda for playing to us, and said good-by to Frances as perfunctorily as he does everything else. We began to clean up the teacups, and Frieda folded the frivolous little tablecloth she has contributed to my outfit and put it away, while Frances and I quarreled. "I am not going," she said firmly. "You are utterly mistaken," I insisted, "and you're a bold, mad, rebellious creature. You will go at once and put on your best hat, and your cloak, and dab powder on your nose, if it will make you happy, and come along like a good child." "But what is the use of my paying board to Mrs. Milliken and then having you spend money for dinners at restaurants?" she objected. "The use is obvious. It affords us the joy of permitting ourselves, once in a blue moon, to behave like spendthrifts; it allows us to indulge in the company of the young and ambitious, as well as of the old and foolish. Moreover, an occasional change of diet was recommended by Hippocrates. Who are you to rebel against the most ancient and respectable medical authority, pray?" "It is utterly wrong," she persisted. "I am always accepting your kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return, and--and----" She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoarse and muffled as ever, and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any, good. "My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then, she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready. There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you want me to." So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often rebels like this, yet generally succumbs to our wiles. The pair of us, fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against. Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers, finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I have ordered the newsman at the corner to deliver me the Sunday number regularly. But to-day she has been busy with a lot of mending so that it remained unopened. My first glance revealed a column giving a list of unclaimed letters in the hands of the French Consul. There was one for Madame Paul Dupont, it appeared. I seized the paper and ran with it to the door of her room. My hand was already lifted to knock, when I bethought myself that a delay of a few minutes would be unimportant, and that it was best to run no chances of interfering with Baby Paul's entertainment. I returned to my room and paced up and down the worn Brussels. She had often told me how sorry she was that she had never heard from her late husband's parents. This letter, in all probabilities, was from them. If I told Frances about it immediately, she would worry over it until next day. Why not wait at least until our return from Camus, or even until the morning? If she knew about it, she would probably not have a wink of sleep. I determined to postpone the announcement. Poor child! She will be harrowed by that letter. It will give her such details as the old people have been able to obtain and bring the tragedy back to her. She will read the lines breathlessly. The months that have gone by have assuaged her pain a little, I think, but, now, it will return in full force, as poignant as ever. I am sorry that I looked at that paper. If I had put it aside as I often do, without even looking at it, I should never have known anything about that letter and it might have been better for her peace of mind. Now, of course, I feel bound to let her know, but, at least, I will let her have a tranquil night! How keen and shrewd women are! No sooner did they return to my room, all primped up and ready to go, with Baby Paul clad in his best, than Frieda innocently asked what was the matter with me. Frances also asked if I were angry. Had she made me wait too long? I was compelled to declare that my feelings were in apple-pie order, that happiness reigned in my bosom and that I enjoyed waiting, before they were satisfied. I wish my emotions did not show so plainly on my face. It is for this reason, I suppose, that Gordon once adjured me never to learn the ancient game of draw-poker. He said that fleecing me would be child's play for the merest beginner. We went down and directed our steps towards Madame Félicie Smith's shop. One can get in, even on Sundays, since the good woman lives there. She is always delighted to mind Paul for a couple of hours, and this arrangement is far superior to the old one, which entailed a long westerly jaunt to the home of the washerlady, besides the climbing of many stairs. The folding baby carriage was left at home, for the walk is but a short one and Frances loves to carry her little one. My offer to assume the charge was at once rejected, Frieda complaining that even she was considered somewhat unreliable as a beast of burden. Frances laughed, cheerfully, but held on to her treasure. She is no longer nervous and fretful when leaving Baby Paul for a couple of hours, knowing that, if he happens to awaken, there will be soothing words of affection for him. We had to ring a tinkling bell for admittance and Félicie, buxom and of high color, welcomed us all. Certainly she would care for the angel; most evidently she would look after the precious lamb; with not the slightest doubt she would love and cherish the little cabbage. While I remained in the penumbra of the half darkened shop, it took the three of them to see the baby properly installed on the bed in the back room. Frances and Frieda heard the solemn promise made to them, to the effect that there would be no adventitious aid to happiness such as a lump of sugar tied in a rag, and presently we sallied forth. Lest my readers be already weary of Camus, I can only say that I am one of those individuals who stick to old friends, either through an inborn sense of faithfulness or, more probably, because of a tendency to slothfulness, which makes me consider it exceedingly troublesome to wander afield and search for pastures new. We had our dinner in quiet enjoyment and felt, as we came out again, that the world was a very fair sort of a dwelling-place. We had enjoyed the food and I fancy that, under the table, my foot had beaten time to the melody eked out by the orchestra. The fiddler, I am glad to say, is looking somewhat stouter. The good meals provided by the widow may be responsible for this. At any rate, I rejoice to think so, since it would go to show that a dinner at Camus is not only a pleasant, but also a hygienic, pursuit. For an instant our enjoyment of the music was interrupted by the clang and clatter of passing fire engines. We looked about us, perfunctorily, and decided that the conflagration was neither under our chairs nor above our rafters and continued to sip our coffee with the contempt due to a New Yorker's familiarity with steam-pumps and water towers. A couple of minutes later we left and, reaching Sixth Avenue, found it somewhat crowded. A block further we came to a panting engine and hurried on. Cars were blocked by a line of hose stretched across the street. Frances caught my arm, nervously, and a look of terror came over her. Then we ran, Frieda puffing behind. The fire was in the middle of the block and streams of water crashed through windows. Ladders were going up and the firemen, conscious that it was but a moderate blaze, from their standpoint, worked calmly and effectively. "You stay there!" I shouted to my two companions and elbowed my way through the crowd, which was being pushed back by policemen. One of them seized me and threatened to use his locust on my cranium if I advanced any farther. I drew back and dashed through another opening till I reached Félicie's door, entering the place and nearly falling over a large osier basket in which were piled up a lot of tangled garments. "Take de handle!" commanded the good woman. "The baby! Little Paul!" I shouted. "Under the silk dress. Take de handle," she repeated. We issued from the place, meeting with a policeman who suspected us of unworthy motives. We had to exhibit the infant and establish our identity before he would let us proceed with the huge basket. It was about time! Firemen bearing a length of pipe dashed by us and entered the cleaning establishment. The fire, it appeared, was in the restaurant next door and threatened to invade Félicie's premises. My two friends were wringing their hands as they dashed towards us, and upon their heads their hats were awry. "Paul is all right!" I assured them. "But they took us for robbers." Frances picked her infant out of the basket, hysterically. She had tried to follow me and had wrestled with a sinewy policeman, who had defeated her. We reached Mrs. Milliken's, where Paul was deposited on his mother's bed, soundly sleeping, and the basket, which it had taxed the good woman's strength and mine to carry upstairs, was placed on the floor. After this, Frieda threw her fat arms around my neck and called me a hero. Frances would have followed suit but, being forestalled, had to content herself with embracing the cleaning lady who, puffing, soon disengaged herself and fanned herself with a newspaper. "The brigands," she declared, "will soak everything with water, but I have saved most of my customers' things." She finally went off to spend the night at Eulalie's sister's, leaving the plunder in our care. On the next morning, when Frances went off to work, she found that the fire had invaded a part of the shop, that the plate-glass window was broken and chaos reigned. Félicie was there and deplored the fact that, until insurance matters were adjusted and repairs made, all business would have to be suspended. The poor girl came home to throw herself on her knees beside little Paul. Then, she bethought herself of me and knocked at my door, hurriedly. I opened it. My face, unfortunately, was covered with lather. "I--I'm out of work. It--it will be several weeks before Félicie can open the shop again. Oh! What shall I do?" "My dear child," I said, "you will, for the time being, return to little Paul and let me finish scraping my face. You will also please remember that you have some good friends. As soon as I am shaved, we will hold a session and form ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means. In the meanwhile remember about the little sparrow falling to the ground." "I--I'm afraid a cat often gets him," she said sadly, and went back to her room. CHAPTER XI GORDON VACILLATES It behooved me to waste no time and, as soon as I was ready, I briefly conferred with Frances, telling her that Gordon would probably be very glad to employ her for a short time that would tide over the interval before Félicie would be ready to resume business at the old stand. She looked at me, rather uncertainly, as if the suggestion were not altogether a pleasing one. At any rate a tiny wrinkle or two showed for an instant between her brows. "Don't you think it is a good idea?" I asked her. "I--I suppose it is," she answered slowly, and then, impulsively, put her hand on my arm. "Of course it is, you dear good friend," she declared. "I am ready to go there as soon as he may want me. He--he has been so friendly, of late, bringing us candies and flowers, and chatting with us, that--that it will seem a little bit harder, but, of course, it will be just the same as before, and he will think of nothing but his painting." "I will go and see him at once," I told her, "I may find that he is busy with a portrait and has no time for other work, but I might as well go and ascertain." I was being shot up the elevator towards Gordon's studio when I suddenly remembered that letter at the consul's. I must confess that it had altogether escaped my memory. I consoled myself with the idea that my interview with Gordon would be brief, and that I should immediately return and tell Frances about it. Perhaps she would allow me to go downtown with her to obtain it. She must not go alone, of course, since she would open the thing there and then. I could imagine her in that office, among indifferent people, weeping and without a friend to take her arm and lead her out, with not a word of consolation and encouragement. Yes, I would go with her! "Hey, Mister! Didn't you say the tenth floor?" Thus did the elevator boy interrupt my cogitations; but for him I might have kept on going up and down a dozen times, so busily was I engaged in picturing to myself the emotions of Frances when she should receive that letter. I got out of the cage, hurriedly, and rang Gordon's bell, the Jap opening with a polite grin of recognition. "Can I go into the studio?" I asked. "Is Mr. McGrath engaged?" "No, sir, but I tell him." The man went in, after taking my hat and coat, and Gordon rushed out to meet me. "Hello, Dave!" he greeted me. "When you rang the bell, I thought it was Lorimer--the Lorimer. He told me last night at the Van Rossums that he would drop in and see me." "You are certainly making good headway among the millionaires," I told him. "They're the fellows I'm gunning for," he answered quietly. "Look here, Gordon," I began at once. "Frances Dupont is out of a job. Fire in the shanty next door, and her employer has been flooded out. You were saying something about wishing to--" "Yes, I know I was," he replied, staring vaguely at the floor. "I--I'll have to think about it." "I suppose you have some other pressing work on hand." He made no answer, going up to the humidor on the mantel and selecting a cigar, which he lighted very deliberately. "Have one?" he asked me. "No, thanks," I declined. "I'll help myself to a cigarette. One of those perfectos so early in the morning would set my head whirling." He looked at me, twirling his fine moustache, without appearing to see me, and began pacing up and down the wonderful silk rug on the floor, his cigar in his mouth and his hands deep in his trousers pockets. "I'll tell you, Dave," he began, but was interrupted by another ring at the bell. A moment later Mr. Lorimer was admitted, a big man with a leonine head, strong and rather coarse features and eyes like Toledo blades, who spoke slowly, weighing his words. "Good morning, Mr. McGrath," he said. "I shall be obliged, if you will show me some of your work." "I want to introduce my friend, David Cole," said Gordon; "he's a writer of charming novels." "Always glad to meet any one who can do things, Mr. Cole," said the big man, putting out his hand. "What have you written?" Gordon at once came to my rescue, mentioning two or three titles of my books. "'The First Million'! You wrote that, did you? Read it on my way to Europe, three years ago. You're a clever man, Mr. Cole, but it was a mistake on your part to make a millionaire sympathetic and refined. Didn't make much out of the book, did you?" "It only sold about four thousand," I acknowledged. "Thought so. That fellow Lorgan was neither fish, flesh, fowl or good red herring. In a novel, a very rich man should be made bearable by foolishly giving away huge sums of money, or else unbearable in order to show the contrast offered by the poor, but honest, hero. That's what the public wants, I should judge. As a simple human being a magnate is impossible in modern fiction." "My friend Gordon works from the model and sticks to it," I ventured. "I have been silly enough to depend altogether on my imagination, Mr. Lorimer, but I'm getting cured of that failing. In future I will cling to the people I have an opportunity of studying." "You'll turn out something pretty good, one of these days," he said. "And now for the paintings, Mr. McGrath. I have only a few minutes to spare." He looked at a few portraits and a still-life or two, resting his square jaw in the palm of his hand. "I've been a bit of a doubting Thomas," he suddenly said. "Had an idea that a chap who goes in so much for society couldn't do very serious work, but this is first rate. Good, honest stuff, I call it, but I doubt if you will keep it up. Let's have a look at something else." He paid not the slightest attention to Gordon, who looked as mad as a hornet. The Japanese servant lifted up a picture that was turned with the face against the wall. "Not that one," directed Gordon, but Lorimer had caught a glimpse of the canvas as the Japanese turned. "Oh, yes! Put that on the easel," he said. "That seems to be in a rather different style. Now, my dear sir, if you keep on all your life working like that, I'll take back what I said. A man capable of doing that can take Sargent's place, some day, but he'll have to stick to his last to keep it up. How much do you want for it?" "It--it isn't for sale," said Gordon, hesitating. Lorimer stood before the picture, with his hands clasped behind his back, for several minutes. Then he turned again to Gordon. "Already sold, is it?" "No, Mr. Lorimer, it is not. But it's about the best thing I ever did, and yet I think I can improve on it. I shall keep it for comparison, as I intend to try another from the same model, in a somewhat different manner. After it is finished, I shall be glad to have you look at it again, and perhaps----" "I'm afraid that what I said rather sticks in your crop, Mr. McGrath, but don't be offended. When I began life my knowledge of men was about the only asset I had. It didn't come by study and I take no credit for it. I was born with it, as a colt may be born with speed in him. Some Frenchman has said that the moneymaking instinct is like the talent of certain pigs for smelling truffles. In Perigord they pay a high price for a shoat with that kind of a nose. I have learned something about painting because I love it, and I know how to make money. But if I stopped for a year, I'd get so rusty I'd be afraid to buy a hundred shares. Same way with you. If you stop painting and putting in the best that's in you, then you'll go back. That's the reason I wanted this picture, but I'm willing to wait and see the other. Let me know when it's finished. Glad to have met you, Mr. Cole. Thank you for showing me the pictures, Mr. McGrath. Must run downtown now. Hope to see you again soon." He walked off, sturdily, Gordon accompanying him to the door while I sat down in front of the picture. Ay, Lorimer was a mighty good judge; of that there could be no doubt. He had at once appreciated the powerful rendering, the subtle treatment, the beauty that radiated from the canvas, grippingly. But I could only see Frances, the woman beautiful, who, unlike most others, has a soul to illumine her comeliness. I filled my eyes with her perfection of form, tall, straight and slender, with all the grace that is hers and which Gordon's picture has taught me to see more clearly. I felt as if a whiff of scented breeze came to me, wafted through the glinting masses of her hair. The eyes bent upon the slumbering child, I felt, might at any moment be lifted to her friend Dave, the scribbler, who, for the first time in his life, was beginning to learn that a woman's loveliness may be beyond the power of a poet's imagining or even the wondrous gift of a painter. The scales had indeed fallen from my eyes! At first I had thought that Gordon had idealized her, mingling his fancy with the truth and succeeding in gilding the lily. But now, I knew that all his art had but limned some of the tints of her sunshot hair and traced a few points of her beauty. I did not wonder that he was eager to try again. Wonderful though his painting was, the man's ambition was surging in him to excel his own work and attain still greater heights. Could he possibly succeed? "Well, what do you think of millionaires now that you have met one in the flesh?" asked Gordon, returning. "This one is pretty human, it seems to me, and pretty shrewd." "You're not such a fool as you look, Dave," said my friend quietly, but with the twinkle in his eyes that mitigates his words. "One moment I could have clubbed him over the head, if I'd had at hand anything heavier than a mahlstick, but I daresay he knew what he was talking about. I'll have to work harder." "You already toil as hard as a man can, and are doing some great stuff," I replied. "The trouble is that you keep altogether too busy. It might be worth your while to remember that a man who accomplishes so much is at least entitled to eight hours' sleep a day." "You're a fine one to preach, you old night owl." "In the first place, I am only David Cole. Besides, I put in a full allowance of time in bed. Mrs. Milliken daren't come in before eleven. Then, I don't smoke strong perfectos, especially in the morning, and I have a drink of claret perhaps once a week." "Yes, I'll paint you with a halo around your old bald head, some day," he retorted. "And now, what shall I say to Frances?" I asked, deeming it urgent to revert to my errand. "I don't want her! Busy with other things!" I looked at him, in surprise and disappointment, and walked off towards the hall where hung my hat and coat. "Very well," I said, "I shall try and find something else for her to do. Good-by, Gordon." "Good-by, Dave. Come in again soon, won't you?" I made some noncommittal reply and rushed over to the elevator, ringing several times. When I reached the street I hurried to the cars, thinking that _la donna_ may be _mobile_, but that as a weathercock Gordon was the limit. I got out at the Fourteenth Street station and soon reached home, at the very same time as a big scarlet runabout which I had noticed in the street, in front of the studio building. It halted with a grinding of brakes. "I say, Dave! Tell her to come to-morrow morning. I am off to lunch at Ardsley. By-by." It was Gordon, bearing in his pocket a summons for overspeeding, which he proudly exhibited. "I got the car this week," he informed me. "It's a bird to go. So long!" He was off again, skidding around the next corner in such fashion as to make me sympathize with his life insurance company, and I started up the stairs to see Frances. I must say that I was rather nervous. The task of telling her about that letter seemed, now that it was so nearly impending, a rather tough one to carry out. As usual in such cases, my footsteps became slow on the last of the stairs. I knocked at the door, which was opened by Frieda. "Come in, Dave," she said. "I thought I'd drop in to see that Baby Paul was none the worse for his experience. I might as well have saved my breath, as far as I can see. Frances needs a little bracing up; I think she's rather discouraged this morning." "One moment," I excused myself. "I forgot a paper I wanted to show her." My room appeared to have been ransacked, but I saw that Mrs. Milliken, in spite of my stern commands, had indulged her passionate longing for putting things in order. A quarter of an hour's arduous searching, however, revealed the journal I sought. The door had been left open, and I walked right in. "Good morning," I said. "I have seen Gordon this morning and he will be pleased to employ you again, Frances, and--and I have a paper here. It is yesterday's, and I found something that may perhaps interest you, and--and----" But she had risen quickly and took the paper from me, her voice trembling a little. "Where--what is it?" she asked eagerly. It took me a minute to find that column again. When I pointed out the notice, she took the sheet from me, staring at it as if doubting her eyes. "Yes--it is for Madame Paul Dupont. I--I must go there at once! Oh! Frieda dear, will you mind little Paul for me while I am gone? I will go and return just as quick as I can and won't keep you very long." "I will do anything you want me to, Frances, but you are not very familiar with downtown streets. I had better accompany you there. We can take little Paul with us." "I had intended to offer my services as a guide," I put in. Frances had sunk in her chair and was still looking at the paper, as if, between the lines, she might have been able to find more than the mere mention of her name. "You must let me go, Dave," whispered Frieda to me. "She--she might faint, poor thing, or feel very badly, and--and a woman is better at such times. I will try to make her wait until we get back, before she opens the thing, and you can be here when we return." Man, that is born of woman, is commonly her humble slave. I could do nothing but bow to my stout friend's will and retired to my room to leave their preparations unhampered by my presence. When I propose a dinner or the moving pictures, they always hurry as fast as they can and are usually ready in fifteen or twenty minutes. On this occasion, about ninety seconds seemed to suffice. "Good-by, Dave," they called out to me, waving their hands and disappearing down the stairs. I had any number of important things to do. A fine disorder, said Boileau, is an effect of art. It behooved me to disturb the beautifully orderly and thoroughly deplorable piling up of my books indulged in by Mrs. Milliken. Also, there were separate loose sheets of virginal paper to be separated from those bearing my written vagaries, for she had played havoc with them. Moreover, I had been told that my hair ought to be cut. Then, I ought to have sat down and continued a short story I had made a fine beginning of, about a poverty-stricken young lady finding an emerald necklace. The plot was most exciting and the ending possessed what the editors call a good punch. I had a plethora of things to do, wherefore I lighted my pipe and pondered upon what to begin with, seated the while in front of my window and observing the houses opposite. It took me but a moment to decide that quietude would be wisdom. How could I accomplish anything requiring judgment and calmness of mind, while I was so obsessed with problems of many kinds! What would be the effect of that letter on Frances? Would it make her feel so badly, that she would be unable to go to Gordon's on the next day? Why had my friend first manifested eagerness to make another picture of Frances, then refused to employ her, and, finally, risked breaking his neck in his haste to have me make an appointment with her? I have always been a poor hand at riddles and actually resent being asked why a chicken crosses the road. Such foolish queries constitute a form of amusement quite unable to appeal to me. I dislike problems and complicated things that have to be solved. Once, I tried to write a detective story, but was wise enough to tear up the thing as soon as it was finished. In the first place, it looked like an effort to encourage crime, which I abhor, and my detective was so transparent and ingenuous that an infant would have penetrated his wiles. He was positively sheeplike in his mansuetude, whereas I had intended to make him a stern avenger of virtue. An hour went by, and then another, during which I rushed to the balustrade on the landing every time I heard the front door opening. Disappointment came so often that I determined to move no more, until I could hear their voices. Since the stairs make Frieda quite breathless, she insists on talking all the time while she climbs them, and her puffing carries up at least two flights. Finally, I heard them. For a wonder Frieda was silent, but there was no mistaking her ponderous step. Frances came behind, carrying Baby Paul. They came to my room, hurrying across the landing. The young mother looked at me, one corner of her lips twitching nervously. "David!" she cried. "Oh, David! There--there are two women called Madame Paul Dupont and--and the other one got my letter! She came to the Consulate early this morning." "But how do you know that it was your letter, then?" I asked. "Well! Of course, I don't really know, but--but it should have been for me, of course. They gave me the other woman's address. She lives in Little Ferry in New Jersey, and I'm going there at once." CHAPTER XII GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED Frances and I started away on the trip, immediately, for there was not a moment to lose. That letter must at once be retrieved. The dreadful woman had evidently seized upon one never meant for her, and must be bearded in her den. From her the missive must be rescued, by force of arms if necessary; it must be snatched from the burning, seized and brought back, even at the cost of bloodshed. This, it may be, is but the vague impression I gathered from the profuse and simultaneous conversation of my two dear friends. When I humbly suggested again that the Jersey person might perhaps have a perfect equity in the document, they looked at me with the pitying condescension accorded the feebleminded and the very young by the gentler sex. Also, I proposed to hie me to Little Ferry alone, interview the termagant in question and make her disgorge, in case she was illegally detaining words meant for another. This was once more met by a look from Frieda to Frances, and vice-versa, which was then turned upon me and made me feel like an insignificant and, I hope, a harmless microbe. "My dear Dave," said Frieda, tolerantly, "you are not Madame Paul Dupont. Why should that abominable woman give up the letter to you?" "When she sees me and Baby," declared Frances, "she will not have the heart to refuse." The upshot of it was that we departed, leaving Frieda behind. For the first time in his life little Paul was shot through a tunnel, emerged in Jersey, none the worse for his experience, and was taken aboard a train. Soon afterwards we were observing the great meadows and the Hackensack River, a vacillating, sluggish stream, running either up or down, at the behest of a tide that always possesses plenty of leisure, through banks winding in a great valley of cat-tails and reeds among which, in the summertime, legions of grackles and redwings appear to find a plenteous living. But at this time the stream was more than usually turbid, filled with aimlessly floating cakes of ice, and the green of fairer weather had given place to a drab hue of discouraged weeds awaiting better days. While waiting at the station, I had found that the Telephone Directory contained at least a dozen Duponts, that the City Directory held a small regiment of them, and considered that New Jersey had a right to its share of citizens of that name. The train stopped, and we got out in a place that was mostly constituted by a bridge, small houses lining a muddy pike and a vista of many houses partly concealed among trees. After consultation with a local butcher, followed by the invasion of a grocer's shop, we were directed to a neat frame cottage within a garden. I opened the gate and walked in, first, deeming it my duty to face the dangers and protect the convoy in my rear. There was no need to ring a bell. The front door opened and a white-haired woman appeared, her locks partly hidden under a white cap that was the counterpart of many I had seen in the Latin Quarter, among janitresses or ladies vending vegetables from barrows. Her form was concealed in a wide, shapeless garment, of the kind adopted by French women whom age has caused to abandon the pomps and vanities. I believe they call it a _caraco_. The cotton skirt was unadorned and the slippers ample for tender feet. Also, the smile on her face was welcoming in its sweetness. Near her a fat blind dog wheezed some sort of greeting. "Madame Paul Dupont?" I asked. "_Pour vous servir_," she answered politely. So this was the Gorgon in question, the purloiner of correspondence, to be placated if possible and defeated _vi et armis_ in case of rebellion! Frances hastily pushed me to one side, though with all gentleness. She spoke French very fluently. I easily understood her to say that she was also Madame Paul Dupont, that her husband had been to the war, that she had heard of his being killed, that--that---- She was interrupted. The white-bonneted old woman took her to her bosom, planting a resounding kiss on her cheek, and clamored in admiration of the baby. "Come in the house," she said. "I am delighted to see you. I shall have to ask Paul if he ever had any cousins or nephews who came to this country. But no; he would have told me. I am sorry that Paul is not here to see you. He is the pastry-cook at the Netherlands; you should taste his puff-paste and his _Baba au Rhum_. He did not go to the war because he is fifty-nine and has a bad leg. But I have a son over there. He has killed many Boches. I have thirty-seven postal cards from him." "But, Madame," I put in, "we came on account of a letter written in care of the Consulate, and we were informed----" "That was a letter from my niece Pétronille, whose husband keeps a _café_ in Madagascar. She wanted to let me know of the birth of her fourth daughter. Have you ever seen a letter from there? It is a country very far away, somewhere in China or Africa. I will show you." She sought her spectacles, looked over a large and orderly pile of papers, and brought us the document. "Please read it," she said, "it is very interesting." Frances glanced over it, looking badly disappointed, and passed it to me. It contained vast information as to Pétronille's growing family and the price of chickens and Vermouth in Antanarivo, also certain details as to native fashions, apparently based on the principle of least worn, soonest mended. Before we left, we were compelled to accept a thimbleful of _cassis_, most delectable, and to promise to return very soon. Her husband would make us a _vol-au-vent_, for which he had no equal. He would be sorry to have been absent. She wished her son had been married to such a nice woman as Frances and had possessed a son like Baby Paul. Alas! She might never see the boy again, and then there would be nothing left of him, no little child to be cherished by the old people. It was such a pity! She insisted on seeing us all the way back to the station and on carrying Paul, whom she parted with after many embraces. Peace be on her good old soul, and may the son come back safely and give her the little one her heart longs for! "She is a darling," said Frances sorrowfully, "and, oh! I'm so terribly disappointed." The poor child had so hoped for news, for some details as to the manner in which her own Paul had been sacrificed to his motherland, and this visit made her very sad. For many days afterwards her thoughts, which had perhaps begun to accept the inevitable with resignation, turned again to the loved one buried somewhere in France. Neither Frieda, who came in after suppertime, nor I, was able to give her much consolation. Again, I wished I had never seen that announcement and deplored my well-intended folly in calling her attention to it. She seemed very weary, as if the short trip had been a most fatiguing one, and retired very soon, alleging the need to rise early to do some mending of Baby's clothes, and acknowledging the fact that she felt headachy and miserable. Frieda looked at me indulgently, but I suspect that she blamed me strongly for the whole occurrence. Doubtless, I ought not to have looked at that paper, I should not have spoken of it, and my permitting Frances to go to Jersey had been a sinful act of mine. But, after all, Frieda is the best old girl in the world, I believe and declare. She patted my shoulder as if I had promised her never to be wicked again, and permitted me to see her home, as some snow had fallen and she was dreadfully afraid of slipping. I prevailed on her to accept pair of old rubbers of mine and, once in the street, she grasped my arm with a determination that left a blue mark next day. "So she is going again to the studio," she said, after I had piloted her to her flat, which she invited me to invade. "Do you really think that Gordon has the slightest idea that he can improve on that first picture?" "I suppose that he just hopes to," I replied. "Whenever I begin a new story, I haven't the slightest idea whether it will be good or not. Sometimes, I don't even know after it is finished. Take the 'Land o' Love,' for instance; I really thought it a good piece of work, but Jamieson looks positively gloomy about it." "He must be a very silly man," said Frieda, unswerving in her loyalty to me, but swiftly changing the subject. "Baby Paul is becoming very heavy. He'll be seven months old, come next Friday, and Frances looks dreadfully tired. It is hard for her to take him every day to that studio and back." "I could get up early in the morning and help her," I suggested recklessly. "And then you could wait outside for two or three hours and help her back," she laughed. "No, Dave, it isn't so bad as all that. But I'm afraid she's badly discouraged. That little Dr. Porter is still fiddling away at her throat, training it, he calls it, but she's not a bit better. In fact, she thinks it's getting worse. And she says she can never pay him for all he's done and she might as well stop going. On Sunday morning he says he's going to do something to it, that may hurt a little, and she's afraid. She asked me to go with her." "I'll go with you, if she will let me and Porter doesn't chase me out," I proposed. "I have great confidence in that boy." "So have I, but he hasn't assured her that it will bring her voice back." I told her that this showed the man was not a cocksure humbug, and expressed fervent hopes as to the result, after which Frieda made a disreputable bundle of my rubbers and I left with them, in a hard flurry of snow. My room, after I reached it, seemed unusually cold. The landlady's ancient relative sometimes juggles rather unsuccessfully with the furnace, and she bemoaned before me, yesterday, the dreadful price of coal. Hence, I went to work and warmed myself by writing the outline of a tale with a plot unfolding itself during a hot wave of August. So kindly is my imagination that, by midnight, I was wiping my brow and sitting in my shirt-sleeves, till a sudden chill sent me to bed. This, I am glad to say, had no serious consequence. I remember wondering about the new picture Gordon would begin and, before I fell asleep, some trick of my mind presented the thing to me. It was a queer composite of the Murillo in the Louvre, of Raphael's Madonna of the Chair and of Frances herself. From the canvas she was looking at me, with lids endowed with motion and smiling eyes. There came to me, then, a dim recollection of some strange Oriental belief, to the effect that on the Day of Judgment sculptured and painted figures will crowd around their makers, begging in vain for the souls that have been denied them. But I felt that Gordon's "Mother and Child" will never thus clutch despairingly at their painter's garment. The very soul of them is in that picture, already endowed with a life that must endure till the canvas fritters itself away into dust. When I awoke, I found, with shamed dismay, that it was nearly ten o'clock. On leaving my room I saw that the door opposite was wide open, with Mrs. Milliken wrestling with a mattress. Frances was gone, bearing her little Paul, through the still falling snow, to that studio where Gordon would again spread some of her beauty and soul on the magic cloth. A few hours after, she returned in a taxicab. "He insisted that I must take it," she explained. "He came downstairs with me and told the man to charge it to him, at the club. The light was very poor and he could do no painting. Spent the time just drawing and rubbing the charcoal out again. I think he must be working very hard, for he looks nervous and worried. No, I'm not hungry. He made me take lunch at the studio, while he went out to the club. He--he seems very impatient when I hesitate or don't wish to--to accept his kindnesses, and becomes very gruff. He hardly said a word from the time when he returned, till he bade me go home in the taxi. And--and now I must do some sewing." I left her, having an appointment with my literary agent, who has asked me for a story for a new magazine. I reached his office and was asked to wait for a few minutes, as he was busy with an author whose words are worth much gold. On the oaken table in the waiting-room, among other publications, there was a weekly of society and fashion. I took it up for a desultory glance at the pages. The first paragraph my eyes fell upon stated that the most distinguished of our younger painters, it was whispered, was about to announce his engagement to a fair Diana whose triumphs over hurdles, on the links and on the tennis courts were no less spoken of than her wealth and beauty. I supposed that Gordon had seen those lines, for he takes that paper. According to Frances, he is worried and nervous. How can this be? She must surely be mistaken. He has captured and safely holds the bubble of reputation, his work commands a reward that seems fabulous to such as I, and now he is to marry beauty and wealth. Can there be any hitch in his plans? After I had finished my business with my agent, I strolled out with a commission to write a five thousand word story. My way then led me up Fifth Avenue, to the place where I get the tea Frieda and Frances so greatly appreciate. At the Forty-Second Street crossing my arm was seized from behind. "Hold on, old boy. Those motors are splashing dreadfully," said Gordon, rescuing me from a spattering of liquid mud. "Come with me to the club." I followed him with the sheeplike acquiescence that is part of my nature, feeling rather glad of the opportunity to talk with him and perhaps congratulate him. As usual, he was most spick and span. His fur coat had a collar of Alaska seal and the black pearl in his necktie was probably worth a couple of square feet of his painting, though the general effect was quiet and unobtrusive. We sat down in the most deserted corner he could find and looked at one another in silence, for a few moments. It is to be presumed that my patience outlasted his. "You're the dullest old curmudgeon ever permitted to come into polite society," he declared, looking aggrieved. "I was serenely waiting for your announcement," I replied. "Oh! So you've seen that thing also!" he retorted, with evident annoyance. "Well, my dear fellow, I wanted to know whether to congratulate you or whether the information was somewhat premature. Come, Gordon, I used to think that we were a replica of Damon and Pythias! Won't it do you a bit of good to talk it over? Do you never feel the need of confiding in a friend, nowadays?" For a moment he looked down at his boots, after which he deliberately placed both elbows on the little table that separated us and stared at me. "The announcement is all right. Bought a solitaire for her last week. I suppose that she is wearing it. There is to be a reception soon, and you'll get a card to it." I pushed my hand over to him and he took it, rather lukewarmly. "Oh! That's all right! I know you wish me happiness. Well, I'm getting it, am I not? I'm just as merry as a grig. Here, boy!" The lad in buttons took his order for whiskies and soda, after which Gordon glared at the portrait of the club's distinguished first president. "Rotten piece of work, I call it. Chap who did it used a lot of beastly bitumen too, and it's cracking all over. Awful rubbishy stuff." "I suppose so," I assented, on faith. "Ben Franklin was a shrewd old fellow," he continued, with one of his habitual lightning changes. "Tells us that a man without a woman is like half a pair of scissors. I'm to be the complete thing, now. Stunning girl, Miss Van Rossum, isn't she? She talks of having a studio built at Southampton, for effect, I presume. How the deuce could a fellow expect to paint with a parcel of chattering women around him?" "Oh! I daresay you might get used to it," I told him, soothingly. "I won't! She is going to read books about painting. Told me she wanted to be able to talk intelligently about it, and I advised against it. People don't talk intelligently about painting, they only pretend to. They must insist on airing their views about futurists, or the influence of Botticelli or such truck. They make me yawn, and I try to turn the conversation, but it's a tough job. Why the deuce are you looking at me like that?" He snapped the question out so quickly that I was somewhat taken aback, and he began again, without waiting for an answer. "Oh! It's no use trying to make a practical man of the world out of a sentimental writer of impossible love stories. You're staring at me because I don't answer to your preconceived ideas of a fellow contemplating the joys of matrimony. Why the deuce should I?" "I don't know, old fellow," I confessed. "I acknowledge that I have always regarded wedded life in the abstract, but I must say that my----" "I know. Your ideal is a freckled youth with a left shoulder upholding the head of a pug-nosed girl, who weeps tears of joy in his bosom, the while he gazes up at the heavens in thankfulness. I'm all right, Dave! I've accomplished all that I was aiming at, and there are no problems left to solve. Where's that devilish boy with those drinks?" I could not help looking at him again, for I was becoming more and more convinced that he was far from representing the happy man I had been eager to congratulate. Our beverages came, and he tossed his down, hurriedly, as if it furnished a welcome diversion to his thoughts. Five minutes later, I was walking alone to the shop where I buy my tea. "I wonder what's wrong?" I asked myself, pushing the door open. CHAPTER XIII DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK On Saturday, I received the card Gordon had mentioned. It was a tastefully engraved thing, merely announcing that the Van Rossums would be at home on the Seventeenth of March, from four until seven. In a corner, in smaller letters, was written "To meet Mr. Gordon McGrath, N. A." I don't know whether I have mentioned the fact that Gordon is really an extremely handsome fellow, in a strong and masculine way, with a pleasant voice and manners that can be quite exquisite, at least when he isn't talking to an old pal. I am not at all surprised that Miss Sophia, or any other woman, for that matter, should have been attracted by his looks, while his great talent and growing reputation must have added to his ability to find favor in her eyes. His is not a descent from an old family, I believe, for the dead and gone McGraths dealt in pottery, in a small way, and left him about a thousand dollars a year, upon which he managed to go abroad and study art, to return, at last, and take New York by storm, at least from the standpoint of portrait painting. The young lady, I am sure, is a woman of ready affection, of easy enthusiasms and hopeful disposition. I honestly believe that she deserves much happiness and that she is capable of giving a sturdy love to a decent fellow, who will not interfere too much with her passion for various sports. An uncomfortable feeling comes to me that she is worthy of something better than Gordon will give her. I may be an old donkey, but, for the life of me, I can see no indication of true love in his feelings. The thought is rather revolting that he is marrying her as a mere incident in a line of conduct mapped out long ago, and it makes me feel less friendly to him. If my deductions are correct, there can be no excuse for a behavior which bears the earmarks of cynicism and cold calculation carried too far. May I be forgiven, if I err. Indeed, I earnestly hope that I am mistaken and that he is a man who conceals sentiments really creditable to him under an exterior less attractive. Frieda and Frances were in my room, that afternoon, when the card arrived. I passed it to Frieda, who handed it over to her friend. The reception referred to led the former to some discussion of prevailing fashions. The painter of Orion dresses in a manner all her own, while the slender purse of Frances compels a garb of nearly monastic simplicity. But they appear to have a great knowledge of stylish clothing and an interest in it, which must be rather an instinct than the result of deep study. I have not mentioned Gordon's engagement to them, probably for the reason that the subject is somewhat distasteful to me. Since my friend has not spoken of it to his model, there is no particular reason why I should do so. Let him attend to his own announcing. In the evening, I took both of them to the movies. This was the result of a conspiracy between Frieda and myself, as we had agreed that it would be best to try and amuse Frances, if possible, and make her forget the morrow's ordeal. Yet, on our way home, the poor child could not help mentioning it. "He says that my throat is beautifully trained and he can touch all sorts of things in it, now, with his instruments. I no longer mind it in the least. He tells me that he doesn't think it will hurt me, but, of course, I care nothing about a little pain. He's an awfully good fellow. What I'm afraid of is that it will do no good and that I shall never be able to use my voice again. I'm awfully hoarse now." It was quite true that her voice was more husky, and the element of sadness in it made it sound worse. She spoke very low as she bade us good night, for I was going to take Frieda home. In the morning I rose at an unearthly hour, spurred by the knowledge that I was going to the doctor's with Frances at eleven o'clock. I was bathed, shaved and clad in my Sunday suit by nine, after which I went out and brought back an armful of Sunday papers, which I tossed on my table and never looked at. Soon afterwards, Eulalie came in, rather bashfully, to ask me if I could lend Madame Dupont the _Courier_. Also, she confided to me the fact that she was to mind Baby Paul during our absence. "The doctor is going to cut the poor lamb's throat and it is terrible, Monsieur, but she is not afraid. I am going away for a half an hour now, because it will do no harm to burn a candle before the Blessed Virgin for the success of the operation. Yes, I think I will put two candles. Now if Monsieur believed----" I swiftly pulled a bill from my trousers pocket. "Here, Eulalie, is a dollar," I told her. "You will be so good as to dispose of it as if I were a brother to a cardinal. Faith, I believe, comes before hope and charity. Would that mine were as strong as your own, especially as concerns a certain friend of mine. Hurry away and return with seven-leagued boots." "Monsieur is a very good man; any one can see that. _Ça vous portera bonheur._" Her assurance that my offering would bring me happiness comforted me, I think. Few of us can resist the temptation to think that luck is a manna whose falling may occasionally be guided by our actions, and that ill-chance may be averted by touching wood or, as is the way of Italians, extending the fore and little finger as a safeguard against the evil eye. For a time, I sought to read, but the pages of the Sunday papers seemed to be blurred. I paced the room, nervously, thinking of Gordon and of Frances. The latter had described her recent visits to the studio as funereal functions, during which Gordon painted fast and doggedly, while biting at the stem of an empty pipe, and occasionally swore at the canvas. Sometimes, he tired her nearly to death, working for hours without interruption, while, on other occasions, he insisted on her resting every few minutes and called himself a brute for taking advantage of her patience. "But then, you know, Mr. McGrath is a very peculiar man," she said, as if this condoned all his faults. Presently, Eulalie returned, knocking violently at my door, and assured me that every cent of my dollar was now burning brightly, where it would do most good, and informed me that the two ladies were waiting for me. "It is time to go, Dave," said Frieda, who seemed to be making hard weather of her efforts at composure. "Frances is all ready and Baby Paul is sleeping. Eulalie will take the best care of him. Come along!" And so we trooped off to Dr. Porter's office. He was waiting for us, clad in an immaculate white jacket. Frances entrusted her hat to Frieda and sat down quietly on a chair in a dark corner. Porter drew down some blinds, whereby we were plunged in semi-darkness, and turned on a powerful light which strongly illumined a small circle of his patient's face. I was sitting down on a sofa, rather close to Frieda. A few moments later we were leaning on one another for support. One of her good fat hands was trembling a little, in mine, which may possibly have been similarly affected. "We'll take lots of time," I heard Porter say. "Yes, this is novocaine. Open wide now--breathe through your mouth--slowly. That's very good--now rest a little. Once again, I want to get a thorough anæsthesia--another little rest--we are in no hurry. Don't be afraid. You have the finest throat to work on I ever saw, a superb control over it. That comes from all the training I have given you--now the last touch of novocaine--that's all right--you'll feel nothing--I'm very sure." Frieda was digging her nails into my hand, excruciatingly, and we both breathed hard as we saw Porter take up other long and shiny tools that gleamed in the obscurity. He was doing something with them, quietly, with a constant flow of encouraging language. I wondered how the man's voice could remain so calm. Frieda's left heel rested for a moment on my right big toe, crushingly, but she knew not what she was doing, and I bore the torture without a cry, till I could push her away. I had not realized that a man could suffer so much. And Porter was still working away, looking ghostly in the penumbra. Then, suddenly, he let out an ejaculation imitated from the Comanches, rose from his chair, ran to the window and admitted a flood of light that nearly blinded us. Frieda, shamefaced, lifted her head from my shoulder and rose with incredible swiftness. "Is--is it all over?" she asked, tremulously. "Surest thing you know," replied our young friend. "The finest little growth upon the right chord you ever saw. I had made up my mind not to go at it halfcocked, and that's why I've taken so much time to get her so that a fellow could do anything he wanted to her larynx. But it pays, I can tell you!" "And--and will I be able to sing again?" asked Frances, hoarsely. "You will have to use your voice just as little as possible for a few days," he answered. "Not a word more than you can help. I hope--I believe that you will be able to sing again, after the chord heals up, but you must not try for a long time. And then it will take a lot of practice, of course, because your throat has forgotten nearly all it ever knew about singing. It will have to come back slowly and gradually. Be sure and come in to-morrow and let me have a look at it." Frances thanked him, huskily, and Frieda and I wrung his hand. After this we left, in the bright sunshine of a day of cloudless skies, and returned to Mrs. Milliken's, where I left the two women at the door, returning a half an hour later with a small bunch of pink roses. When I reached my landing, her door was open; Frieda was at work with a crochet needle on a diminutive blue sock, while Frances was lying down on the sofa. She never looked up as I came in, for her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite. [Illustration: Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite] "Maybe I shall sing to you after all, _mon petit Paul chéri_," she said, hoarsely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanishing as she saw the buds I was bringing her. My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence. "You have spoken to Master Paul," I said, "and we will have to forgive you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now, Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these flowers in water?" A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him, because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she passed it over to me. It was one of Gordon's, marked "With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for a few days until you are quite well." "Isn't it nice of him!" exclaimed Frieda, rushing out of the room. Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a delightful odor they had. "I--I never told him I was going to have the operation," whispered the latter. "I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago," I said, "and he evidently remembered." "Gordon is the dearest fellow," declared Frieda. "Frances, you will have to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like. Here is the fashion part of the _Times_. There is not the slightest doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part, I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening dress!" I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Passing in front of the erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered paint had been scraped off and read a sign stating that the shop would be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper. Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor. When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs, rushing over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portière. A look of relief came to his features, and he came to me. "Anything wrong?" he asked. "No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of tea?" "Yes, and anything else she wants. Don't you want to come in the office and meet some fellows? We are playing penny ante. You'll take a hand, won't you?" "Young man," I said, severely, "gambling is frowned upon by the police." "Well, the sergeant of the precinct is one of us," he replied. "Plays a mighty good hand." "Then you have my blessing," I replied, "but I can't accept. I must go back at once and make the tea. Another time I shall be delighted to lose my coppers to one of our brave defenders. Good-by and good luck to you!" I went away, clad with authority to dispense the cup that cheers, and reflected with regret that Gordon would no longer drop in, as he had been wont to. All his spare hours he would now spend with Miss Van Rossum. I supposed that they would sit on a sofa and hold hands, a good part of the time, unless this occupation be also one of the many inventions issued from the brains of fervid writers. But why do I keep on thinking about him? I am beginning to disapprove of him, and he is drifting away from me. He has crossed a Rubicon and left no bridge for me to go over. I would give anything to know that he is desperately in love with Miss Van Rossum. It would exalt him in my eyes. Her wealth means nothing. True love comes in spite of iron bars or golden ingots. In his attractive personality and wonderful talent he has fully as much to offer as the young woman can bestow upon him. The question before me is whether he is really giving her all he has; his heart as well as his genius; his faith and passion as well as the solitaire she is wearing. I hope I am not unjust to him. But whether I am or not, I presume I am now destined to see little of him. It makes me rather sad to think that one more of my few golden links of friendship is to be broken or slowly dissolved. For a few moments I stood before the outer door, with the latch-key in my hand, cogitating so deeply that I forgot to fit it in the lock. Presently, I sighed and went in, making my way up the stairs quite slowly and heavily, as if a few more years had suddenly piled themselves up on my head. The ancient stair-carpet looked more than usually unattractive and the wallpaper more decrepit. The fourth step on the second flight, ever inclined to complain, positively groaned under my weight, perhaps mistaking me for Frieda. Finally I reached my landing. "He's such a dear old stick-in-the-mud," I heard. "Never happy unless he's worrying over some lost sheep or puzzling over the way of being kind to some one. Frieda, you ought to take him by the nape of the neck, hale him to the Bureau of Licenses, and thence to a parson. After that you could roll him up in cotton-batting and make him happy all his life." "I'm much too busy," replied Frieda, laughing, "and I don't really think he would like it." I took a few quick steps and the three looked up. Gordon was sitting on the corner of the bed, looking very fine with a gardenia in his buttonhole. Frieda's face was expanded in the fat and lovable smile it always bears when any one speaks of her marrying. Frances just welcomed me as usual, with a look of her wonderful eyes. "Hello, Gordon! What's new?" I asked him, rather embarrassed. "Nothing very much," he replied. "Thought I'd like a cup of tea." CHAPTER XIV I BEGIN TO PLOT I had the mourning band taken from my silk hat, while I have worn my frock coat so little that it looked very nicely. A new pair of gloves and a scarf purchased for the occasion completed my war-paint for the Van Rossum reception, as I made my way to the mansions glorifying the eastern edge of the Park. It was a civility due to my friend and a mark of respect I was only too glad to pay so handsome and unaffected a young millionairess as Miss Sophia; moreover, as a second, and perhaps unworthy, thought, I considered that a visit to such a princely establishment might give me the atmosphere I so often needed during the course of some of my stories. Hummingbirds, bees and novelists gladly draw sustenance from the humblest flowers, at times, but are never averse to the juices of scions of the horticultural nobility. My hat and coat were seized upon in an anteroom, after I had deposited my card in a great chased receptacle, and I made my way up the wide staircase, softly carpeted in crimson and adorned at the sides with balusters of ancient, black, carved oak. The great hallway I had just left gave an impression of respectable age, like a neat and primped up old gentleman still able to wear a flower in his buttonhole. There were just enough ancient cavaliers looking from the walls to afford, with two shining suits of armor, a suggestion that the Van Rossums were reaping the just reward due to the offspring of noble swashbucklers. In my ascension I closely followed three young ladies and blessed the fate that had abolished long trains. But for its decree, I should have been filled with the hot trepidation of the man who knows that he is apt, at the slightest opportunity, to tread on sweeping flounces, and who has had his share of furious and transfixing haughty looks. Others were coming behind me in a stream. The music of fiddles and mandolins hidden in a bower of palms, on the landing, mingled with a murmur of many voices. I soon entered a great parlor, through huge doors, and followed a line of matrons and damsels diversified by a scattering of the masculine element. I immediately recognized Mrs. Van Rossum, very resplendent in pearl gray silk, and her daughter's goodnatured face, very smiling and friendly to all. Gordon was standing quite near, chatting with some ladies. Mr. Van Rossum I knew at once, since his countenance has been, many times and oft, represented in the press among other portraits of enviable men of wealth. So urbane and mild did he look that I wondered how any one could hesitate to borrow a million from him. My chance to make my bow came very soon. The elder lady smiled to me most charmingly, in most evident and utter forgetfulness of my identity, but Miss Sophia showed an excellent memory. "My dear Mr. Cole! How very kind of you to come! Yes, it's a most charming day. Lucy, dearest, this is Mr. Cole who writes the most delightful books. You must read them, but he will tell you all about them." Swiftly, she turned to others and I was left in the care of the dearest little lady, just five feet nothing in highest heels, who looked like a rosebud wrapped in lace, and smiled at me. "I am going to take you right over there by the window," she said. "I just dote on people who write books and I remember your name perfectly well. You are the author of 'The World's Grist' and 'Meg's Temptation.'" She sat down, with a little sign extending her gracious permission for me to do likewise, whereupon I hastened to assure her that I made no claim to the reputation so thoroughly deserved by the authors of those magnificent novels. "Then, tell me the names of your books, won't you?" Somewhat diffidently I acquainted her with a few of the titles, whereupon she joyfully declared that she remembered one of them perfectly. "The heroine was called Rose," she said, triumphantly. "It seems to me that it was Kate," I replied, modestly. "Yes, Kate, of course, and do you really think she was happy ever after with that extraordinary man Jonas?" "I think I recollect marrying her off to one Fitzjames, but that is only a minor detail. A novelist, my dear young lady, may assert with some show of confidence that the weddings he brings about are warranted not to crock, but you must remember he deals with fiction. The future lies in the hollow of no man's hand and, since I write chiefly of modern days, I save myself the saddening task of following my heroines to the grave. To me they are all alive, yet, happy as the day is long, revelling in sunshine and basking in undying love." She folded her little hands on her lap, opened her big blue eyes very widely and sighed gently. "How awfully delightful!" she said, "and I think you're ever so clever. But--but I think you'll have to pardon me." I rose, as she gained her feet and smiled at me again. Then she rushed off to another corner of the room and placed her hand on the coatsleeve of a six-footer who looked at her, joyfully. Her little turned-up face, in a fraction of a second, must have spoken several volumes. Then, slowly and very casually, they drifted off towards the big conservatory to the left. Twenty minutes later, floating with the crowd, I chanced to be behind them. It is possible that they had found the retreat too populous. "I am sure that you must have flirted disgracefully before I came," the man accused her, tenderly. "Not a bit! I just sat down with the dearest old fogy who is supposed to write novels, so that you shouldn't be jealous, if you saw me," she replied, contentedly. I moved away, rather swiftly. I should evidently have been delighted at the opportunity of rendering such signal service to so charming a little person. I had served as an ægid for her, as a buckler to protect her innocence and display it to the world in general and to six feet of stalwart manhood in particular. Yet, I confess that this little bud had driven a tiny thorn in me. "Well," I reflected, "it is perhaps good to be an old fogy with scanty hair and the beginning of crow's feet. At any rate it helps make Frieda fond of me and has given me the trustful friendship of Frances. Baby Paul, I think, also appreciates his venerable friend." Just then, Gordon came to me. "By Jove, Dave! You're rather a fine figure of a man, when you're properly groomed," he told me. "That's nonsense," I told him, severely. "I have just had a wireless informing me that I am a back number. Why are you no longer receiving at the side of your intended bride? She looks exceedingly handsome and graceful." "The engagement has really not been announced yet," he answered. "It is not official. The Van Rossums are going to Florida, because the old gentleman has lost some tarpon he wants to find again. After that they are going to California where he is to look up something about an oil well. I may possibly run over there to see them. The--It won't happen for ever so long, perhaps not till fall. Wish I could go out with you and beat you at billiards, but I'm to stay till the bitter end. Isn't she looking splendidly?" My eyes turned to where Miss Van Rossum was still receiving guests. She was certainly a fine creature, full of the joy of living. If some of her tastes in the way of pursuits were somewhat masculine, it detracted nothing from her elegance and charm. These might, in later years, become rather exuberant, I reflected, looking at the amplitude of form displayed by her parents, but, after all, none of us are beyond the grasp of Father Time. "Just as splendidly as she does in your exquisite painting," I replied, nodding towards the portrait, wonderfully framed, that stood on an easel in the best light that could have been found for it. A moment later he was torn away from me. From time to time he returned to the side of the young lady, who was always much occupied in conversation and pleasant laughter with many friends. If Gordon thinks that the engagement is as yet something of a secret, he is badly in error. Hints, glances, little movements of heads in his direction, constantly apprised me that the information was scattered far and wide. Two dowagers close to me indulged in a stage whisper that revealed to me the fact that they wondered whether the projected marriage would not be something of a _mésalliance_ on the part of dear Sophia. "After all, you know, he's nothing but a painter, and no one heard of him until three or four years ago!" "But they say he charges enormously," said the other. This, evidently, was quite a redeeming feature in my friend's favor, but I am afraid it was the only one, from their point of view. I soon decided that I had done my full duty and sought the stairway again. Here, I once more ran into Gordon. "I know just what the hippo in the zoo feels like," he confided to me, "and he has the advantage of a thicker skin. But I'm putting it all down to advertising expense. Good-by, Dave, old boy, give my kindest regards to--to Frieda." I was glad when I reached the sidewalk again. I am no cynical detractor of the advantages of wealth, breeding, education and all the things that go towards refining away some of the dross which clings to the original man. Were it not for the hope of lucre, how many would be the works of art, how great would be the achievements of the world! Still, I felt that a man can have a little too much of the scent of roses, a surfeit of gilded lilies and gems in profusion. The good, old, hard sidewalk seemed to give me just as pleasant a welcome as that extended by softest rugs, while the keen and bracing air filled my lungs more agreeably than the warmed and perfumed atmosphere I had just left. I climbed on top of one of the auto-busses, holding on to my hat, and was taken all the way down to Washington Square, where some of the ancient aristocracy of Gotham lives cheek by jowl with the proletariat burrowing a little further south. I walked away, slowly, seeking to remember in that crowded assembly uptown some face I could favorably compare with that of Frances. No, it had been a road from Dan to Beersheba, barren of such beauty as blossoms on the fourth floor back, of what Gordon calls my menagerie. One of my venturesome fancies painted for me the Murillo-woman gliding through those rooms. She would have been like a great evening star among twinkling asteroids. My imagination vaguely clothed her with a raiment of beauty, but the smile of her needed no changing. I reached the house just as the young ladies who sell candy were returning. My silk hat, I think, impressed them, as well as my yellow gloves and the ancient gold-mounted Malacca I inherited from my father. "My! Ain't you handsome to-day, Mr. Cole!" exclaimed one of them. "You been to a weddin', Mr. Cole?" asked another. "I have been to pay my respects to two people who are drifting that way, if signs don't fail," I answered. "I should be happy indeed to look just as handsome whenever any of you favors me with an invitation to her marriage." At this they giggled, appearing rather pleased, and I made my way upstairs, glad indeed to climb them. How fortunate it is that I selected the higher levels, considering that they would give me greater privacy and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I so decided, was plainly in its apogee. I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened. It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless _ritournelle_: _Gaiement je chante et chanterai; Ti-ho-ho, Car mon bonheur je garderai. Ti-ho-ho-ho._ For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes that had stolen the man's heart? A tiny pain shot through me. The bird was finding its song; would it now also use its wings? Is Frances destined to become a great singer again? Will her life, after a time, be led away from humbler surroundings, from her modest friends, and is her personality to become in my memory but one of those dear and charming recollections every man stores away in his heart, as some hide away faded flowers, a scented note, or perchance the glove that has touched a beloved hand? I coughed, prudently, to announce my coming. She was in the big chair with Baby Paul on her lap and put her finger to her lips, thus announcing that her offspring had fallen asleep. I entered on tiptoe and drew a chair towards her, with due precaution, assuming the air of a Grand Inquisitor. "Frances," I accused her, severely, but in a low voice, "you have been guilty of singing. This you have most certainly done without the faculty's permission. Dr. Porter would scold you most sternly, if he heard of it, and I feel that it is my duty to take so disagreeable a job from his shoulders. You are a bad, bold, rebellious creature and I don't know what I shall do to you!" "I--I think I shall be able to sing again," she whispered, her eyes shining brightly. "Dear--dear David, I--I am so happy!" Across the body of Baby Paul she extended her arm and hand. I took her fingers in mine. "You deserve to have them well rapped with a ruler," I told her, "but, as no such instrument of torture is at hand, I shall punish you otherwise." So I was bold enough to touch them to my lips for a second and abandoned them, suddenly possessed by a huge fear that I had taken an inexcusable liberty, but she looked at the baby, smiling. "Indeed, Frances, I share your happiness and trust that your anticipations are to be realized in fullest measure. A mean, little, selfish feeling came to me, a moment ago, that the fulfilment of your hopes might take you away from us. I confess that I am shamed and contrite at the thought, but I have become very fond of--of Baby Paul. Now, however, I rejoice with you. But, my dear child, for Heaven's sake remember what our good little doctor told you! I beg you not to spoil his magnificent work!" "Oh! David! I'll be ever so careful, I promise, and, whatever happens, you will always be the same dear old David to us. I assure you I won't try again, for ever so long. I think I just began without knowing what I was doing. The first thing I knew I was just humming that bit of song to Paul, and then the words came quite clear, so easily that I hardly realized I was singing. But I won't try again, until Dr. Porter allows me to. And then, it will be very little at a time, ever so little." "And then, you will have to go to the very best man in New York, and take more lessons and practise a lot, because your throat has been idle so long that it has forgotten all it ever knew, and--and----" "And it would cost a dreadful lot of money, and I have none, and it is all a great big lovely dream, but I must awaken from it and go back to Mr. McGrath's for a few days more, and then to Félicie's shop, because it opens again next week and she declares she can't get along without me. I am afraid, my poor David, that I shall have to be quite content with singing to Baby Paul, as best I can, and, perhaps, to Frieda and you." I rose, angrily, and paced the room several times. "That's arrant nonsense," I finally declared. "You will go to Gordon's and you will also return to Madame Félicie Smith's, for a short time. In the meanwhile I will have the piano moved into your room, because it is a silly incumbrance in mine. You can practise a little by yourself, if Porter allows you to. Then, as soon as he says it is all right, you will go to the Signora Stefano, or to Richetti or some such expert teacher. I have some money in the bank and I am going to advance it to you, because you can return it later on, when you give concerts or sing at the opera. If you don't give it back, I'll dun you, sue you, set the minions of the law after you, if such a promise can give you any comfort. Don't you dare answer, it is bad for your throat to speak too much, especially when it is nonsense. And I'm going to make a lot more money besides. I have an idea about an old maid and a canary that the magazines will bid for, hungrily. It's the finest thing I ever wrote, although it is still incubating in my head." She rose, ever so carefully, so as not to awaken Baby Paul, and deposited him in his crib. Then she came to me with both hands outstretched. "Do you really think, David, that I would squander your poor little savings? Do you think I am one to speculate on friendship and try to coin money out of kindness?" She held both my shoulders, her great beautiful eyes seeming to search my soul, which the tears that trembled on her lashes appeared to sear as if they had been drops of molten lead. With some effort, I brought a smile to my lips and shook my head. "You are a silly infant," I told her, gravely. "Little Paul, on the other hand, is a man, an individual endowed with intelligence beyond his months. He will understand that you are not at all concerned in this matter and that I only want to help him out. I want to give him a mother of whom he will be proud, one who will make the little scrivener she met on a top floor ever boastful that once upon a time he was a friend and still maintains her regard. I am only seeking to help him, since we are great pals, to graduate from long frocks to trousers, in anticipation of college and other steps towards useful manhood. He is a particular friend of mine; he smiles upon me; he has drooled upon my shirtfront and pulled my moustache. We understand one another, Paul and I, and together we deplore your feminine obstinacy." To my frightful embarrassment Frances let go of my shoulders and seized my hands, which she carried swiftly as a flash to her lips, before I could draw them away. "When I teach him to pray, you will not be forgotten, David. We--we will speak of this some other time, because, perhaps, after all, my voice will never return--as it was before, and then all this will have been but--but idle speculations--and--and I will never forget your goodness." Just then, Baby Paul, perhaps thinking that our conversation had lasted long enough, gave the signal for me to retire. He is a rather impatient young man, and I stepped out, closing the door behind me, and went to my room where I thankfully removed the frock coat, after which, David was himself again. Richetti, I have heard, is a marvelous teacher, and there is no better judge of the possibilities of a voice. I am going to interview him and explain the intricacies of the case. Then, I shall tell him that if he sees the slightest chance he will put me under lasting obligation by sending the bills to me, meanwhile, assuring Frances that he is teaching her gratuitously, in order to enhance his reputation by turning out such a consummate artist. She will fall in my snare and be captured by my wiles. There are various fashions, I have always heard, of causing the demise of a cat. Here is where the shrewd and clever conspirator is going to use the plots of his fiction in real life. I am thankful that my professional training is at last to serve me so well! CHAPTER XV THE LIGHTNING STROKE More days have gone by. This morning I happened to meet Jamieson, who is always exceedingly kind and urbane to his flock of authors. "My dear fellow," he told me, "you must not be discouraged if the 'Land o' Love' does not sell quite so well as some of the others, for I have not the slightest doubt that your next book will more than make up for it. A man is not a machine and he cannot always maintain the same level of accomplishment. We are only printing a couple of thousand copies to start with, but, of course, your advance payment, on the day of publication, will be the same as usual." He said all this so pleasantly that I almost forgot that this payment was called for on my contract and felt personally obliged to him. "We will send you a few advance copies by the end of the week," he said. "It might pay you to look one of them over, carefully. You have not read the thing for a good many months, now, and you will get a better perspective on it. I have no doubt that you will agree with me that a return to your former manner is rather advisable. I am ever so glad to have seen you. Now, don't worry over this because you have not yet written half the good stuff that's in you, and I certainly look forward to a big seller from you, some day." I shook hands with him, feeling greatly indebted, and walked slowly home. There can be few better judges than Jamieson, and his estimate of the "Land o' Love" leaves me rather blue. I have been so anxious to make money in order to be able to help in the improvement of those repaired vocal chords of Frances and start her on the way towards the success I believe is in store for her, that I feel as if the impending failure of my novel were a vicious blow of fate directed against her. Why was I ever impelled to leave aside some of the conventions of my trade, to abandon the path I have hitherto trodden in safety? One or two multimillionaires may have been able to condemn the public to perdition, but a struggling author might as safely, in broad daylight, throw snowballs at a chief of police. Before I go any further I must carefully read over the seven or eight score pages I have already done for the successor of "Land o' Love," and find out whether I am not drifting into too iconoclastic a way of writing. With my head full of such disquieting thoughts I walked home. As I turned the corner of my street, I saw Frances, a good way ahead of me. She was doubtless returning from Gordon's studio. Her darling little bundle was in her arms and she hurried along, very fast. "Baby Paul must be hungry," I decided, "and she will run up the stairs. No use hastening after her, for her door will be closed. Frieda will soon come in, and we shall all go over to Camus, as we arranged last evening." Once in my room I took up my manuscript and began to study it, trying to disguise myself under the skin of the severest critic. I started, with a frown, to read the lines, in a manner that was an excellent imitation of a grumpy teacher I remembered, who used to read our poor little essays as if they had been documents convicting us of manslaughter, to say the very least. And yet, so hopelessly vacillating is my nature that I had read but half a chapter before I was figuratively patting myself on the back, in egotistic approval of my own work. I continued, changing a word here and there and dreamily repeating some sentences, the better to judge of their effectiveness, until there was a knock at my door and Frieda came in, looking scared. "See here, Dave, I've just been in to see Frances. She's come back with a dreadful headache and can't go out to dinner with us. I asked if I could make her a cup of tea and she wouldn't hear of it. The room is all dark and she's lying on the bed." "I'll go out at once and get Dr. Porter!" I exclaimed. "No, I proposed it, but she won't see any one. She assures me that it will be all right by to-morrow and insists that it is not worth while bothering about. She wants us to go without her." "Well, at least I can go in and find out whether there is anything I can do," I persisted. "No, Dave, she told me that she wanted to be left alone. Please don't go in. Her head aches so dreadfully that she must have absolute quiet, for a time." I looked at Frieda, helplessly, and she returned the glance. This was not a bit like Frances; she is always so glad of our company, so thankful for my stout friend's petting and so evidently relieved by such sympathy as we can extend that we could make no head nor tail of the change so suddenly come upon her. The two of us felt like children open-eyed at some undeserved scolding. "Well, come along, Frieda," I said, much disgruntled. "I suppose we might as well have something to eat." "I don't care whether I have anything or not," she answered, dubiously. "Neither do I, my dear," I assented. "Then put on your hat and coat and come to the flat. I have half a cold chicken in the icebox and a bottle of beer. I don't want to go to Camus." So we departed, dully, passing before the door that had been denied us for the first time in lo, these many months. The loose stair creaked dismally under Frieda's weight, and the dim hall lights reminded me of Eulalie's churchly tapers. On the way to the flat I stopped at a bakery and purchased four chocolate éclairs wherewith to help console Frieda. Once in the apartment, my friend seemed to regain some of her flagging spirits. She exhumed the fowl from her icebox and cut slices from a loaf of bread, while I opened a can of small French peas, which she set in a saucepan placed on her gas-stove. Also, I laid the éclairs symmetrically on a blue plate I took from the dresser, after which Frieda signalled to me to open the bottle of beer and our feast began in silence. "I wonder how Trappists enjoy their meals," I finally remarked. "They don't!" snapped out Frieda. Yet a moment later she was talking as fast as usual, giving me many interesting details in regard to the effects of sick-headache on womankind and gradually abandoning the subject to revert to painting. "I have sold Orion," she said. "He is going to Chicago. I have been thinking of a Leda with a swan, but I'm afraid it's too hackneyed. Why don't you suggest something to me? That beer is getting flat in your glass; you haven't touched it. Hand me an éclair." I held the plate out to her, the while I sought to remember something mythological, and she helped herself. With profound disdain she treated the few suggestions I timidly made. "You had better go home, David," she told me at last. "We are as cheerful as the two remaining tails of the Kilkenny cats. Good night, I am going to darn stockings." So I took my departure and returned to Mrs. Milliken's where I found a message waiting for me: "Why the devil don't you have a telephone? Come right up to the studio. "GORDON." I knocked very softly at the door of the room opposite mine and was bidden to come in. Frances was lying on her sofa, and the light was not turned on. I saw her only vaguely and thought that she put a hand up to her forehead with a weary motion rather foreign to her. "I hope you will pardon me," I said. "I have just come back from dinner and find that I must go out again. Before leaving, I wanted to make sure that you were not very ill and to ascertain whether there is anything I can do for you." "No, David. Thank you ever so much," she answered. "As always you are ever so kind. By to-morrow this will have passed away and I shall be as well as ever. It--it is one of those things that never last very long and I am already better. Mrs. Milliken sent me up something, and I need nothing more. Good night, David." She had spoken very softly and gently, in the new voice that was very clear. The change in it was most remarkable. I had been so used to the husky little tone that I could hardly realize that it was the same Frances. And yet its present purity of timbre was like a normal and natural part of her, like her heavy tresses and glorious eyes or the brave strong soul of her. "Well, good night, Frances," I bade her. "I do hope your poor head will let you have some sleep to-night, and perhaps dreams of pleasant things to come." So I hastened down to the street and to the station of the Elevated, on my way to Gordon's, wondering why he was thus summoning me and inventing a score of explanations, all of which I rejected as soon as I had formulated them. When I pressed the button at his door, my friend opened it himself, his features looking very set and grave. I followed him into the studio, that was only half-lighted with a few shaded bulbs, and sat down on the divan by the window while he took a cigar and cut off the end, with unusual deliberation. "Hang it all!" he finally grumbled, "why don't you speak? Have you seen--Mrs. Dupont?" "Yes, I have," I answered, rather surprised, because to me he generally called her Frances now, as we all did. "And she has told you all about it, of course!" "She only told me that she had a severe headache, and would see no one, not even Frieda." He looked at me, sharply, after which he lit a match for his cigar, with a hand that was decidedly shaky. Then he paced up and down the big room, nervously, while I stared at him in anxious surprise. "Oh! You can look at me!" he exclaimed, after a moment. "I'm the clever chap who warned you against that woman, am I not? Marked _explosive_, I told you she ought to be. And now you can have your laugh, if you want to. Go ahead and don't mind me!" For a moment I felt my chest constricted as with a band of iron. I felt that I could hardly breathe, and the hand I put up to my forehead met a cold and clammy surface. "For God's sake, Gordon!" I cried, "what--what have you----?" He pitched the cigar in the fireplace and stood before me, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his voice coming cold and hard, the words forced and sounding artificial and metallic. "What have I done? You want to know, eh? Oh! It's soon enough told. First I did a 'Mother and Child,' a devil of a good piece of work, too. And, while I was painting it, I saturated every fiber of me with the essence of that wonderful face. Man alive! Her husky little voice, when I permitted her to speak, held an appeal that slowly began to madden me. Oh! It didn't come on the first day, or the first week, but, by the time I was putting on the last few strokes of the brush, I realized that I was making an arrant fool of myself, caught by the mystery of those great dark eyes, bound hand and foot by the glorious tresses of her hair, trapped by that amazing smile upon her face. Then, I worked--worked as I never did before, fevered by the eagerness to finish that picture and send her away, out of my sight. I was tempted to leave the thing unfinished, but I couldn't! I wanted to run away and called myself every name under the sun, and gritted my teeth. Up and down this floor I walked till all hours. I decided that it was but a sudden fever, a distemper that would pass off when she was no longer near me. Every day I swore I would react against it. What had I in common with a woman who had already given the best of her heart and soul to another man, who still goes on weeping for his memory, who is but one amid the wreck and flotsam of that artistic life so many start upon and so few ever succeed in! And the picture was finished and I gave her the few dollars she had earned and sent her away, just as calmly as if she'd been any poor drab of a creature. My God! Dave! If she had stood there and asked me for all I had, for my talent, for my soul to tread beneath her feet, I would have laid them before her, thankfully, gladly. But I took her as far as the door of the lift, forsooth, and gave her my coldest and most civil smile. I'm a wonderful actor, Dave, and have mistaken my profession! I hid it all from her--I--I think I did, anyway, and she never knew anything, at that time. So, when she had gone, I told Yumasa to turn the picture to the wall and then I went out to the club, and treated myself pretty well, and then to the theatre and back to the club. Some of the fellows are a pretty gay lot, sometimes, and I was good company for them that night!" For a moment he stopped and took up another cigar, mechanically, while I kept on staring at him in silence. "Oh! I was able to walk straight enough when I came home. The stuff had little effect on me. In the taxi my head was whirling, though. But I got back here and took up the picture again and placed it on the easel, in a flood of light. It was wonderful! It seemed to me that she was coming out of the frame and extending her round arms and slender fingers to me till my heart was throbbing in my throat and choking me!" He stopped again and took up his pacing once more, like some furred beast in a cage. "In the morning I looked at myself," he resumed. "A fine wreck of manhood I appeared, bleared and haggard and with a mouth tasting of the ash heap. But, after a Turkish bath, I was like some imitation of my real self again, for I could hold myself in and think clearly. It meant the abandoning of all my plans and the awakening, some day, in a period of disillusionment, with a woman at my side carrying another man's child and bestowing on me the remnants of her love. Ay, man! I was egotist enough to think I should only have to ask, to put out my hand to her! But I gripped myself again and felt proud of the control I could exercise over my madness. The Jap packed up my things, and I went away over there, where the other woman awaited me, with her horses and her autos, her rackets and her golf-clubs, with other rich women about her, laughing, simpering, chattering, but culling all the blossoms of a life I had aimed for and was becoming a part of. I had paid for it, Dave, in toil such as few other men have undergone, at the price of starvation in garrets, over there in the _Quartier_. No light o' loves for me, no hours wasted, never a penny spent but for food of a sort and the things I needed for painting. And it took me years. Then the reward was before me, for I had won time. Yes, man! I was the master of time! Fools say it is money! What utter rot! Money is time, that's what it is. It can bring time for leisure, and to enjoy luxury, to bask in smiles, to lead a life of ease and refinement, and time also to accomplish the great work of one's dreams!" There was another pause. "I didn't forget her, of course. She was before me night and day, but I thought I was mastering my longing, beginning to lord it over an insane passion. I could golf and swim and dance, and listen to fools prattling of art, and smile at them civilly and agree with their silly nonsense. They're not much more stupid than most of the highbrows, after all, and, usually, a devilish sight more pleasant to associate with. None of Camus's poison in their kitchens! And--and that other woman was a beauty, and she held all that I aimed for in her hand and was stretching it out to me. And she's a good woman too and a plucky one! Rather too good for me, I am sure. It was at night, going forty miles an hour, I think, that I finally made up my mind to ask her. And--and she consented. She was driving and never slowed down a minute, for we were late. I was half scared, and yet hoping that she might wrap that car around a telegraph pole, before we arrived. When we finally stopped, she declared it had been a glorious ride, and gave me her lips to kiss, and--and I went up to my room to dress for dinner, feeling that I had made an end of all insanity, that I had achieved all that I had fought so hard for! "Then, later on, after some months, you came around to ask me to use Frances as a model again. I thought I was quite cured at that time, and I refused. Oh, yes! I had been coming to that shack of yours. On those Sunday afternoons the devil would get into me. A look at her would do no harm. You and Frieda would be there too. And I would come and sit on your rickety bed and look at her, and listen to you all, and watch you pouring out tea. But I thought all the time that I was keeping a fine hold on myself, just tapering off, the dope-fiends call it. Then it was that you came to me. You're ugly and gawky enough, Dave, but no evil angel of temptation was ever so compelling as you. I remember how you stared when I said I didn't want her. And you hadn't been gone ten minutes before the devil had his clutches on me and flung me in my car and I met you at your door and told you to let her come! "And I've been painting her again. Such beastly stuff as I've turned out! Daubing in and rubbing out again, and staring at her till I knew she was beginning to feel uneasy and anxious. But I always managed to keep a hold on my tongue. God! What a fight I was waging, every minute of the time, crazy to fling the palette to the floor, to kick the easel over, to rush to her and tell her I was mad for the love of her! And to-day the crisis came; I'd been shaking all over; couldn't hold a brush to save my life. I--I don't know what I said to her; but it was nothing to offend her, I am sure, nothing that a sweet, clean woman could not hear and listen to, from a man who loved her. But I remember her words. They were very halting and that poor voice of hers was very hoarse again. "'Oh!' she cried, 'I--I am so miserably sorry. I--I thought you were just one of the dear kind friends who have been so good to me. I--I never said a word or did a thing to--to bring such a thing about. Please--please let me go away. It makes me dreadfully unhappy!' "And so she picked up her hat and put it on, her hands shaking all over, and took the baby to her bosom and went out, and--and I guess that's all, Dave." He sank down on the teakwood stool he generally uses to put his colors on and his brushes. His jaws rested in the open palms of his hands, and he looked as if his vision was piercing the walls and wandering off to some other world. "Why don't you speak?" he finally cried. "Because I don't know what to say," I replied. "I've an immense pity for you in my heart, old man. You--you've been playing with fire and your burnt flesh is quivering all over." "Let it go at that, Dave," he answered, rising. "I'm glad you're not one of the preaching kind. I'd throw you neck and crop out of the window, if you were." "What of Miss Van Rossum?" I asked, gravely. "They went off a week ago to Palm Beach. Looking for those tarpon. Come along." "You haven't treated her right, Gordon." "Know that as well as you. Come on out!" I followed him downstairs. His car was drawn up against the curb and he jumped in. "Want a ride?" he asked. "No, I think I had better go home now." "All right. Thanks for coming. I didn't want you to think I had behaved badly to Frances, for I didn't, and I had to talk to some one. Good by!" He let in his clutch, quickly, and the machine jerked forward. He turned into the Park entrance and disappeared, going like a crazy man. So I returned home, feeling ever so badly for the two of them. I honestly think and hope that I am of a charitable disposition, but I could not extend all sympathy and forgiveness to my friend. He had deliberately gone to work and proposed to a woman he did not truly love, and she had accepted him. The poor girl probably thinks the world of him, in her own way, which is probably a true and womanly one. And now, after he is bound hand and foot by her consent, he goes to work and lays down his heart at the feet of another. Honor, manliness, even common decency should have held him back! I wondered sadly whether the best and truest friend I ever had was now lost to me, and I could have sat down and wept, had not tears been for many years foreign to my eyes. And then the picture of Frances seemed to appear before me, in all its glory of tint, in all its sweetness and loveliness, and I shook my head as I thought of the awful weakness of man and of how natural it was that, before such a vision, no strength of will or determination of purpose could have prevented the culmination of this tragedy. I am sure that he resisted until the very last moment, to be at last overwhelmed. Poor old Gordon! Her door was closed and there was utter silence when I returned. I tried to write, but the noise of the machine offended me. For a long time I stared at the pages of an open book, never turning a leaf over, and, finally, I sought my bed, more than weary. At two o'clock, on the next afternoon, I got a wire from Gordon. "Am taking the _Espagne_. Lots of sport driving an ambulance at the front. May perhaps write. "GORDON." I stared at the yellow sheet, stupidly. After this there was a knock at the door and the colored servant came in, bringing me a parcel. I opened it and found some advance copies of the "Land o' Love," which I threw down on the floor. What did all those silly words amount to! CHAPTER XVI FRANCES READS MY BOOK. A great extravagance of mine lies in the fact that I pay my board here, for the sake of Mrs. Milliken, and take a good many of my meals outside, for mine. Strange as it may seem to the inveterately domestic, I enjoy a little table of my own, with a paper or a book beside me and the utter absence of the "please pass the butter" or "I'll trouble you for the hash" of the boarding-house. Hence, I rose from my chair for another refection outside and debated as to whether I might venture out without my overcoat, when Frieda came out of Frances's room and penetrated mine. "She is all right now," I was informed. "Her headache has quite left her, and Madame Smith has been in to inform her that the shop is to be opened to-morrow. So I have told Frances she had better continue to lie down and have a good rest. I may come in again, later this afternoon, for a cup of tea." "You are a million times welcome to it," I said, "but you will have to make it yourself. I have to go over to my sister's where there is another blessed birthday. I shall have to go out now and pick out a teddy bear or a Noah's ark. I am afraid they will keep me until late. Give Frances my love and insist on her going out to-morrow evening with us, to Camus." "Very well, I certainly will," answered Frieda, bending over with much creaking of corset bones. "What are these books on the floor? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for ill-treating valuable, clean volumes." "They may be clean, but I doubt their value," I said. "They're only copies of the 'Land o' Love.'" "What a pretty cover design, but the girl's nose is out of drawing. Sit right down and sign one of them for me and I want to take another to Frances. It will help her to pass away the time." I obeyed, decorating a blank page with my illegible hieroglyphics, and repeated the process on a second copy for Frances, after which I departed. Goodness knows that I love the whole tribe of my sister's young ones, and my sister herself, and hold her husband in deep regard. He is a hard-working and inoffensive fellow, who means well and goes to church of a Sunday. He proudly introduces me as "my brother-in-law the author," and believes all he sees in his morning paper. Despite all this, I abhor the journey to their bungalow although, once I have reached it, I unquestionably enjoy the atmosphere of serene home life. The infants climb on my knees and wipe their little shoes on my trousers, bless their hearts! To little David, named after me, I was bringing a bat and baseball mitt, with some tin soldiers. He is now six years old and permitted to blow his own nose under his mother's supervision. The pride he takes in this accomplishment is rather touching. A large box of candies would permit the others to share in my largess, and I arrived at the top of the Palisades laden like a commuter. After the many embraces, my expert advice was sought in regard to the proposed location of an abominable bronze stag, purchased cheap at an auction, and the thirst I was supposed to be dying from was slaked with homemade root beer. Thereafter, I was taken for a walk and made to inspect a new house under construction, that was being erected by an individual who is godfather to little Philippa. Upon our return, the scratchy phonograph was called upon to contribute to the general entertainment, my sister constantly running in and out of the parlor to the kitchen, where a perspiring straw-headed Swede toiled at the forthcoming dinner. From this I arose at last, quite happy and slightly dyspeptic. In honor of the day the children were allowed an extra half-hour of grace before being driven off to bed. After peace reigned upstairs, I was consulted at length in regard to my views concerning the future prospects of the sewing-machine trade, in which John is interested, while my sister requested my opinion as to an Easter hat. I finally left, after contributing the wherewithal for a family visit to the circus, and John was so good as to accompany me all the way to the trolley tracks. They are lovable, dear people, prudent in their expenditure in order that their offspring may be well brought up, and happy in their modest and useful lives. If I were only a successful writer, a maker of best sellers, I should rejoice in the ability to help them carry out their plans and achieve their reasonable ambitions. As it is, I can only assist Santa Claus in his yearly mission and try, at various time, to bring extra little rays of sunshine to them. As the trolley and ferryboat brought me home, I had the feeling that the night was far advanced and that I had been on a long journey which rendered the prospect of bed and slumber a highly desirable one. But once in the embrace of the big city, I realized that it was but the shank of the evening and that the hurried life of the town, maker of successes and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watch showed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed up the last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance that might awaken Frances and her little one. To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding my book, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw her wonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with hand outstretched. "Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul is sleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk to you about that book. But--but before I speak of it, I want to have a long, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David--you haven't changed a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew how big, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!" "My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good. Jamieson doesn't think very much of it." "It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been able to keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David, where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discover and reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats of struggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that this book of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feel like a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness. Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank you still more for the strength and the courage those pages have brought me!" I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had read the volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, of the interest she takes in my work. "My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able to gather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You have hypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from your friend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, and especially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impression may be shared by others." "I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It is perfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this one is different." "That's the trouble," I informed her. She shook her head, as if in despair at my pessimism. "Don't be foolish, Dave. You have done a fine piece of work. Oh! You can smile, if you want to. I know I am nothing but a girl--I mean a woman--but since early girlhood I have lived in an atmosphere of art, which is nothing but truth expressed in all its beauty. I think I have always understood the big things in painting and in music, instinctively, and in this book I find a melody that uplifts me, a riot of splendid color which appeals to me, because it is all true." "Gracious! My dear Frances!" I said, laughing. "I fear that, if you are ever tempted to read it again, you will meet with a great loss of illusion." But she laughed also, her low sweet voice coming clear and happy. "I--I had been feeling so badly, David, and the moment I set foot in your dear 'Land o' Love' I was glad again to be alive. My baby looked more beautiful than ever to me, and the years that are to come, more hopeful. Dear friend, I am so glad and proud that a man like you has come into my life!" For a second only I looked at her, and then my eyes fell. I was glad indeed of her words, but I felt that her regard and affection would be all I should ever obtain from her. The love of so glorious a creature was never meant for a little scribbler, but how splendid a thing it was for a man to have been able to gain her esteem, to have succeeded in having her call him, trustfully, by his first name and permit him to sit beside her in the little room where she spends so many hours and croons to her baby! "Dr. Porter says that my throat is doing ever so well," she told me, after a moment of silence. "He sees no objection to my beginning to sing a few scales. I must keep very carefully to the middle of my register, so that I may put no undue strain on my voice. Oh! David! I have always doubted that it would ever come back. Isn't it queer? Since I finished the book, I feel uplifted, hopeful. Indeed, I am beginning to believe that some day I shall sing again, just as I did when----" A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. She was evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back. But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with hands folded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in her sweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and she leaned forward, swiftly. "Did--did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked. "He sent for me last night," I acknowledged. "And--and of course he told you----" "Everything, I suppose." She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly at the worn carpet. "At--at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me days and days ago that he was engaged--she had seen it in a paper. Of course, he never spoke to me about it. When--when he began to say those things, I thought he was out of his senses and--and I was afraid. He was pale and trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me to marry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. My baby was in my arms--and this meant that I should always have bread for him--that he could be taken care of--that it wouldn't matter, then, if I ever could sing again. I--I could buy health and happiness for him, and strength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went away again, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should have to give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle, yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him as a loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, so frightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and--and then I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and so considerate--not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you, but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightest idea that--that he had--that he was in love with me. And--and is it true, David, that he is engaged to another woman?" "I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman, and--and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, of course, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he had mapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. And then, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him, that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and that the real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!" I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been a shock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for a love she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately come into her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, full of gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain on him, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak and trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of her room. "I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when--when I saw that terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things? Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and repeat the words after me. I--I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize how splendid and disinterested your friendship is." She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul was sleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as if the pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with a sense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't and couldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with such intensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs. Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old one was still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again but whose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her, a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said for him and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved, but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. I would fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her, for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemed me, to whom she could at least give affection and trust. "It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will read that last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep. It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring the blessedness of new hope." "I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my room where I touched a match to the gas and filled my big calabash. As I looked about me, I felt that my little kingdom was a rather bare and shabby one. Hitherto it had been perfectly sufficient for my needs, nor had I ever seen in it anything to find fault with. In fact I had many a time thought myself fortunate in having so secure a retreat, which only the feet of faithful friends could be attracted to. They would come to it only for the sake of their old David. They were content to sit on the edge of the bed, if the chairs gave out. But now I realized that for some time strange dreams had been coming to me, of a possibility that in its occupant a marvelous and glorious creature might one day find something kindred, a heart to which her own would respond. I had begun to lift my eyes up to her and now I saw how pitiful the room and the lodger must seem to her. I felt that all that I should ever get out of life would be fiction, invention, the playing of tunes on hearts of my own creation that would never beat for me saving in printed pages. Never could they become my very own; always, they would go out to others, to laugh or weep or yawn over. They would represent but pieces of silver with which I might perhaps bring a bit of happiness to a few, after paying for my shelter and food, and the clothes which Gordon asserts are never really made for me. Poor old Gordon! Frieda predicted that he would be hoist by his own petard, some day, and it has come to pass. He is now far out of sight of land, and his head is still awhirl with the amazing wrecking of his schemes. It would have been a bigger thing for him to do, and a braver, to have gone to that splendid girl Sophia Van Rossum and confessed he had sinned against her, and begged her pardon, humbly. I suppose he has written to her and explained that he has lost the right even to touch the hem of her garment. It is good that he had the saving grace not to keep up his pretence of love for her, but his sudden and amazing departure shows how keenly he has felt the blow. His ambitions have flown, his plans gone a-gley, and the one thing that could remain was the eager searching for an immediate change, for a reckless occupation in whose pursuit he might gamble with his life and, perhaps, throw it away. I saw his purpose, clearly. In the ambulance corps there would be no long months of drilling, no marching up and down fields and roads clear of any enemy. He could at once go to work and play his part in the great game. May he return safely, and may the hand of time deal gently with him! Were I fitted for it, I should gladly take his place. The idea of also running away, before temptation becomes unendurable, is beginning to appeal to me with no little strength. But what could I do at that front where they want men of youthful vigor and bravery, in whom the generous sap of life at its finest runs swiftly? I think I will have to remain here and continue to turn out my little stories. I will keep on giving them a happy ending, that my readers may finish them contentedly. But always I shall remain conscious of the tale of my own life, in which there will never be an entrance into that happiness I so freely bestow on the poor little children of my imagination. Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me. She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my heart. CHAPTER XVII MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS For some time I have permitted these pages to lie fallow. I thought I would not continue to jot down the events and the feelings that crowded themselves upon me, since they could serve only to make more permanent to mind and memory a period of my life in which there has been much sweetness and comfort of mind mingled, however, with the sadness that comes upon the man who knows he can never achieve his heart's desire. I deemed it best to cease my unprofitable ruminations over things flavored with some distress. Why keep on rehearsing them over and over again and sitting down in the wee small hours to make confidants of heartless sheets of paper? Yet to-day I feel that, in after years, they may possibly prove of value to me. Man is so fortunately constituted that he remembers happiness and joy more vividly than pain. The day may come when I shall pick up these sheets and smile a little over my sorrows, whose edges will be blunted, and think, dreamily and with a mind at ease, over many hours scattered here and there, which made up for the days of unprofitable longing. Many surprising things have happened since I last wrote. In spite of what Frances told me, David Cole seems to have changed. In my own purview I can distinguish no alteration in my personality, but it appears to be rather evident to some of my acquaintances. Jamieson, some weeks ago, met me on Broadway. His wide and hearty palm failed to smite me as usual on the back. He rushed across the street with hand extended and greeted me as a long lost friend, instead of a pleasant business acquaintance. His memory, the excellence of which I have heard him boast of, appeared to have suffered a partial lapse. "Why! Mr. Cole!" he exclaimed. "Ever so happy to see you! I always told you I had every reason to believe that some day you would make a killing. It is great! Have you seen the _Nation_, and the _Times_, and the _Springfield Republican_ and the _Boston Observer_? Of course you have! They're giving columns to the 'Land o' Love.' The biggest shop on the Avenue keeps its show-windows filled with it. The first printing melted like a snowflake on a hot stove. Five more of them already, and another on the way. How are you getting on with the new manuscript?" In his enthusiasm he appeared to remember nothing of his former rather dark views as to the prospects of my book. He was now exuberant, enthusiastic, and quite impressed by his infallibility. I informed him that the new book was coming on fairly well and expressed my delight at the popular demand for the novel so kindly spoken of by the critics. He insisted on my taking lunch with him, deplored my inability to accept his invitation and made me promise to dine with him very soon. He was anxious that I should meet Mrs. Jamieson and the children, and carefully saw to my safety as far as the Subway station. Needless to say that this sudden stroke of good fortune, after first leaving me somewhat dazed, has given me a great deal of happiness. It was only a couple of days after I had been first informed of the way the public was clamoring for the book that I invaded my neighbor's room, stormily. "Frances," I announced to her, "I have just been to see Professor Richetti. I had an introduction to him from Jamieson, who knows everybody. He received me very charmingly, quite in the manner of the _grand seigneur_, and then just melted. His bow is a revelation, and his smile a treat. It appears that he has heard of you. 'I know, I know,' he exclaimed, as soon as I mentioned your name. 'La Signora Francesca Dupont, oh, yes. More as one year ago I 'ear of la Signora. My friend Fiorentino in Paris he wrote me she come right away to America. Him say she has one voice _di primo cartello_, a very fine beautiful _mezzo-soprano_, very much _maravigliosa_. I much wonder I do not 'ear about the Signora. Her disappear, no one know nothing. Ah, her was sick in de throat! And now all well again. No use the voice long time. _Per favore_, Signor Cole, you bring me him lady _subito_, and I listen, I 'ear 'er sing, I take 'er and make a great _cantatrice_ of 'er again!'" Frances looked at me. She rose from her chair and paced about the room, once or twice. Then she leaned against the piano, that had been placed in her room, and held her forehead in her hand. "Listen, David," she said slowly. "Don't make me do this. Don't put such temptation before me. I'm only a weak woman." "Frances, but for the thinness of my locks I'd pull out my hair in despair at your obstinacy," I cried. "I am telling you that they are selling that book faster than they can print it and that money will soon be flowing into my coffers. Jamieson has intimated that I could have a large advance at once, if I wanted it. Moreover, Richetti is--he isn't going to charge anything. He--he says that you can pay him long after your tuition is ended." She came to me, swiftly, and put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes searching mine, which could not stand her gaze. "My poor dear Dave. You--you are such a poor hand at deceiving. I--I don't think you could fool even Baby Paul. There is too much candor and honesty in you for that sort of thing." "Well," I answered, rather lamely, "I--I told him, of course, that I would guarantee the payment of his honorarium, and he answered that he must try your voice first, because, if it was not promising, he would refuse to waste his time on it. He was very frank. Then he told me that Jamieson's note stated that I was a _scrittore celebre_, a _romanziero molto distinto_, and that whatever arrangements I wanted to make would be perfectly satisfactory. He declared, with his hand on his heart, that money was a great means to an end, but that the thing that really mattered in this world was art, _Per Bacco_! and the _bel canto_ from voices divine! And now, my dear child, you and I are trembling over the edge of a most frightful quarrel, of a bitter fight, of weepings and gnashings of teeth! You shall obey me, or I will take Baby Paul and feed him to the hippopotamuses--no, they eat hay and carrots and things; but I will throw him to the bears in the pit or squeeze him through the bars of the lion's cage. Do you hear me?" She took a step back and sank in the armchair, her hands covering her face. "Hello! What's the matter?" came from the open doorway. It was Frieda, a fat and rosy _dea ex machina_, arriving to my rescue. "Frances," I informed her, "is beginning to shed tears, because she is going to Richetti's to have her voice made over again, renovated like my gray suit. She wants to weep, because she will have to sing scales and other horrid things, and be scolded when she is naughty and does not open her mouth properly." "Oh! I'm so glad!" chuckled Frieda, her double chin becoming more pronounced owing to the grin upon her features. "Isn't it fine!" "But--but it means that David wants me to be a drag on him," objected Frances, rising quickly. "He is guaranteeing the fees, and--and I should probably have to stop working at Madame Félicie's, and it means----" "It means that he will have to advance a little money for your expenses while you study," said Frieda judicially. "Yes, of course, and after months and months of study we may find out that my voice will never again be the same, and that all this has been wasted, and that I shall never be able to pay it back. He has always worked dreadfully hard and denied himself ever so many things in order to be kind to others, and now----" "And now he is making money hand over fist. I just went to see a friend off on the steamer to Bermuda and every other passenger has a copy of that blessed book in his hand. Now that Dave is being rewarded at last, and is entitled to a bit of extravagance, to a little of the comfort money can bring, you won't help him. You know that it will make him perfectly miserable, if you don't accept. Oh, dear! I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense. Do behave yourself, Frances, and let the poor fellow have his own way, for once." And so it was finally settled, after another tear or two and some laughter, and Frieda joyously sat down to the piano and began to play some horrible tango thing and Baby Paul awoke and protested, as any sensible infant would. The next day, I took Frances over to Richetti's, and he was ever so pleasant and courteous to her, and most sympathetic. I left her with him, fearing that my presence might distract her attention from more important matters, and went to a tailor to order a suit of clothes. It gratified me considerably to feel that, for the time being, there would be no sinful extravagance in eschewing the ready-made. There is indeed a great comfort in the inkling that one is beginning to get along in the world. After this I had my hair cut, and returned, exuding bay rum, to Richetti's studio. Frances was waiting for me. The _maestro_ was already engaged with another pupil, and we went out to find seats on an open car. "He says he thinks it will be all right," she told me, eagerly. "The tone is there and the volume. All I need is exercise, much judicious exercise. He is the first teacher I ever met who told me that my breathing was all right. They always want you to follow some entirely new method of their own. He will give me three lessons a week, in the morning. That will be enough for the present. At first, I must only practise an hour a day. And so I can go back to Madame Félicie, because she will be very glad to have me every afternoon and three mornings a week and so I can keep on making a little money and I won't have to borrow so much from you. Isn't it splendid?" "I wish you would give up the shop," I told her. But she shook her head, obstinately, and, of course, she had to have her own way. That evening we went to Camus, and I doubt whether the place ever saw three happier people. Frieda beamed all over and gorged herself on mussels _à la marinière_. She had just finished a portrait that pleased her greatly, and was about to take up a nymph and faun she had long projected. "I don't suppose I would do for the nymph?" asked Frances. "You a nymph! I want some slender wisp of a child just changing into womanhood, my dear. You are the completed article, the flower opened to its full beauty. If I ever paint you, it will have to be as some goddess that has descended to the earth to mother a child of man." "And I presume that as a faun I should hardly be a success," I ventured. "What an idea! Frances, think of our dear old Dave prancing on a pair of goat's legs and playing pipes of Pan." They laughed merrily over the farcical vision thus evoked, and, of course, I joined in the merriment. We remained for some time, watching the dancing that took place in a space cleared of tables. Not far from us rose an old gentleman who might have been profitably employed in reading Victor Hugo's "Art of being a Grandfather," who danced with a pretty young girl who looked at him, mischievously. From the depth of my virtue I somewhat frowned upon him, until he returned to the table where a white-haired old lady and a young man were still sitting. The girl put her hand on the old lady's arm, and I heard her say something to the effect that Daddy was growing younger every day, so that I felt properly contrite. There may be much folly in all this dancing, in the spending of many hours that might be employed in more useful pursuits, but, after all, our hearts are in great part such as we make them. The wicked will always find no lack of opportunity for the flaunting of evil ways, and the good will never be any the worse for anything that cheers them, that lightens drearier bits of life, that may bring smiles to lips trained to the speaking of truth and kindness. After this little feast of ours, some more weeks went by, marked by the parading in the streets of a few old men engaged in selling pussy-willows, after which the shops displayed the first lilacs which presently grew so abundant that they were peddled on every street-corner, wherefore I knew that the Spring was fairly established and swiftly turning into summer. Frances was going to Richetti's, regularly, and practising every evening, with the assistance of my piano. To me her scales and exercises sounded more entrancing than any diva's rendering of masterpieces, I think. It was all in the voice, in the wonderful clear notes which, like some wonderful bloom come out of a homely bulb, had so quickly sprung from the poor little husky tones I remembered so well. Even then there had been charm and sweetness in them, but, now, her song added greater glory to Frances and seemed to be taking her farther away from me, to make her more intangible. I met Richetti in the street, the other day, and he grasped my arm, enthusiastically. "But a few more weeks of lessons," he told me, beamingly. "After that the _cara signora_ Francesca will work by herself for a few months, when I go to Newport. By September I return and we begin again. Ah! Signore Cole, we give again to the world a great voice, a ripe full-throated organ, with flexibility, with a timbre _magnifico_! She makes progress so quick I cease not to marvel. By middle of winter I give my concert of pupils. Yesterday, I make her sing Massenet's 'Elégie.' It make me cry very nearly. She have a soul full of music, _per Bacco! Addio, caro signore_! I see my friend Gazzoro-Celesti. A thousand pardons!" He shook hands effusively and ran across Broadway, where he greeted the great _basso buffo_ of the Metropolitan, and I was left to rejoice by myself, as I went into a shop to buy a new typewriter ribbon. And so a time came when the lessons were stopped for some weeks. Richetti deplored the fact that Frances could not go to Newport, where he would have kept on teaching her, but assured her that she was getting on marvelously and that her practice would suffice to prevent her from losing anything she had gained back. With the beginning of the hot weather, Frances grew somewhat anxious about Baby Paul, who was weaned and did not keep up his steady gain in weight. She was looking rather tired, and I insisted on calling in Dr. Porter, who advised an immediate change of air. "What you need is a month or two in the country," he declared. "You have been working very hard in that shop, and practising at night, and looking after that young ogre. If you expect to keep your health, you must take care of it. Without it, there can be no good singing, nor any big, vigorous Baby Paul." "It isn't possible," asserted Frances. "It is, and shall be done," I contradicted severely. "When I took my gray suit over to Madame Félicie to clean and press, she complained that there was very little business now. I know that she can spare you for a time. She will have to do so anyway, when you begin to sing in public. I know just the place for you to go to." "Good!" exclaimed Dr. Porter, "and you, Mr. Cole, had better do the same thing. You ought to take a holiday. Get some of the cobwebs off your mind and gather in a little country atmosphere to put into your next book." "All I need," I said, "is some pills. I shall get you to prescribe them for me." "I won't," he retorted rudely. "You must go to bed at a reasonable hour, consume regular meals, and breathe clean air and take plenty of exercise. So long, get a move on you and take my advice at once, undiluted." "It would be ever so nice, if you could go, David," said Frances, as soon as our good little doctor had left. "I am sure you are tired also. As for me, I know it is not so bad as he thinks. I can take Baby up on the Palisades, and to Staten Island and back on the ferry, and perhaps on the Coney Island boat, and----" "Nothing of the sort," I interrupted. "Of course I don't care anything about Baby Paul and yourself, but I have a great pecuniary interest in your voice and I am going to have my money back, and you will have to sing in order to earn it, and----" "And you can keep on saying all the horrid things you want to," she put in. "Now, David, be reasonable. You know that a stay in the country would do you ever so much good." "Very well," I answered. "Then I shall hire Eulalie to elope with Baby Paul and I'll go along to watch his teething, and you can stay here and inhale benzine at Madame's, and lose all your voice and grow thin and ugly, and be well punished for disobedience and rebellion, and by the time you've----" We were interrupted by the sound of steps on the stairs. They were somewhat heavy, but not the deliberate thumps of Frieda's climbing. It was a swift and confident progress, in which I recognized none of the inmates of our menagerie. A second later I turned. A fine young woman of healthful color and dressed in excellent taste stood at the door. "I--I beg your pardon," she said. "The colored woman told me to go right up to the top floor. How--how do you do, Mr. Cole?" It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum, big as life, with a face perhaps more womanly and handsome than I had ever given her credit for possessing. In our surroundings she appeared like a fine hot-house flower suddenly transplanted to a poor little tenement yard. She was looking curiously at Frances, who was standing at my side. CHAPTER XVIII DIANA AMONG MORTALS "I am awfully sorry that you took the trouble of coming all the way up here," I told her. "I am afraid that the colored maid is little accustomed to social usages. There is a little parlor downstairs." "Oh! It's all right, Mr. Cole. I asked for you and she just pointed up with her thumb and said 'Top floor,' so I climbed up." She took a step towards Frances, extending her hand. "I know I have seen you before," she said pleasantly, "but I can't for the moment remember where we met." "I think, Miss Van Rossum, that you have only been acquainted with Mrs. Dupont through the medium of my friend Gordon's talent. You may remember a 'Mother and Child' in his studio." "Of course. I remembered the face at once. Gordon is such a wonderful painter, so clever in obtaining the most marvelous likenesses. And--and he didn't flatter his models a great deal, either. I am very glad to meet you, Mrs. Dupont." Frances smiled, in her graceful way, and expressed her own pleasure. "You--you also know Gordon, of course, since you posed for him, Mrs. Dupont. I--I came here to speak with Mr. Cole about him." "I can hardly offer you the hospitality of my room, Miss Van Rossum," I told her. "It is a rather disorderly bachelor's den. If you will allow me to lead you downstairs to the little parlor the landlady provides her guests with, I shall be delighted to----" "No, if you don't mind, I shall remain here for a moment. Mr. Cole, you are Gordon's best friend; he used to say that you were the great exception, a man one could always trust in everything. I hope Mrs. Dupont will not mind, she--she is a woman and may be able to advise me. I have legions of friends--we know thousands of people, but it doesn't seem to me that there is another soul to whom I may come for--for a little----" She interrupted her words. I had pushed a chair forward for her and she acknowledged the offer with a smile, but did not avail herself of it at once, for she went to the bed where Baby Paul was, for a wonder, lying awake and rolling his eyes about. On his face, however, there was something that Frances and I considered a polite little grin. "Is this the dear baby of the picture?" she asked. "He has grown such a lot. What a dear lamb of a child it is! Oh! Mrs. Dupont, how proud and happy a woman must be to be the mother of such a darling!" Decidedly Miss Sophia was revealing herself in a very fine light. For all of her riding astride after hounds, and her golfing and shooting and tennis, she was a very real woman and her heart was in the right place. Frances took up Baby Paul and sat down with him on her lap, where he promptly went to sleep again. "I remember how Gordon spoke of you, several times, Mrs. Dupont," said Miss Van Rossum. "He said a queer thing, once, one of the strange little sentences he always used to bring out. I was looking at your picture and told him it represented a very beautiful woman, and he answered that she was one of those ideals the other fellow always gets hold of. But--but I don't see that there was anything very ideal about that painting. It was just you." For a moment Frances looked away. The phrase reminded her of an unhappy circumstance, I have no doubt, but, to me, it represented cynicism carried to an unpermissible length. "But I must come to the point," continued Miss Van Rossum, with a slight frown, which I deemed an indication that she had something rather difficult to say. "Of course you've been wondering at my coming here. I know it's a bit unconventional, but I didn't want to write and ask you to come and see me. We have only just returned from California and are off to Southampton in the morning. I--I simply felt that I must take my chance of finding you at home. I told you a minute ago that Gordon always said you were a man to be trusted to the utmost, and--and I want to find out something about him. Please, Mr. Cole, have you any news of him?" "I have received but one very short letter," I replied. "I will go and get it for you." I think I was glad to escape for a moment and leave her with Frances, for I foresaw a long cross-examination. She had looked very brave and strong at the moment of her amazing arrival, and I had wondered at such an unusual proceeding. But now I realized that she was very profoundly disturbed, that her show of pluck was but a veil to cover a heart which could suffer the same pains as gnaw at the breasts of so many of her sisters of humbler station. Gordon, old friend, I fear I shall never quite forgive you! You have done vivisection without the excuse of scientific need, without the slightest idea that it could profit any one but yourself! I found the note, but did not return immediately. I asked myself how much she knew, seeing that there were many possibilities of inflicting further pain on a very fine young woman who was already undergoing unmerited punishment. Finally, I went back, slowly, to find her sitting in front of Frances, with their two heads quite near one another and their eyes directed to Baby Paul's little pink mouth. "I have it here. Miss Van Rossum. You will see that it is quite short. He must be tremendously busy and surely snatched a precious moment for a word to an old friend." I handed her the letter, in an envelope that had been opened by the censor and pasted over with a bit of thin paper. She took it with a very steady hand. The girl was engaged in playing a game, I could plainly see. It was one in which her heart was involved and perhaps her pride somewhat aroused. She opened the thing and looked over the brief sentences. "_Dear old Dave_: "Found a lot of fellows I knew. Didn't have a bit of trouble getting in. I'm going to drive one of those cars I wouldn't have been found dead in, in old New York. They tell me they do very well as ambulances, though. I'm close to the front now and have seen a good deal of the crop being garnered there. It makes a fellow feel that he doesn't amount to much. There isn't any harrowing of one's own mind that can last very long in the presence of this real and awful suffering. "Ever your old GORDON. "P.S. Give my love to Frieda." Miss Van Rossum read it over at least twice. Then her eyes slowly rose from the page and, perhaps, without seeing very clearly, swept over Frances and me. She folded it and replaced it in the envelope, very carefully, before handing it back. "I--I have no doubt that it has greatly appealed to him," she said, now vaguely looking out of the window into yards chiefly adorned with fluttering raiment dependent from a very spider's web of intricate lines. "It--it was a sporting thing to do, you know, very manly and fine. But he also wrote to me and--I have never been able to understand. Of course I wouldn't have interfered with--with a plan like that. I have only wished I could have gone over and done something too--something that would count and make one feel that she could be of some use in the world. Yes--it's a big thing he's done--but why did he write me such a letter?" She opened a small bag she had been carrying and pulled out a missive that bore my friend's monogram, a very plain G.M. cleverly interlaced. "Won't you please look at it, Mr. Cole? I got it the day we left Florida. I--I was rather bunkered at first, you know." I took it from her, doubtless displaying far more nervousness than she was showing, for she appeared to be quite calm. I saw that she had taken the blow as Frieda's pugilistic friend might have accepted what he calls a wallop, with a brave smile, after the first wince. I also read it over twice. "_My dear Sophia_: "It's rather hard on a fellow to be compelled to acknowledge he's anything but a decent sportsman. I'm afraid I shall have to. In your kindness you may, perhaps, forgive me. I have made a bad mess of things. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't hitting you also, because you're a good pal and a splendid girl who deserves a better chap. I'm off abroad to play chauffeur to the cripples, and, of course, there is no telling when I'll be back. "I hope to God you will find some decent fellow who really deserves you and will make you happy. "Affectionately, "GORDON." After I had finished this horrible and clumsy message, I looked at Miss Van Rossum. There was something very wistful and strong in the glance that rested upon me. I had no doubt that she had been studying my face, as I read, and watching the impression made on me. Of course, he had been greatly agitated when he wrote. I felt sure that he must have torn up one letter after another and finally sent the worst of all. It had dwindled into a few lines, which explained nothing, being merely brutal and final, like a knockout blow. He had made a mess of things, forsooth! Well, the reading of such a letter might have made one think that he had robbed a bank or cheated at cards! "You see, Mr. Cole, it doesn't say much, does it? I just had to tell my mother that Gordon had felt called upon to go off and--and do a big thing, and that of course the--the whole thing was put off indefinitely. I--I don't think she was disappointed. Of course, they had allowed me to have my own way, and they liked Gordon very well, but they had a notion that in our own circle--But, of course, that's neither here nor there. Naturally, I knew at once that Gordon could never have done anything really wrong. He's a very true and genuine man, in his way, and incapable of--of a nasty action. So I just had to suppose that perhaps some other woman had come into his life and that he didn't love me any more. And he--he was never very demonstrative, you know; it wasn't his way. But he had always been such a good friend, and so wonderfully clever, and--But of course, you know all that. His letter to you, I think, gives me what they call a clue. He--he sends his love to--to somebody I don't know. Of course I'm not going to ask--I really only came to know whether there was anything I could do. I wondered whether there was, perhaps, some money trouble, or something like that, and I'd have been so glad to--to help out. You were his best friend and could have told me how to manage it, but now I see----" She interrupted her words, rising from the chair I had offered her and looking very handsome and, I must say, dignified. "I wouldn't have troubled you, you know, but I have been all at sea. It--it has been rather tough, because Gordon is a man whom a woman could love very deeply--at any rate I never realized how I felt towards him, until I had gone away and then received this letter." I had been listening, looking into her fine, clear, blue eyes, which honestly and truly, with the frankness and candor of the child or the chaste woman, had expressed the love that had been in her heart and, perhaps, lingered there still. So intent had I been upon her words that I had failed to hear adventitious sounds. Frances, also, with her hand pressed to her bosom, showed eyes dimmed by gathering tears. She had risen with the impulse to go forward and press this suffering woman to her heart. I was about to explain the message of love in Gordon's postscript, when there was a wheezing at the door, which had been left open. Fat and beaming, with her most terrible hat and a smudge of yellow ochre on her chin, Frieda came in. "Beg your pardon," she panted. "It's getting real warm and the stairs are becoming steeper every day. How's the angel lamb?" "Miss Van Rossum," I said, "let me introduce our excellent friend Miss Frieda Long. Every one who knows her loves her. She's the next best painter to Gordon in this burg, or any other, and a second mother to Baby Paul." Miss Sophia stared at her for an instant. Then, came a little smile in which there was relief and comprehension. She advanced with arm outstretched, and Frieda went right up to her. "My dear," said the latter, "our dear old Dave and Gordon have told us enough about you to make me feel glad indeed to know you. I saw that portrait of yours and it didn't flatter you a bit, in fact, it seems to me that it missed something of your expression. But it was mighty good, just the same, like everything he ever did." She backed off as far as the bed, on which she sat down, fanning herself violently with a newspaper. An instant later she rushed to Frances, took up the baby with the usual robust delicacy she always shows in that process, and began to ask news relating to important developments in dentition. Miss Sophia observed her. I saw that some ray of gladness had entered her heart since a terrible question appeared to be settled satisfactorily. To her tall and graceful womanhood the idea that our darling, pudgy Frieda, with her crow's feet, from much staring through her spectacles, with that fright of a hat, could for a second have been mistaken for a rival was nothing less than amusing. "Well, Mr. Cole, I think I will have to be going now," she said. "I--I am glad--oh, I mean that I hope you will be so kind as to let me know whether you get any further news. I shall always have a deep interest in Gordon's welfare. Letters would reach me at Southampton, all summer. Good-by, Mrs. Dupont, I am delighted to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Mrs.--I mean Miss Frieda, I hope you will be so kind as to let me see your pictures, some day. I remember now that Gordon showed me one of them at the winter exhibition. I wanted to buy it, but somebody had already snapped it up, of course, because it was so lovely. No, Mr. Cole, please don't take the trouble." She had shaken hands with my two friends and insisted on kissing the baby, who appreciated the attention by crowing at her. I followed her out in spite of her request. "You must permit me to see you to the door, Miss Van Rossum," I said, "it is the least I can do. I will surely let you know, if I hear anything." She nodded, very pleasantly, and went down the distressing stair-carpet with the ease of her perfect physical training. At the door there was a big brute of a sixty horsepower runabout and a chauffeur, who swiftly cast aside a half-consumed cigarette and stood at attention. She stopped on the stoop and turned to me. "I--I don't think I know any more than when I came," she said, rather haltingly. "There--there wasn't anything wrong, was there, Mr. Cole?" "My dear young lady, I am proud to say that Gordon is incapable of doing anything that would infringe the laws. But he certainly has done an evil thing, for he has treated you very brutally, and I will never forgive him. He has failed to appreciate--to understand. If he has discovered that his heart--that he was incapable of giving you the strongest and most genuine love, it is his misfortune and--I am afraid, perhaps yours, and he did well to go away. But he should have been more considerate, he ought to have explained things in person instead of----" "But you must remember that I was in Florida, Mr. Cole," she interrupted. "Then he should have taken the first train and joined you there. A man has no business to shirk a duty," I said indignantly. "Oh! Mr. Cole! You must remember that Gordon isn't--isn't a man quite like others. He has the quick and impulsive temperament of so many artistic people." "He always pretends to be so cool and to act only after the most mature deliberation," I objected. "True enough, but then, you know, that sort of thing is often rather a pose. I suppose that none of us is quite free from a little pretense, under which the true man or woman shows." "I am glad indeed to hear you take his part," I told her, "and I hope he will do some fine manly things over there and return in his right mind, with his eyes open to--to what he has been so foolish as to----" "I know that he will give the best of himself, Mr. Cole," she put in. "Gordon is a first rate sportsman, and that means a man who will play the game, strongly and honestly, without taking the slightest advantage. And perhaps----" "My dear lady, I know a good woman who burns candles when she wants anything badly, and prays before the Virgin. I shall get her to exert her good offices in our behalf. I'd give anything to know that everything will turn out as I heartily wish it may, for both your sakes. In you, I know that he has found all that a man may wish and long for in the world, and yet has failed to appreciate his good fortune." She put her gloved hand in mine. "Thank you," she said simply. "I--I'll wait, a long time." She went down the steps and entered the machine, sitting before the big wheel, strongly aslant and grooved to give a strong grip. The chauffeur jiggled something, whereat the great beast began to hum. She nodded again to me and started without the slightest jerk. Evidently she drove better than Gordon. She turned the nose of the thing around till the front wheels were an eighth of an inch from the sidewalk, backed again in circular fashion, and swept off towards the avenue. Sixty horses, I reflected, could lie obediently in the hollow of her hand, but just one man, who should have thanked Heaven upon his knees, had squirmed away like an arrant fool. I went up the stairs, slowly, chewing upon the fact that I had given her no inkling of how matters really stood. But, in deference to the feelings of Frances, it had been impossible for me to do so, especially since she was no longer an element in the case. Gordon had given up all hope of her and run away, so that this closed one part of the incident. Then, if I had told Miss Van Rossum of Gordon's proposal to Frances, it would have made her very unhappy and she might possibly have blamed the model. Women, the very best and dearest of them, are sometimes not quite fair to their own sex. Yes, it was a matter that belonged to Frances and Gordon, and I had no right to be a bearer of tales, so that Miss Van Rossum is unaware that Gordon went away for love of another woman. I hope she never hears of it. Should anything happen to him, while driving his ambulance at the front, she will be able to maintain a high regard for his memory. As the months pass on, her feelings may become easier to bear. I wish she could meet and become fond of some fine fellow, who would recognize what a splendid woman she is and adore her ever after. I feel that she deserves it. When I returned upstairs, I found my two friends discussing Miss Van Rossum, together with her nose and complexion and other appurtenances, including her dress. Their criticisms were highly flattering, I remember. Our stout friend soon left, having merely come in for her daily inspection of Baby Paul. "Now, David," said Frances, "I must say that I feel more unhappy than ever over Mr. McGrath's conduct. It was abominable of him to jilt that girl, let alone proposing to me. She's a perfectly lovely woman." "I am disposed to agree with you, Frances. His conduct is inexcusable. At the same time, I cannot blame him for falling in love with you. Any properly constituted man would do that without the slightest difficulty. I myself----" "Please be serious, David," she interrupted. "I was never more serious in my life," I assured her, "but--but tell me how you are getting on with the singing." "I really think I am doing very well," she told me. "Listen, I will sing you a little thing. Baby likes it ever so much." She sat right down to the piano, beginning at once without the slightest hesitation. It was the lullaby from _Mignon_. I remember hearing Plançon sing it once; it is a beautiful thing. Frances didn't put all her force in it, the whole strength of her voice, of course, but so much tender sentiment and such sweet understanding that the melody held me in thrall and made me close my eyes. What a fool I have been ever to have thought that a woman holding such a treasure would perhaps bestow herself, some day, upon an insignificant writer! CHAPTER XIX FRANCES GOES TO THE COUNTRY I am very fond of my room on the top floor of Mrs. Milliken's house, but, as regards privacy, I might nearly as well have lodgings in a corner grocery. I had finally arranged that Frances was to go to a hilly part of New Jersey, near a very pretty lake, and gather health and a coat of tan for herself and Baby Paul. I was to leave with her on the one forty-five, in order to help her on the journey and see her safely installed. The noon hour had struck and the whistles of a few thousand factories were confirming the announcement, when a vision presented itself at my door. It was very prettily clad, with a love of a hat and a most becoming gown, and smiled engagingly. She had fluffy hair and first rate teeth. Also, she immediately developed a slight lisp that did not lack attractiveness. "Mr. Cole!" she exclaimed. "May I come in? I am from the _New York Banner_. I should like to have you tell me all about your novels and your impressions of modern literary activities, and something as to your views upon the war, and----" She was already in the middle of my room, and I could do no otherwise than to advance a chair for her. "Pray take a seat, Miss----" "I am Cordelia." "Cordelia!" "Yes, privately Josie Higgins. I hope that you can give me a photograph of yourself that we can publish. The public is dying to hear all about you. I must interview you or die in the attempt, which would be very inconvenient as I have an appointment to see Gretz at two-thirty, fellow who killed his mother-in-law. Thanks, I will take the chair. It is getting quite warm again, isn't it?" She pulled out a small note book and a business-like pencil from a frivolous handbag, as my heart sank within me. I shared the feelings of a small boy haled before the principal of his school. She looked small and inoffensive, but I knew that pencil of hers to be sharper than the serpent's tooth. Heavens! She was looking at the slouchy slippers I still wore and at the bed, yet undone, since I had told the landlady she might as well have it attended to after my departure. Her eyes wandered swiftly from the inkspot on the carpet to the bundle of collars and shirts Eulalie had deposited on my trunk. She also picked up my fragrant calabash from the desk close at hand and contemplated it, curiously. All this quick as a flash. After this, she scrutinized my countenance, with her head cocked a little to one side, and jotted down something. "That's good," she declared, apparently much gratified. "I think I know what you would say, but you had better tell it yourself. For nothing on earth would I fake an interview, and anyway you look very kind and obliging. Now tell me how you ever happened to think of 'Land o' Love.'" "I'm sure I don't know," I answered truthfully. "Undoubtedly," she acquiesced. "Ideas like that just worm themselves into one's head and one puts them down. But, of course, that won't quite do. Don't you think we had better say that you have long been impressed by the sadness of most lives, in the end, and were anxious to show how, from unpromising beginnings, an existence may turn from dross into refined gold by the exercise of will, of human sympathy, of tolerance of foibles and love for one's fellow man? That will do very nicely!" She was putting down her words with lightning speed. "Now tell me. Did you ever really know a counterpart of Jennie Frisbie?" she asked again. "She has become a sort of classic, you know. Women are weeping with her and love her to distraction. They wonder how a mere man can have so penetrated the inwardness of their sex and painted such a beautiful picture of it at its best." "Don't know that I ever did, my dear young lady," I replied reluctantly. "Of course you didn't. They're not really made that way. For my part, I think that a lot of women are cats," said the famed Cordelia. "But naturally we can't say it in print. Your answer should be that beneath the surface every woman holds the potentialities of a Jennie Frisbie. 'No, I have never known my heroine in person,' said Mr. Cole, looking dreamily out of the window, 'but I have known a thousand of her. She is a composite photograph, the final impression gathered by one who has done his best to obtain definite colors wherewith to paint a type, accurately and truthfully.' Yes, I think that'll do." Her pencil was flying, as I looked at her, aghast. "Miss Cordelia," I said, "you're a very attractive and bewitching young fraud." She showed her pretty teeth, laughing heartily. "I'm not at all a fraud," she disclaimed. "I deliver the goods, at least to my paper, and I never hurt people who are decently civil. How about your views on the Great American Novel?" "It will probably be written by a Frenchman or a Jap," I answered, "for no man can do perfect justice to his own people." "That's not so bad," she approved, "I think I'll put that down." She asked me a few more questions, which I mostly answered with my usual confession of ignorance and which she replied to in her own fashion. "Well, that's a tip-top interview," she declared. "I'm ever so much obliged to you and delighted to have met you. I don't think you look much like one's idea of the writer of that book. I think I will say that your eyes have a youthful look. It will please the women. Why don't you live somewhere else?" "Don't know," I said again, with little candor. "I had better put down that in this bit of old New York you find an outlook more in sympathy with your lovable and homely characters. Wisteria blooming in the backyard," she observed, rising and leaning out of the window. "Geraniums on the sills opposite and an old granny darning socks, her white-capped head bending over her work and framed by the scarlet of the flowers. Neat little touch. Hope you'll like my article. Look for it in the number for Sunday week. My murderer goes in day after to-morrow. He won't keep much longer, people have already stopped sending him flowers. Well, good-by and thank you." I pressed the little hand she laughingly proffered, and she tripped out, meeting Frances in the hallway. "Isn't that a duck of a baby!" she exclaimed, smiling at the mother and running downstairs. "Frances, I am famous," I said. "Sunday after next I'll be in the _Banner_, three times the size of life, in at least three columns. That chit of a girl who just went out is the celebrated Cordelia. She has interviewed me and written down a thousand beautiful things I never said. She's a bright little creature." "She wears nice hats," commented Frances. "I hope she will do justice to you. It is time we went down to lunch, if we are to catch that train. Is your suitcase packed?" "Never thought of it!" I exclaimed. "You go right down and begin. I'll follow in a moment." A half an hour later we were in a taxicab, speeding to the station. Eulalie was with us; I had insisted on her being brought along. How could Frances obtain the full rest she needed, unless some of the details of existence were attended to for her? She had objected strenuously and even threatened to unpack her little trunk and remain in New York, but I successfully bullied her into acceptance by commenting on the alleged peaked look of Baby Paul. Maternal fears, despite the infant's appearance of excellent health, prevailed at last. A man, I discover, needs a firm hand in dealing with the opposite sex. My dear sister had indicated to me a small farm near the lake, where three rooms were to be rented. According to her the cows gave absolutely genuine milk and butter, while the hens laid undeniable eggs. Vegetables grew in profusion, the post office was but a half-mile away and the railway station within twenty minutes' walk. Privacy was also insured by the fact that the big hotel and boarding houses were reasonably far away. Mrs. Gobbins, who bossed the farm and its lord and master, was exceedingly particular as to the occupants of her spare rooms, requiring on their parts qualifications, which appeared to range between the Christian virtues and appetites that would not crave too strongly for city fleshpots. I was agreeably disappointed by the place. The lake was within a short walk; centenarian elms grew at the sides of the wide main street of the village close at hand; the hills were clad in tender greens, only streaked here and there by the trunks of blight-killed chestnuts. On the road a pair of bluebirds had flitted in front of our chariot, like two racing sapphires, and swallows perched on the telephone wires, twittering. Holstein cows in a pasture envisaged us with a melancholy air, deeming us harbingers of the summering crowd that would compel them to work overtime to supply the dairies. But for the snarling of a couple of dogs having a misunderstanding, far away, the atmosphere was one of peace. Also, we passed a small forge where the blacksmith paused in the shoeing of a sleepy and spavined steed, the better to gaze at us. He nodded to our driver and resumed his occupation, unhurried. "This, Frances, holds some advantage over Washington Square as a place wherein to enjoy ease with dignity," I commented. "View the pretty house at the turning of the road. One side is nearly smothered in climbing vines and the picket fence has the silvery look of ancient split chestnut. The cherry trees, I should judge, are ready to awaken the ambitions of youthful climbers. I hope your domicile will prove half as pretty." She assented, smilingly, and assured Baby Paul, sleeping in her arms, that he would be very happy and comfy and grow fat. At this moment our Jehu stopped before the very house I had pointed out and turned the horse's head into a grassy driveway. Then he drove on by the side of the house and swept, at a mile and a half an hour, in front of the back door. A large and beaming mongrel rose on the small porch, wagging a remnant of tail. Chickens had been fleeing before us, suspecting the purity of our intentions in regard to broilers, and three fat ducks waddled off, greatly disturbed. An ancient turkey-cock uplifted his fan and gobbled a protest, but Mrs. Gobbins appeared, smiling and clad in highly respectable black, relieved by a little white at her neck. "Welcome, ma'am," she said. "Just hand me that there baby and then ye can get out handy. Look out for that dust on the buggy wheels. That's right! Howdy, Mr. Cole, I'm glad to see ye. I can see you favor your sister some, not but what she's a good lookin' woman. When she wrote as 'twas her brother wanted to come I knew ye'd be all right. Walk in." We trooped into the kitchen, neat as a pin, whereat Eulalie smiled in approval, and were shown upstairs. A large room facing the north was papered with a design of roses about the size of prize cabbages. The windows were shaded by a couple of the big cherry trees. "In a few days you will be able to pick ripe fruit by merely putting your hand out," I told Frances. "Yes," Mrs. Gobbins informed us. "Your sister's two boys was always at them and filled theirselves so full they couldn't hardly eat no decent victuals, let alone havin' stomach ache. This here small room will do for the other lady and yours is over on the other side of the house, sir." My own residence was also spick and span, and I decided that we had fallen into an oasis of delight. A few minutes sufficed me to repair the damage done by the journey, and I went downstairs. The front door was now open. To one side of it there was a dining-room adorned with chromos advertising gigantic vegetables and fruit, apparently imported from the Promised Land. Opposite this was a parlor where bottle-green plush reigned in unsunned violence of hue and aggressive gilt frames surrounded works of art of impetuous tints. On going out I was met by the dog, who accepted my advances with the greatest urbanity. Towser had still a touching faith in human nature and deemed me inoffensive and fully competent to scratch the back of his head. Presently, arrived an elderly gentleman in blue jeans, his chin ornamented with whisker and his mouth with a corncob pipe. "How be ye?" he asked. "Gettin' real hot and the corn's comin' up fine. Wonderful year for strawberries an' sparrer-grass. How's things in the city?" He sat down on the steps of the veranda, inviting me to do the same, with a civil wave of his pipestem, and we entered into pleasant converse, until the voice of his mate shrilly commanded him to arise and wash his hands and shed the overalls, whereat he hastily deserted me. Came a supper at which I was able to comment agreeably on the cream served with the berries, whereat Mr. Gobbins gave out dark hints of watery malefactions on the part of some of the keepers of boarding houses in the neighborhood. There was cold pork, usually potent to bring me nightmares, and an obese pie to be washed down with pale tea. Under my breath I deplored the luck that had made me forget to bring digestive tablets and, spurred by unusual appetite, I gorged myself. The evening was a short one, spent on the porch where I lolled in a hammock, while Frances rocked in a big chair. There was no need to talk, for it was all very new and beautiful. The katydids and tree-frogs took charge of the conversation for us. After a time Eulalie joined us, sitting modestly on the steps. With much genuine sentiment she spoke of the cabbages of her own land and of cows she had once cherished. "It is like the heaven of the _Bon Dieu_ to smell these things again," she informed us, and I decided that she had spoken a great and splendid truth. We retired early. In my own little room, with the oil-lamp burning, I commented sadly on the fact that it was only half past nine, the hour at which my busy life commonly begins. Upon the bed I looked hopelessly; it was inviting enough, but, at this time of day, about as attractive as plum-pudding for breakfast. For an hour I read a magazine; the katydids were still clamoring softly and, in the distance, in the direction of the lake, I heard the plaintive notes of whippoorwills. Then I caught myself in a blessed yawn and went to bed. But a few moments seemed to have gone by, when I awoke in a room flooded with sunshine and penetrated by a myriad of joyful sounds coming from the Noah's Ark of the farm. Looking out of the window I was shamed by the sight of Eulalie who, with Baby Paul in her arms, strolled about the kitchen garden, evidently lost in rapture at the sight of leeks and radishes. I hurried my dressing, donning a pair of white flannel trousers I had bought for the sake of bestowing upon myself some atmosphere of the country, and found Frances sitting in the hammock with Towser's big, nondescript head in her lap. "I hope you slept ever so well," she told me, looking very radiant and putting out her hand. "And, David, I'm so wonderfully happy. Look at the beautiful lake! We will have to go over there after breakfast, and, perhaps, you can row in a boat, and we will take Eulalie and Baby with us. Or perhaps you can go fishing, or may be you would rather stay quietly here and have a nice long rest. And just listen to that wood-thrush over there. She's up in the cherry tree; or perhaps it's a he, and probably there's a nest somewhere with dear little fellows just hatched out. Isn't it lovely?" My enthusiasm was just as great as her own. There seemed to be altogether too many beautiful things to do, and to look at, and to allow to soak into one, like some penetrating water from the fountain of youth. "I'm so glad you like it, Frances," I told her. And so we spent a heavenly day, and, in the morning, I took the early train and went back to the city, Frances looking rather regretfully at me. But I had decided that I must not remain there; it would not do. One evening after another, of moonlit glory, of whispering winds bearing fragrance and delight, of nearness to this wonderful woman with the heart of a child and the beauty of a goddess, endowed with that voice sounding like melodies from on high, must surely break down my courage. How could I stand it day after day? No, I intended to return for weekends, propped up by new resolve to be silent. A chill would come over me at the idea of suddenly blurting out my love to her and having her look at me as she once gazed on Gordon, perhaps even more sorrowfully, because I think I have become a more valued friend. I explained to her that I had some most important work to do and imagined all sorts of meetings with publishers. Also a moving-picture gentleman had thrown out dark hints. The atmosphere of the blazing city, I told her, was utterly needed for my new book. All she had to do was to be very patient, grow strong and brown, watch Baby Paul thrive, and await my coming on Saturday afternoons. In the meanwhile I would send her books and magazines, besides a button hook she had forgotten, and a package of the tea we were partial to, and--and a week was an exceedingly short space of time. So I said good-by and waved my hand at the turning in the road, and returned to the big city, which I could, without much regret, have seen reduced to the condition of Sodom and Gomorrha, since it would have given me a good excuse to take the next train back. Upon entering my room, I decided that it was a beastly hole. So hateful did it seem that I strolled off into the opposite one. It seemed like a rather sneaking and underhanded thing to do and, I dare say, I had some of the feelings of a burglar. My old piano was there, upon which she played softly and sang exercises that were perfectly beautiful, and songs beyond compare. The very atmosphere of her was still in the place and things of hers were yet on the dressing table, including the button hook, which I pocketed. They made me think of saintly relics to be worshipped. Baby Paul's crib appealed to me. She had so often bent over it, wistfully, as I watched her, admiring the wondrous curve of her neck, the sunlit glory of her hair. Mrs. Milliken suddenly caught me there, and I felt a sense of heat in my cheeks. "Yes," she said, "I'll give it a thorough cleaning. It needs it real bad. And next week I'll put new paper on the walls and have the carpet took up and beaten. I was wishin' you'd stay away long enough so I could do the same to yours. I've known all my life men are mussy, but that room of yours is the limit, Mr. Cole, all littered up with paper so a body don't dare touch anything." I made no answer. I suppose that house cleaning is a necessary evil but her contemplated invasion of Frances's room seems to me like the desecration of a shrine. It should be locked up and penetrated only by people soft of foot and low of voice. CHAPTER XX RICHETTI IS PLEASED Goodness only knows how many pages I blackened with the experiences of this short summer, but I have thrown them away, in small pieces. They were too introspective; mere impressions of one week after another, when I would take the train and join Frances again, under self-suggested and hypocritical pleas. My wisdom was needed to see to it that Baby Paul grew and thrived. His teething necessitated my worrying Dr. Porter half to death as to the possibilities of such portentous happenings. It was also indispensable that I should accurately ascertain the mother's condition of health and listen to Eulalie's observations. In other words, I pretended that I was a very important person. But in the heart of me, I knew myself to be like some drug-fiend, only permitted to indulge his destructive habit once a week. The work I turned out of nights, I am afraid, was worth little and will have to be subjected to plentiful alterations. In the day I wandered over the superheated city and occasionally took a boat for a lonely excursion over the Bay, for the sake of fresh air and unneeded rest. But from the Monday morning to Saturday afternoon the fever was always on me to hasten back, to drift with Frances over the little lake, to stroll with her in the woodland roads or among the fields, to steep myself in the atmosphere she radiated, of sweetest womanhood, of tenderness she displayed only to Baby Paul, but some of which was reflected on me. The mere speaking voice of her, telling me of rumbling bull-frogs, of a terrible little garter-snake beheld on the main road, of a tiny calf which, she feared, was destined to go the way of all veal, was melody and charm and delight. Gordon once told me that a man and a woman cannot be true friends long. There is no middle ground, he explained, it must be either more or less. But I would meet her on the road on the days of my arrival. She would walk all but the last quarter mile, that ran along a sun-beaten lane surfaced with red-hot dust, and wait for me beside a little watering trough usually tenanted by a beady-eyed froglet, which she counted among her friends. From afar she would wave her hand, her face joyous and welcoming, and would insist on knowing at once the contents of the packages I was always laden with. On our way to the farm she would faithfully recount the incidents of the past week, and finally we would sit down on the little porch and thirty-six hours of heavenliness would begin. And always, she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend which Gordon deemed an impossibility, and I firmly endeavored to follow her lead. Yes, there were evenings of starlight, afternoons among the oaks and chestnuts of the hillsides where we sat on ground heavily carpeted with last year's leaves and moss of silvery green, early mornings by the side of the lake under the caress of the rising breeze, and ever I managed to padlock my heart, to control the shakiness of my voice, to laugh out gaily as if the world's beauty could not possibly leave room in a man's soul for hopeless longing. And then back to the city again! Frances had often urged me to stay a little longer; it would do me so much good. She sometimes thought I looked tired, but I refused with the obstinacy of the weak. She argued that I was utterly master of my time and, one day, with a trace of woman's injustice, said that thirty-six hours of her company was all that I could stand. I remember feeling a terrific wave of heat coming to my brow. Never was I nearer to an indignant protest to be followed by the blurting of the whole truth, of nothing but the truth, to the effect that I loved her madly, wildly, and could have crushed her in my arms till she cried for mercy. But I laughed, stupidly, with my finger-nails digging into the palms of my hands and called her attention to a reticulated pickerel poised beneath some lily-pads, motionless, watchful, gavial-snouted and yet graceful, ready to convert itself into a flashing death for other fishes. I pointed to gossamer-winged dragon-flies, which used to frighten her, till I declared them to be friendly devourers of mosquitoes, and both of us remained breathless when a golden oriole perched on some hazel bushes near at hand, for a moment's display of its gaudiness. She told me of the wood-thrush we had seen on our arrival, and how she had found the nest with the dainty blue eggs, and how one day these had been converted into great big little mouths ever clamoring for a distracted mother who could never find food enough. "But they grew up all right and took lessons in flying and, by this time, are far away, and the little nest is abandoned," she informed me. "I hope they will all come back another year." And thus a moment of terrible danger passed. The peril was perhaps averted by the saving grace of that pickerel. I trembled to think over what might have happened. She would have looked at me, astonished and alarmed, with those big, beautiful eyes shining, and she would have sorrowfully shaken her head, and--I could never have returned again--and I would have been compelled to leave Mrs. Milliken's, and the whole beautiful, useless dream would have been ended because Gordon is right, as far as I am concerned. Yet I can remain a friend to Frances! Please God, I may remain one all my life and never reveal myself to her! But my friendship will never be a perfectly genuine one since, underlying it, there will always be the quivering of a passion held in gyves and suffering, as suffers some gold and ruby-winged butterfly pinned to a card and denied the mercy of a drop of chloroform. I had received another letter from Gordon, telegraphic in brevity, and sent it to Miss Van Rossum. He was well, having a most wonderful and heartrending experience. He had met some stunning fellows. The taking of awful chances was a daily occurrence, with the little ambulances darting among the wounded, sometimes under shell-fire. He asked me to drop into his studio, from time to time. He had discharged the Jap, but still kept the place. It was looked after by an elderly woman he had installed there, who was supposed to sweep and dust and let some air and light into the studio. I was to see that she kept at it and guarded his accumulated rubbish. So, of course, I went there, and the ancient party looked at me suspiciously, till I identified myself. Then she gave me the freedom of the place and I hunted high and low, till, finally, I discovered the "Mother and Child" hidden in a large closet and brought it out. I placed it on the easel and glared at it till it grew dark. The wonder of that picture! Great Heavens! I remembered how I had once accused Gordon of having been imaginative in his rendering of the model's beauty. At that time my vision must have been coarse and untrained. His genius had at once seized upon her glory, whereas I had dully and slowly spelled it out. But now my eyes were open! It was Frances herself, it was truth, it was the greatness of motherhood revealed, it was the charm and sweetness of the woman who exalts and uplifts, it was art _grandiose_ held beautifully in bond by the eternal verity. I saw that some bright gobbets of flashing paint, that had surprised me at first, were amazing touches of genius. He had played with colors as a Paderewski plays with notes, to the ultimate rendering of a noble and profound reality, of poetry made tangible and clear, of ringing harmony expressing true heartbeats. And now my friend Pygmalion had been spurned by his statue come to life and was picking up shattered heroes, that he might forget. I can honestly say that the ancient dame, who saw to what Gordon was pleased to call his rubbish, was faithfully watched. I would come in at odd times, when the spirit moved me, and sit for hours before the picture. It gave me inspiration when the fount of my ideas had utterly dried up, and I would return home, able to write a few good pages. What if it was but one more way of indulging the drugging of my soul! Like other fiends I was held fast. Porter has told me that the victims of morphia no longer take pleasure in their vice. The following of it, to them, means but the relief of suffering, and there is no joy in it. In this respect I stood far above the level of the poor beings fallen thus low, for the painted Frances was a perennial delight, as her own living beauty was utter happiness for some hours. The reaction only took place when I was alone in my room, and, even there, I often indulged in dreams and visions as full of charm as they were unreal. Then, one fine day, came a letter from Signor Richetti, stating that he would return upon a certain date and resume his teaching. I took it to Frances, who read it, happily. "I am so glad, Dave," she told me. "This has been the most lovely summer one could imagine, and Baby Paul is wonderfully well. I hope the New York milk will agree with him. I am so splendidly strong and well that I think I shall again make rapid progress. I am afraid I must have lost a great deal during this long idle time. Dave! Dave! I'm going to work so hard! I know I shall be able to sing again, and--and I shall owe it all to you!" So we had, again, thirty-six hours, sadly lessened by the two nights of sleep, and we conscientiously said good-by to the cows and calves, and to such chickens as we had not devoured, and to the lake and the woods and the twittering swallows and the sparrows on the dusty road. Eulalie had grown stout and burned to an Indian hue. She kissed Mrs. Gobbins on both cheeks and shed a tear or two. I stopped the carriage, that conveyed us to the station, in front of the blacksmith's shop. We had become friends, and he wished us a pleasant journey and a happy return next year. Near the station, in the narrow road, we had to turn aside, nearly into the ditch, to allow the passing of a large automobile. In its driver I recognized Mr. O'Flaherty, who owned the garage and occupied half of the second floor. He waved a hand at me and grinned, winking, leaving me to reflect on the thoroughly excusable nature of certain murders. His big car was full of sporty-looking youths and flashily dressed women. I am happy to say that Frances never looked his way. Then we went on board the train and the beautiful country began to slip by us, and a certain element of sadness came at the idea of leaving it, though it was comforting to think that now I should see Frances every day. But I should sit on the meagerly upholstered chairs instead of occupying the veranda's rocker or the moss-strewn boulders on the hills. The freedom of the country would be gone, and its inspiration and delight. "Look!" said Frances to me, suddenly. "There's a woman on the third seat, on the other side of the aisle, who's reading 'Land o' Love.'" "After all these months," I commented. "People ought to read it forever, Dave," she assured me, "and I think they will. I'm so proud of you!" "Well, my publishers tell me the book is flowing out as fast as ever. Jamieson says it will sell a hundred and fifty thousand," I told her. "You see that I am now in Easy Street and can afford all the extravagances I care to indulge in." "Then, David, you ought to buy yourself a new fall suit," said Frances, "and you need more neckties. I shall get some for you." All women want to buy men's neckties for them. I was not afraid, feeling sure that Frances would show unquestionable taste. How she would care for a man she loved! A taxi rattled us up to Mrs. Milliken's door, and the room opposite mine was resplendent in new paper, and the carpet much renovated, and the piano had been rubbed over with something that gave the ancient mahogany a fine polish. Frances left Baby Paul with Eulalie and came into my den. "It's so good to be back, Dave," she asserted. "This room is all saturated with the atmosphere of you and even the typewriter looks like an old friend. And here's your dirty old calabash and just the same disorder on your desk and the week's washing on the bed. I'm glad Eulalie's sister has been attending to it. Oh! It's fine to be home again!" So she went back to her room, and I lit the calabash. I had been afraid that, after the country, this top floor would look very dismal and be depressing to her. But she was looking positively joyful. A minute later Frieda invaded the premises, for I had warned her of our arrival. She shrieked with admiration at the sight of the baby and commented at length on the color of Frances's cheeks. Eulalie joined in the cackling, and happiness reigned. We celebrated the evening at Camus. After this the leaves soon began to drop in the big square, and I ordered the new suit and invested in a few bonds, like a bloated millionaire, and put them in a little safe at the bank, which could only be penetrated after running the gauntlet of a half a dozen uniformed and suspicious guardians, before whom I felt like an equivocal character. Frances returned to Richetti and came back the first time with a glowing account of all that he had said. It appeared that she had hardly lost anything and had gained in depth of breathing and power of expression. The technique--ah! _Per Bacco!_ She was a natural born singer! She had little need to learn! The voice was in her like those things in Pandora's box and only demanded to fly out. Her singing was the _bel canto_. Three months more of practice was all that was needed. After the first of the year she would sing in the great concert of his pupils. It would be an event! People would discover her again. The cornucopia of Abundance would open, wide-lipped, and success would flow from it! "And I shall owe it all to you and Frieda, Dave," she said. "But I can't really believe that it will come true. Still, I don't know. Sit down and listen to this." She opened the piano and sang, and at first my heart sank within me because she was so great compared to my insignificance. Then it became exalted because of the magnificence of her singing, which thrilled me. They were not great locust-cries of _bravura_, nor amazing gymnastics with difficult scales, that made me quiver. Just a sweet old melody heard a thousand times, thrummed by every piano, but now coming with such perfection of tone and such a quality of exquisiteness that I felt a thousand times more uplifted than when I had stood before Gordon's wonderful portrait of her. When she finished, she turned a little on the revolving stool and looked at me, her head a little inclined to one side, her lips smiling at me, for she could not but know how splendidly she had sung. "Well, Dave," she asked, "are you pleased?" "My dear Frances," I answered, "a king of Bavaria had operas performed for himself alone, and, likewise, I have had a treat that might have enraptured thousands. I am a monarch basking in luxury. No, after all I am the same old Dave who has found a treasure by the wayside and is gloating over it. That's what I'm doing. If I knew anything about music, I might, perhaps, tell you what it is that I find to admire in your singing, but I can only say I am impressed by something that leaves me wondering and gives me a keen delight I cannot put in words." "I'm so glad, Dave!" she exclaimed. "I shall always sing to you as much as you like. I am thankful to be able to give you pleasure." Pleasure, forsooth! She can give me everything a man longs for in the world! Sweetness, beauty, melody are all in her power of bestowal! But I should be thankful for her affection and grateful for my privileges as a trusted friend. May I never by any folly forfeit them! And so the winter came again, and the amenities of the holidays and some joyous little dinners with Frieda. I went one day to call on Richetti, and the _maestro_ threw himself upon me and clasped me in his arms. "_Amico carissimo!_ It is a delight to see you! Everywhere I hear of you as an author _pregiatissimo_, but you go not out into the world where thousands are dying to know you! About _la signora_! What shall I say! It was a day to be marked with a white stone when you brought her to me. We are giving back to the world a pearl of great price. She has the voice, _amico mio_, and she has the natural method! But more than all else her voice is _simpatica_, it throbs and thrills, it enlists love and affection and the desire to listen forever. At her feet the world will kneel some day. She will be mentioned in the same breath as our greatest _prime donne_. In three weeks I give my concert. Every one will be there. I have given hints to many, made much mystery. She will come out in all her beauty, dressed in a very fine gown, the last on the programme, so that she will be a revelation. People will go away and clamor at her greatness. I am Richetti! I know what I speak of!" In his enthusiasm he slapped me severely on the back, and I hurried home. "Frances!" I exclaimed, breathlessly. "Richetti is getting crazy about you. He bubbles over with enthusiasm. Moreover, Jamieson says he is a wise old guy. The _maestro_ says you must have a very fine gown to wear at the concert. Where is the gown?" She cast her eyes down at the floor. "I--I suppose I will manage to----" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I told her, severely. "It is a most important matter which we have inexcusably neglected. Come out with me at once and we will buy one." "Oh, no, Dave, I was thinking that I have a very nice white lace gown I brought from Paris when I first came over, which could----" "You have no business to think such things. Who is that coming up the stairs? Hello, always on hand when you are most needed, Frieda. I want you to go at once with Frances to the most expensive shop on Fifth Avenue and buy her a concert gown. Here are a hundred dollars." "That would buy two sleeves and maybe a few flounces," said Frieda, quietly. "Here's a hundred more which you can leave on deposit. I will see to the balance. Not a word, Frances. Remember that it must be a very fine gown. Richetti says so, I didn't suggest it to him. He knows what's needed. You can pay me back when you are making thousands. Don't argue, but go at once!" "You're a nasty tempered old bully," Frieda informed me, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. "Good!" I exclaimed. "You're always saying that I don't assert myself enough. Thank goodness, I'm getting cured of that." So, presently, they went away and I was left alone. Some letters were on my desk. One of them was from Gordon and I seized it eagerly. It read as follows: "_Dear old boy_: "As you suggested in your last letters I've had enquiries made at the war department. Paul Dupont of the 30th dragoons, a violinist by profession and a reservist called from New York, aged 31, was killed at the battle of the Marne. I thought I'd find out about his old people, if I could. Just heard they abandoned their place before it was destroyed and are living with a daughter near Suresnes. I sent them a bit of money, telling them it came from their daughter-in-law. Thought it might please Madame Dupont, but don't tell her. Am still driving one of those gasolene wheelbarrows. We're seeing some hard times. I sometimes feel awfully sorry at what happened. S. was a fine girl, and I a fool. Glad to hear that 'Land o' Love' is making a killing. "Ever your old pal, "GORDON." I was glad enough, in a melancholy way, to receive this piece of news. Frances, while never doubting that her husband was dead, has never had any positive assurance of the fact. I'll not mention it just now, for it wouldn't do to awaken her memories before the concert. Time has reconciled her a little to her loss, I think, and it would be a shame to disturb her. Well, there can be no doubt about it. She is entirely free. It is not possible that such beauty and sweetness as hers shall nevermore know love. This concert surely means the beginning of a separation which must come sooner or later. Madame Francesca, as she will be called, can no longer keep on living in this frittering brownstone relic of better days. Her singing will probably take her away from us. There may be concerts and even operatic engagements, who knows? And I shall be left here with the old calabash and my rickety typewriter. Ye Gods! What an outlook! I wonder whether it would not be wise for me to go to Fiji or Yokohama or the Aleutian Islands? I shall get the horrors here all alone. I'm too clumsy for them ever to take me as an ambulance driver in France, but, perhaps, they would let me serve as an orderly in the hospitals. I'll have to think of it! CHAPTER XXI THE CONCERT And so the short weeks went by and the fateful evening came. Frieda had spent the whole afternoon with Frances. The gown, it appeared, had come in plenty of time. My formal orders had, of course, been disobeyed, for women, while they often bow gracefully to a mere man's edicts, always go off and do as they jolly well please. In a sidestreet, not more than a block and a half from the Avenue, our stout friend had unearthed a purveyor of feminine adornment who, she explained to me, was a positive worker of spells when it came to dressing a woman. Also, she was moderate in her prices. The gown cost one hundred and sixty-five dollars and the amount of change Frieda cascaded in my lap made me feel as if I owned a bank. I expressed disbelief in the miraculous dressmaker and made somber prophecies as to the outcome, all of which she treated with contempt. At six o'clock they went off to her flat, where she had prepared the light refection that would insure prompt digestion and easy breathing. I was instructed to dine where I pleased. At seven thirty-five came a knock at my door. It was Frieda. "Dave," she said, "if you're having trouble with that white tie, we'll fix it for you in a minute. Meanwhile, you're permitted to come in the other room. She's got the dress on, I hooked it myself and did her hair." I followed her, eagerly. Both gaslights were flaming brightly. Eulalie was circling around Frances, totally incapacitated by admiration. The back was turned to me and the arms raised as she gave some mysterious touch to the waves above her temples, but she turned at once and stood before me, happily, with arms now held down and palms turned towards me, in an attitude of graceful abandonment. "Here's your gown, Dave," she said. "From head to foot you are responsible, slippers and all." I refuse to go to Frieda for a description of it. I care nothing about displaying my ignorance and will say at once that I have not the slightest idea of what the materials were. All I know is that she looked like beauty and grace incarnate. The lily might be no better for the gilding, but it displayed her charm to the full. The beautiful arms were bare and the fair neck modestly displayed. "Let me rub my eyes," I said, "it is another dream come to me." "_Elle est belle comme un amour!_" clamored Eulalie. She was indeed beautiful as a love, as the most splendid, honest, faithful love ever born in a human heart. And then she came to me and put up her hands and seized upon my recalcitrant tie and gave it a twist and a turn, smiling at me the while. "You look ever so well, David," she told me. "You need take so little trouble to make yourself look as young in body as you are in heart. You'll be but forty-two next birthday and yet seem to delight in pretending you're such an old fellow. Please stay young, Dave, for the sake of all who love you." Yes, there was a bit of moisture in her eyes as she spoke. She was so near me that I was conscious of her fragrance; I felt that I was within the aura of her sweetness, and my heart was thumping. But she turned away again, after one more reassured glance at my tie. She began to draw on a long pair of white gloves, as I went back to my room for a few sprays of lily of the valley I had procured for her, which she pinned to her waist. Then she sat down in a chair that looked poorly fitted to bear so charming a burden. "I needn't be there before nine, David," she told me, "and so there isn't the slightest hurry. Frieda is going home to put on her best and we'll stop for her in the cab." So the painter of goddesses and nymphs waddled off, hurriedly, and clattered down the stairs. Frances leaned over Baby Paul's crib, for the longest time, after which she gave Eulalie ever so many instructions as to her charge, while I contemplated her, my nerves all aquiver with thoughts of the coming ordeal. "You--you look ever so calm, Frances," I told her. "Does--doesn't the idea of standing up there and singing to all those people make you nervous?" "Not a bit, Dave," she answered, gaily. "But if a little bit of stage fright should come I shall look at you and pretend to myself that I'm just singing for you, and then everything will be all right. It will seem as if we were alone here, and the others won't matter. I feel like singing this very minute and giving you a tiny concert of your own, but it might waken Baby." She was undeniably happy. With the poor, little, husky voice she had felt a cripple, but the restored organ had changed her in everything but beauty and kindness. She was confident now; the world was opening to her again. She would be able to keep Baby Paul from all suffering such as poverty might have brought, and it gave her an outlook upon the future, wider and more secure. "I do hope I shall succeed," she said again. "I never had dreamed that a woman could accept all that I have taken from you, Dave. If this means that I shall have gained my independence, I shall be happy indeed, but I will always remember that the time I leaned upon you was made sweet and hopeful by your consideration and friendship. Come, David, it is time to go, I think. I feel that when I return, this evening, I may be able to express a little of what I owe you, and, then, thank God on my bended knees." "I shall be so proud to watch the dawning of your success and happiness," I told her, with a catch in my throat. "Yes, success would be splendid, Dave, but the happiness has been coming a long time. You brought me some of it in your pockets all last summer and gave it to me every week. Oh! Dave! God bless you!" She put out her hand to me and looked deeply in my eyes. Her heart was very full, I know, but I felt that it was the gratitude a woman could give to a beloved brother. And so we went away, with a last kiss blown at Baby Paul and a thousand good wishes from Eulalie. The taxi I had ordered was at the door and drove first to Dr. Porter's, and then to Frieda's, who was waiting for us, a very shapeless bundle done up in an ample and all-concealing cloak. I was thankful that her head was bare, having dreaded some abomination in the way of a hat. "Oof!" she exclaimed. "My gown's horribly tight. Had to have the janitress come up to hook it in the back and I hope nothing gives way. We're an awfully swell lot this evening. First thing you know they'll be talking about us in the papers, under the heading of Society News." She maintained an endless chatter, in which I discovered much method. It was evidently her purpose to keep Frances from getting nervous. Finally, we reached the concert hall, in which people were still crowding. Richetti's circle of acquaintances is a vast and distinguished one and his concerts, few and far between, are events in the musical world. Frances and Frieda stood on the sidewalk, while I was paying the driver. "We are going in by another entrance, David," she told me. "You go and find your seats and possess your souls in patience. You will hear some excellent music. When I come on, don't make too much noise because it might distract my attention." I gave her my hand, which she pressed in a strong and nervous clasp that lasted for a fraction of a second, and then the two disappeared among the many people surging towards the doors. For some minutes Porter and I stood at the back of the hall, as did many others, in order not to interrupt a duet between basso and soprano, most creditable to two young people, who retired with many bows and much approval from the audience. The young lady was quite collected and smiling, but the heavy-chested youth was blushing and evidently glad to have passed through the ordeal. Women, I think, average greater courage than men. In the interval before the next number we sought our places and I had but slipped my hat in the grooves beneath my seat when my nearest neighbor, a very charming young person, addressed me at once, and I recognized in her the little lady who had called me an old fogy at the Van Rossums. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Lambley," she said, and turned to a short and wide-shouldered youth who appeared to have taken the place of the six-footer. "Freddy dear, I want to introduce Professor Lambley, who has written a great essay on Dionysius the Areopagite." The young man pushed an able hand towards me and grasped mine. "How jolly!" he exclaimed. "Something to do with aviation, isn't it? I'm expecting to take it up soon." "How silly you are, Freddy," the young woman reproved him, "it's an awfully scientific thing." "Oh! Well, then, that lets me out," acknowledged Freddy, conscientiously, "but I think a lot of the fellows who work out those affairs. Knew a chap who was drowned at Montauk last summer, who was keen on bees and bugs. Queer Johnnie!" Our scientific and literary symposium ceased abruptly. The accompanist came in and sat at the piano, being immediately followed by a young lady I remembered seeing in Richetti's rooms. My little neighbor applauded, frantically, as did most of the audience. "Her father's worth two millions," she informed me, "and she thinks her voice is the biggest ever. Her hair doesn't naturally wave that way and she's got too much rouge on. Richetti didn't want her to go on yet, but she made her father insist." My own knowledge of the divine art of singing, as I have confessed a thousand times, amounts to little or nothing, but I found something pleasurable in listening to the plutocratic contralto. She was by no means embarrassed and began the "Angelic Voice" from _Gioconda_ in a most business-like fashion, finishing amid a salvo of applause. "There! I've gone and split my glove," said the young lady beside me, "but I just had to do it. I'm going to their house-party next week and the place is perfectly gorgeous." Next, as an encore, came "He shall feed His flocks" from the _Messiah_, which received similar encomiums and the singer retired, smothered in flowers and followed by uproarious approval. "Funny she should have selected that," came the voice near me, "seeing that her father made all his money in wool." In rapid succession came several other singers, all of whom appeared to impress the audience favorably. My heart was beginning to thump again in my breast, for the moment was approaching and I suffered from a vicarious stage-fright that could have been no greater had I myself been sentenced to appear upon the stage. It may be that the hall was overheated; at any rate I had to pass my handkerchief a number of times over my forehead, and my high collar began to choke me. I was grasping Porter's arm, convulsively, when, all of a sudden, before I could realize that the moment had come, she stood before the footlights, bowing before the moderate clapping of hands, and Richetti himself sat at the piano. "Great Scott!" said the wide-shouldered young man, "ain't she a stunner!" His companion replied something, but I did not listen. Richetti was playing a few preliminary bars of the melody. I saw her eyes moving confidently over the orchestra seats and thought she recognized us with a nearly imperceptible accentuation of her smile. She was holding the sheets of music before her, but in them I could not detect the slightest trace of tremor. Then, her gaze was uplifted a little and the song began, while all sense of fear left me and I breathed easily, leaning forward eagerly while each note entered my soul. It was Mendelssohn's "On Wings of Song." It seemed to me that the silence urbanely granted to the other singers became more profound. The audience was surely holding its breath. Not a stir of programmes sounded. Faces were no longer expressing tolerant civility, for they had become intent and fervent. Something like the awed respect of a great churchly crowd filled the hall and was maintained till the very last note, after which came a very storm of applause, delirious, impulsive, unrestrained for the longest time, while she bowed again and again, and Richetti stood up beside her for his share of the triumph. And after this she gave us "Chantez, Riez" of Gounod, and the gorgeous swing of it was uplifting, and the wonderful tone lent it greatness and the lilt of it a true significance of the joy of living. As a further encore she sang Rossini's "Stabat Mater." Her voice broke into the passion of grief of the mother bereft, in the grandeur of the hope eternal, and the people were hushed, breathless, conquered. At last she was allowed to leave the stage, with Richetti's hand held in her own. The man was beaming, delighted. "Come with me," I cried to Porter. "We are to be allowed back of the stage. She's expecting us. Did you see Richetti's look of pride? You're far more responsible for this result than he, bless your heart! Come along." And so we made our way to a large room at the back of the hall. It was much crowded with women in gorgeous dresses and men among whom I recognized Bartolo Cenci of the Metropolitan and Colonel Duff, the great impresario of con-certs and lecture tours, and the shrewd features of FitzMaurice the musical critic of the _Banner_, small, hawk-eyed and of bustling manner. In a corner, with Frieda at her side, stood Frances, with a little court surrounding her. Richetti, a few paces away, was talking volubly with men, who were probably of the Press. We went to the new diva, who did not await our coming, but stepped towards us, with both hands extended. "I'll tell you later all that I feel, Dave," she half whispered to me. "Oh! Dr. Porter, dear friend, I am so glad that you have been able to see the results of your work. Come with me!" She took him by the arm and led him to Richetti. "Professor, I want to present Dr. Porter. I could not sing a note, and he worked marvels upon me; gave me a new throat, I think, and a better one than ever." Upon this, the _maestro_ nearly fell on Porter's neck and wept, calling him a savior and a performer of miracles, after which he insisted on introducing him to a number of the eager gatherers of information and to Bartolo Cenci, who wrote down his address on his cuff. Our good little Porter was nearly overwhelmed. Finally a number of us were haled off to Richetti's rooms where a great table was set with flasks of _Chianti_ and a huge Milanese _risotto_, and it was nearly two o'clock before we packed ourselves in a taxi, feeling as if such a superfluous thing as sleep could be put off till the Greek Kalends. Frieda refused to be dropped off at her flat. Porter was also compelled to come to the top of the little brownstone house. We did our best to be quiet in going up, and I hope we awoke no honest sleepers. They crowded into my room, Frances leaving us to see that Baby Paul was thriving. She returned on tiptoe. "Eulalie is snoring on the sofa," she announced, "and Baby is sleeping like an angel." So we remained there for an hour, at least, and Frieda told us how Colonel Duff had rushed up to ask about Frances's plans for the rest of the winter, and Cenci had inquired, most pointedly, whether she already had an engagement for next season and what operas she had studied, to which she had replied that her arrangements were in Richetti's hands, whereupon they had assaulted the _maestro_ and nearly torn him limb from limb in their eagerness to engage her. "The proudest man in the world, some day," said Frieda, "will be Baby Paul. He will be going about boasting that Madame Francesca is his mother, and people will love him for her sake." Then Frances clasped as much of Frieda's form as she could possibly hold in her arms, and kissed her, telling her that she was saying a lot of nonsense, and finally our stout friend went away under Porter's guidance, who had promised to see her home, and Frances and I were left alone on the landing. Here, a little yellow gas-jet was flickering, very small and poor, and the balustrade upon which I leaned gave a crackling groan. We heard the closing of the front door and turned to one another. Again her hand was put forth and I took it and raised it to my lips. When I lifted my head I dimly saw a tear shining upon her cheek. "Dear friend," she said, "I owe it all to you." With this she clasped my shoulders in both hands and, for an instant, her lips touched the side of my face. A second later she had closed her door behind her, and I feverishly changed my coat. Then, I put on my heavy ulster and made my way to the old square, where I sat down in the frosty air. That touch upon my cheek had left my temples throbbing, my heart on fire. The whole world seemed confused, the shining stars were dancing overhead, the noises of the sleeping city buzzed in my head, maddeningly. Finally, I began to feel the cold, and the earth grew stiller and more peaceful. An instant later a great milk-dray rattled across the square, going up Fifth Avenue, the usual alarm warning me of bedtime. So I went home, collected again and tranquil. She had given me a tiny fragment of herself, a reward perhaps too great for the little I had been able to do for her. Peace had returned to me and I fell asleep. CHAPTER XXII GORDON RETURNS And then, after a very short time, the parting came. I was the first to advise it. She could no longer remain in the little, decrepit boarding house. People would come to see her; she had to have a decent home, a place in which she could receive some of the members of this new world she had taken by storm. We had looked together over the accounts in the papers; it was nothing less than a triumph. Richetti was making all sorts of arrangements for her. After a long dispute she consented to take my piano with her. "I'm afraid she won't do it," Frieda had told me, when I broached the subject to her. "I--I should be so glad to think it had belonged to--to the only two women I have--have ever----" "Poor darling David," said the sweet old painter, wiping her glasses, "Why--why don't you speak?" "Because--just because," I answered. "I know, she is moving into another world now. I am glad she is taking Eulalie with her. But she can never forget you, Dave. You will always be the best and dearest of friends to her. You must go and see her often." "I'm afraid it will never be quite the same, Frieda. She will have a little parlor now, and it won't be like the room she trusted me to enter, the place where Baby Paul first saw the light, the dingy quarters in which her new voice was born. Oh! Frieda! Have we ever fully realized how patient she was, how resigned? We surely never did because we could not know how great her loss had been. We merely had an idea that she had been deprived of a few golden notes, and all the time she knew that she had lost a treasure beyond compare. And yet how brave she was through it all! With what courage she went to work in that poor little shop to gain the pittance that might keep her and Baby Paul farther from want! We have never once heard her whimper, nor has she ever seemed really discouraged. Sometimes she showed great sadness, of course, but it was born of her misfortune and of her fears for the little one, because of the love for him that surged in her heart. God! Frieda, but you women are brave and strong!" "Yes, David dear, especially when we find a good man to lean upon," she answered. And so, as I have said, Frances went away to a very decent little apartment Frieda found for her, and Eulalie was installed in a kitchen of her own, and the latchstring was always out for us. I enjoyed some pleasant days of tacking a few photos on the walls and hanging portières. Some of the time I had to work alone, for she was much taken up. Three weeks after the concert she went away on a tour, having joined forces with Tsheretshewski, the great cellist, an obese and long haired artist with a wife and seven children, who became a thing of poetry and beauty when he played. I heard them in Carnegie Hall, and then they went off on a tour that took them as far as Chicago and St. Louis, and my agency for newspaper cuttings kept on sending me articles by real or alleged critics. Eulalie traveled with her, and the baby also went from town to town. Frances sent me many postals and, often, letters. The latter always began with "Dearest Dave." Then came the spring again and a meeting that was positively dreadful, during which Frances pulled out little rags of paper full of her scribbling and covered over with numbers which represented her indebtedness to me. We fought like cats and dogs over the items, till, finally, she proudly pulled out a checkbook from a little desk and wrote out the amount, signing the thing boldly and declaring that she would never speak to me again unless I took it. "You see, David dear," she explained, "everything is all right now and I am making lots of money, and you can't refuse, because you know I only accepted in the hope that I would be able to pay it all back some day, and it will leave me a debtor to you for a million things, and Baby Paul too!" During the summer she went to Newport, where Richetti gave another concert and where he made her a flattering offer to help in his teaching of the infinitely rich and sometimes voiceless. Thank goodness that a press of work came to me, for Ceballo, the great manager, actually sought me out and insisted on collaborating with me in a dramatization of "Land o' Love," which had passed its second hundred thousand. He nearly drove me to insanity, while we toiled at it, and I would have cried mercy before the end, but for the furious energy with which he kept me a prisoner of his wiles. Then I spent a few weeks in the Adirondacks, having found a small hotel where people never put on war-paint for dinner and no one was ashamed to wear flannel shirts, and I rowed and pretended to fish and lost myself in the woods to my heart's content, finally returning to my old typewriter with a mass of notes for a further novel. I took up once more my lonely vigils, when I could, because I began to feel the grasp of many cogwheels that were the penalty of success. Some magazines actually requested stories of me. About the first of October I received a cablegram from Gordon, which appalled me with its suddenness. "Home by _Rochambeau_. Get old girl to clean up. Can't drive ambulance any more. "GORDON." It was simply maddening. Why couldn't he drive? Of course he had been hurt. Why didn't he tell me what was the matter? Poor old chap, in spite of some of his ways there is no man on earth I have ever been so fond of, because, at bottom, there is something very manly and genuine in him. When things got too hot for him he didn't go off somewhere and mope; no, he naturally went and gave the best that was in him to a service of noble charity and virile endeavor. I ascertained over the phone the date of the _Rochambeau's_ probable arrival and walked up the Avenue to a meeting with Ceballo, who was worrying me to death over the ending of the fourth act. He's a most obstinate man. At a busy corner I stopped to allow the passage of a flood of autos. The crowd behind me pressed me forward, nearly against a powerful gray roadster. "Jump in quick, Mr. Cole," came a woman's voice. I looked up. It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum who had spoken. The chauffeur was in a little seat behind her and I swiftly obeyed, glad indeed to see her again. "Are you in a hurry to go anywhere, Mr. Cole, because I'll be glad to take you wherever you want to go?" "No," I replied, "I was killing time for about an hour. After that I have an appointment." "Then we can take a little turn in the Park," she said, approvingly. The carriages and motors were so numerous that for some time we said very little. I watched her self-reliant, skilful driving, and took an occasional glance at her profile. It was beautiful as ever, perhaps more so than ever, colored with health and a fair coat of tan. Once in the Park, however, we found more room and she drove with less preoccupation. "I--I've heard from you but twice this summer, Mr. Cole. Thank you for letting me know that Gordon was still well. Have you any further news of him?" "Yes, I have just heard," I replied. "He is on his way back and I wrote you this morning at Southampton." I watched her closely. For a moment she drove on, looking neither to the right or left, but I saw that her lower lip was being pressed on by her teeth. "He--he never let me know," she finally said. "I--I hope he will return well and happy." "Pardon me. I am afraid that something has happened to him," I said, again. "Gordon is the sort of fellow who would see the thing through. He would go on to the end, you know, and--and he didn't write, this time. I have the cable here. You might stop a moment under these trees." She brought the machine to a standstill, gently, with no undue pressure of brake, losing none of her expertness, and put her hand out for the paper I held. "I see," she said, very simply and quietly, though the paper shook a little in her grasp. "He has been very badly hurt, Mr. Cole. Otherwise he would have remained, until he was well again, to take up the work once more. I--I would give anything on earth to meet that steamer!" "The easiest thing in the world, Miss Van Rossum." "No, the hardest, the most impossible," she retorted, quickly. "He--he might not be glad to see me, else he would have cabled me also, I think. You will be there, of course! Be very sure you meet him, Mr. Cole, and then, please--please let me know what has happened, and find out for me whether there is anything I can do. You promise, don't you?" I put out my hand and she crushed it, nervously, with wonderful strength, and let it go at once. "We will go on now, I think," she said, and pressed the selfstarter. Soon we were in the main driveway again, among a flooding and ebbing tide of carriages and motors. Some women bowed to her and she returned the salutations with a graceful move of her head. She drove as easily as usual, and the turn was completed. Finally, she dropped me off at the club and went on, after brief but very genuine thanks. "Good Lord! David," said Ceballo, a moment later. "Just caught sight of you with Diana at the wheel. Splendid young lady, isn't she? I know her father quite well." "Yes," I answered, "she is a very fine young woman." "Doesn't much care for literature, does she?" "I don't know, but she has a heart of gold, and that's what counts." So we retired to a small private table and disputed and argued for a couple of hours, at the end of which my brains were addled and I told him to do as he pleased, whereat he beamed and I parted from him. Then I began counting the days till the _Rochambeau_ should arrive, and Frances came back to town and sent me word at once. She received me joyfully and told me how much good the sea-air on the Newport cliffs had done Baby Paul, who was beginning to talk like a little man and to say "God bless David" in the prayer he babbled after her each evening. "I'm only back for a short time," she said, "because I'm to sing at a concert in Boston next week, and then we are going to Buffalo for a day, after which I shall return. And what do you think, David? I am to sign an engagement for the Metropolitan! Tsheretshewski is going abroad this winter to play in Spain and England, and so I shall be, for the whole winter, here in New York, and--and I hope you won't neglect me." I assured her that I would call every day, and left her, after I had inspected Baby Paul, who deigned to let me kiss him and favored my moustache with a powerful tug. He is a stunning infant. She was standing at the outer door of her apartment, her dear sweet smile speaking of her friendship and regard. The temptation came on me again, the awful longing for a touch of those lips, but I held myself within bounds, as bravely as I could, and touched the elevator signal. She waited until the cage had shot up and waved her hand at me. Her "Good-by, Dave" held all the charm of her song and the tenderness of her heart, I thought, and I answered it with a catch in my throat. "You will never be anything but a big over-grown kid, David," Frieda had told me, a few days before. Ay! I realized it! I would never cease crying for that radiant moon. Sometimes, in silly dreams, I have seen myself standing before her, with her two hands in mine, with her lips near, with her heart ready to come into my keeping. But, when I waken, I remember the words she said last year, when Gordon made her so unhappy. How could love be left in her heart? she had asked. Was there ever a night when she didn't kneel and pray for the poor soul of the man buried somewhere in France, in those dreadful fields, with, perhaps, never a cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love she had given? Let well enough alone, David, my boy! You can have her song whenever you care to beg for it, and her friendship and her smiles. Would you forfeit these things because you must come forth and beg for more, ay, for more than she can give you? Would you force her dear eyes to shed tears of sorrow for you, and hear her soft voice breaking with the pain it would give her to refuse? A few days later she met me at her door, excitedly, and told me that Baby Paul had a slight cold and that Dr. Porter had advised her not to take him away with her. "And, Dave, I just have to go! It would be too hard on some of the others, if I broke faith and didn't appear. I must leave to-night, and it just breaks my heart to be compelled to start when my Baby Paul isn't well. Dr. Porter has promised to call every day and see him during my absence. Dave dear, you are ever so fond of Baby too. Won't you come in every day, and you must telegraph, if you don't find him getting along as well as he should, or use the long distance telephone." She was much agitated, and I saw how hard it was on her to leave the dear little man behind. But Frances is the sort of woman who keeps her promises. She has given her word and will go! So we dined together, that evening, with Frieda, and we saw Frances away to the train and put her on board the sleeper and returned home, and Frieda spoke a great deal and told me about the sale of her latest picture and all that she expected from the one she was going to exhibit at the winter Salon. It was only after I had left her that I realized the dear soul had been trying to divert my thoughts. In the morning came the telegram from the marine department of the cable company. The _Rochambeau_ would dock at eleven. I was at the waterside an hour earlier, devoured with impatience and anxiety, thinking of a thousand alarming possibilities. Finally, the big ship appeared, far down the stream, and slowly came up. I scanned the decks as soon as people could be distinguished, but could see no sign of my friend. At last, the steamer was warped into the dock after three puffing tugs had pushed and shoved her for the longest time, and the passengers began to come off, and still he did not show up and the gang plank was nearly bare of people. I seized upon a steward bearing ashore a load of suitcases and bags and asked him whether there was not a Mr. McGrath on board. "_Certainement, Monsieur_, there he is coming now," replied the man, hurrying away. I might not have recognized him, so pale and thin did he look, but it was Gordon all right, at the head of the trussed gangway, and he waved a hand at me. A man preceded him, carrying some baggage. "Hello, Gordon!" I shouted joyfully, in spite of the shock his sharp, worn features had given me. "Hello, Dave!" he cried back. A moment later he was down on the dock, stepping lightly, and I pushed my hand out towards him, eager for the strong grasp of former days. "You'll have to take the left, old boy. The right one's behind, somewhere in Belgium. Wait a moment and I'll give you my keys, Dave. I have to keep everything in my lefthand pockets, so they're crowded. Yes, I have them. I suppose that my trunk is already ashore. Do try and get a customs' officer for me and hurry the thing through." He was talking as calmly and coolly as if he had been gone but a few days and had suffered only from a cut finger. We were fortunate in being able to get through the formalities very soon, and, shortly after, we drove away in a taxi. "Well, Dave, how've you been and how's everybody?" he asked, after lighting a cigarette from mine. "Every one is all right," I answered impatiently. "Oh! Gordon, old man! How did it ever happen?" "Just a piece of shell while I was picking some fellows up," he answered. "You have no idea of how surprising it is when you suddenly realize that something's missing. But what's a hand more or less after all that I've seen? How's Frieda?" "Stouter than ever," I replied, "and her appetite's improving. Porter recommended a diet, but she won't follow it. Says her fat doesn't interfere with her sitting at the easel." "Good old Frieda! I've heard about your book, Dave, it made a big stir, didn't it? And so--so Madame Dupont has become a great singer again; heard all about it from a fellow on board and, of course, your letters spoke of it; but you're such a crazy old duffer I supposed you were getting carried away with your enthusiasm. Never could take things quietly, could you? Any other news?" "Nothing very special," I told him. "The Van Rossums came to town early, this year. I--I've seen Miss Sophia." "Have you? Give me another cigarette. Yes, light a match for me. I'm clumsy as the devil with that left hand!" He sat back, puffing at the thing and looking out of the window. "Peanuts," he said. "Haven't seen a peanut cart for over a year. Colored women, too. Plenty of fighting niggers in France, but no darky ladies. Look at the big cop! Policemen are the only leisure class in this country, aren't they? Lord! What a big, ghastly brick monstrosity that is! We can lick the world when it comes to fetid commercial architecture, can't we? Are you going all the way up to the studio with me?" "Of course I am," I asserted indignantly. "What did you suppose I'd do?" "Thought you might laugh at the uselessness of a studio in my present condition," he replied negligently. "I've told you I'm clumsy as the deuce with that left hand. Tried to draw a face with it the other day, in pencil. Looked like a small boy's effort on a fence. So, of course, I'm through with painting. I've been rather saving, you know. Invested my money quite safely and haven't spent much on this jaunt. Of course a few thousands went where I thought they'd do most good. A fellow who'd keep his hands in his pockets when help is so badly needed would be a queer animal. But I've enough to live on and smoke decent tobacco. I think I'll take a small bachelor apartment in New York, to come to when I get the horrors. I'll spend the rest of the time in the country, a good way off. I'll read books, yes, even yours, and, perhaps, learn to sit around with a crowd, near a grocery stove, and discuss potatoes and truck. Hang it all! There's always something a fellow can do!" "My dear Gordon," I began, "I don't see----" "Oh, shut up, Dave, I know all the things one can say to a cripple. What's the use? Some fellows on board asked me to dine with them this evening at Delmonico's, and I damned them up and down. Sat for eight mortal days at the dining-table on the ship, with an infernal female on each side of me; they'd quarrel as to which of them would cut my meat for me. It's enough for a fellow to go dotty. Sometimes I wouldn't go and had things served in my cabin so the steward would do the cutting. Understand, I'm not kicking. Hang it all, man, I'm not even sorry I went! The chaps I helped out were probably worth it. Great old experience trying to make fifty miles an hour with a fellow inside bleeding to death, I can tell you. I've seen enough of it to have learned that a man's life doesn't amount to much. Any old thing will do for me now." I was appalled. All this had but one meaning. He was eating his heart out, try as he might to conceal it. To him, his art had been chiefly a means to an end; he had made it the servant of his desires. And now it was getting back at him, it was revenging itself, appearing infinitely desirable for its own sake. He would miss it as a man misses the dead woman, who has held his heart in the hollow of her hand; he was raging at the helplessness that had come upon him. And all this he translated into his usual cynicism. I would have given anything to have seen him break down and weep, so that I might have put my arm around his shoulders and sought to comfort him with love and affection. We got out at the big building, and he nodded to the colored boy who stood at the door of the elevator, as if he had been gone but a day. On the landing he sought again to pull out his keys, but I touched the electric button and the old woman's steps hurried to the door. "How are you?" he said, and brushed past her, paying no heed to her salutations. "Glad everything's open. I was afraid it would be all closed up like a beastly morgue. Hello!" He stopped before the easel. Upon it I had placed a rough study he had made for Miss Van Rossum's picture. It was a thing of a few effective and masterly strokes. "Good Lord, Dave, but I was a painter for fair, once upon a time! How did I ever do it?" He sat there, very still, for a long time, while I watched him. I think he had forgotten all about me, for, after a time, he rose and pulled out of a closet some unframed canvasses, which he scattered against the legs of furniture and contemplated. "Think I'll make a bonfire of them," he suddenly said. "Won't be such an idiot as to keep on staring at those things and looking at my stump, I'll warrant," and he pushed the handless wrist towards me, tied up in a bit of black silk. Then the telephone rang. "Wonder who's the infernal idiot calling up now?" he said. "Go and answer, Dave. No, I'll go myself and tell him to go to the devil!" Then came one of those fragmentary conversations. I could not help hearing it, of course. It surprised me that he spoke quietly, with a civility of tone and accent I had not expected. "Yes, came back a few minutes ago----No, Dave ran up here with me, Dave Cole, you know----Oh! Nothing much----Well, I've lost my hand, the one I painted with----Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so----Right away? Yes, if you want to, I mean if you will be so kind. Thank you ever so much!" He hung up the receiver and turned to me, his eyes looking rather haggard. "It's--it's Sophia Van Rossum. How did she know I was coming?" "I let her know, of course," I answered rather shortly. "You think I've treated her pretty badly, don't you?" "Rottenly, Gordon!" "I daresay I did. It was a sort of madness that came over me, but--but there's no excuse. She'll be here in a few minutes. I don't know what I can say to her. Stay here, Dave, and help me out. I used to tell you that she was just a society doll, and that sort of thing. Well, she's pretty strong on society, but she was brought up in it, belonged to it. But she's a great deal more of a woman than I gave her credit for being; I've realized it a thousand times since I've been gone. I call it mighty decent of her to ring me up and offer to come around and see me, after the way I've behaved to her." "So do I, Gordon," I approved. "She's got a great big heart, the sort it's a sorry thing for a man to play with." He made no answer, looking out from his window into the Park and its yellowing foliage. Then he lifted his maimed arm and stared at it. CHAPTER XXIII THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND We sat there for some long minutes, in silence. Gordon was thinking deeply. His expression, the abandonment shown in the looseness of his limbs and the falling forward of his head, were instinct with something that represented to me a forgetting of pose and calculated conduct. "I've seen so much suffering," he suddenly said. "That sort of thing either hardens a man into stone or softens his heart till he can cry out in hatred of the idea of inflicting pain that can be spared." I made no answer. It was best to chance no interruption of his mood. My thoughts were of the meeting that would take place in a few minutes. Indeed, I felt that I ought not to be there, that my presence might hinder some cry of the heart, words a woman's soul might dictate. But I was compelled to remain, since Gordon wished me to. He was now like a child needing the comfort of a friendly hand before entering a place of darkness. But I would seize the first opportunity of leaving them alone. At any rate, I could cross the long studio and go into the next room, if needed. Then the bell rang. I think it startled Gordon. The old woman went to the door, and we heard the girl asking for Mr. McGrath, in her pleasant and assured voice. I rose to meet her, lifting one of the portières to one side. She looked at me, slightly surprised, but put out her hand, smiling rather vaguely, her eyes belying the calmness of her voice, her movements showing slight nervousness. Gordon was standing. I expected him to come forward, but he remained where he was, rather helplessly, and she stepped forward toward him, swiftly. "Hello, Gordon!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you again. What a bad boy you've been not to write to me! That--that only letter of yours implied that you gave me back my freedom, and so I suppose I am at liberty to consider myself as a little sister--or a pretty big one, and greet you as one." With a swift motion of her hand she pushed up the tiny transparent veil she wore, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, quickly, as if he really had been a brother she was delighted to see again. Then she sat down on the stool he had used to put his palette and tubes on and turned to me. "It isn't very conventional, Mr. Cole," she said, with a little laugh that sounded forced. "Gordon and I have already kissed one another a few times. Once more will make no difference. I have done nothing to prevent him from at least continuing to consider me as a good friend, perhaps as the sister I've been playing at. Of course we'll have to give it up, now, because--because people can't keep on playing all the time and--and others wouldn't understand. I don't mind you, because you wrote that wonderful book and--and you seem to know so many things." Then she turned to him again. "Now tell me about yourself, Gordon," she said pleasantly, folding her hands upon her lap. He had remained standing. An instinct of shyness, something like the humiliation of the man imperfectly clad or conscious of an ugly blemish, made him keep his right arm behind him. "There--there's not much to tell," he began, rather haltingly, though he soon regained control. "I've come back because I could no longer be any good over there and--and because I became hungry for a sight of old things--and of old friends, I suppose. You--you're awfully kind, you--you've always been a splendid woman--a proud one, too, but now you come here and put out your hand in friendship to--to a fellow who has behaved rottenly to you. No, don't say anything! Dave used that word. He sometimes speaks to the point. I'll tell you everything. It will hurt you, I'm afraid, as it hurts me, but I've got to do it and I will beg your pardon afterwards. It was all a plan on my part, at first. You were a wonderful, gorgeous creature, one to whom any man would be attracted, and I thought you would make a grand wife and a great stepping-stone to the ambitions that filled my stupid head. And then, somehow, these all went by the board, and a passion came to me--yes, a passion like the week's or the month's insanity that comes to some, for another woman. She is a good woman and a very beautiful one also, the sort of woman who, like yourself, deserves the best and noblest in the man whose love she may return. And she refused me, quickly, sharply, with just a word or two. I think she also thought I was insane; I remember that she looked frightened. And then I wrote to you, a beastly letter. I tore up a score of them and sent the worst, I'm afraid. Then I took the steamer and went off to drive up and down those roads. It--it has, perhaps, been good for me, for I've seen how little a man himself amounts to, and how great and noble his heart and soul may be. And that passion passed away, so that I no longer thought of her, but always I grew hot and angry at myself, when I remembered you. I've seen you before me a good many times, yes, even in that hospital they took me to, a few weeks ago, during the nights when I couldn't sleep. It was a great vision of a fine woman, big-hearted and strong, too good for such a cad as I. No, don't interrupt! I felt that it was fortunate for you, the best thing that ever happened, that I had shown myself to you under my true colors and saved you--saved you from marrying me. That madness has gone long ago, and there's no trace of it left in me, I swear, but I'm the same impossible Gordon, I daresay, except for that missing hand." He slowly brought the maimed limb forward, but she never looked at it. Her eyes were upon his, very shiny with unshed tears. "Yes, the same old Gordon, with perhaps a little of his silly pose gone, with a realization of his uselessness and worthlessness. And now I humbly beg your pardon, Sophia--I mean Miss Van Rossum, for I have forfeited every title to your forbearance--I no longer deserve it. And--and now I stand before you with my soul naked and ashamed, and--and Dave will see you to the door, for--for he's a good man, fit to touch any woman's hand!" His legs seemed to weaken under him. His left hand sought the window-ledge behind him, and he sank on the seat beneath. She rose from the stool and went to him, sitting down at his side, and put her hand on his right arm. "You have been very unhappy, Gordon," she said gently. "I am not sure that you have the right perspective as yet, and I don't see in all this anything to prevent our remaining good friends. We've had so many of the good things of life, you and I, and, perhaps, it is good for one to pay for them with a little sorrow. It may prevent one from getting too conceited. And you're so much better off than if this--this hurt had come just in wrecking a motor, or in being stepped on by a polo pony, because you will always realize that it happened while you were giving the best of yourself towards helping others, towards doing big things. And perhaps, some day, you might be able to paint again. They--they make such wonderful artificial things, I have heard, with aluminum and--and stuff that's ever so light. It might take you a whole year of practice before you could do anything; but what is a year when one's heart isn't too sad and weary. Even if you can't draw as well as you used to, you could take to landscapes, done broadly and strongly. There is no one who can mass colors and produce such effects as you are able to find. When you get confidence, I know you will be able to draw also, ever so well, and, perhaps, for your first trial, you will let me come and sit here and we'll chat together as we used to, and you'll paint again." "Never!" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, sometime, I'm sure, when you feel better, Gordon, because you will forgive yourself after a time. That's so much harder for a man to do than to obtain the pardon of a woman! If you really think you want mine, it is yours, with all my heart, and----" But she stopped, looking at him wistfully, her long lashes wet, her voice faintly tremulous. I knew that she would have granted him not only the pardon he had sued for, but also her strong and noble self, if he had begged for it. He probably forgot his missing hand, for he swept the silk-wrapped thing across his eyes. "You must think again, Sophia," he said very slowly. "You can't really mean it. Do you indeed feel that you can forgive me? Is it true that in your heart there is such charity?" "It--I don't think it's charity, Gordon. I--I'm afraid it's something more than that. Perhaps you don't know as much as you think about women's hearts. Ask our friend David, here, he has looked into them very wisely, or he couldn't have written 'Land o' Love.' And now I think I must be going away. You mustn't use that word charity again, it is one that hurts just the least little bit. It's so dreadfully inexpressive, you know! And--and you'll write to me when you want me, won't you?" "I want you now!" he cried. "I'd give the last drop of my blood for a shred of hope, for the knowledge that things might again, some day----" "One moment, Gordon dear," she said, smiling through her tears, and looked into a tiny gold-meshed bag from which she pulled out a ring with a glistening stone. "I have always kept it. Do you mean that you would like me to put it on again?" "Do, for the love of God!" he cried. "Yes, and of dear old Gordon," she consented gently. So I rose, quickly, with something very big and uncomfortable in my throat, and looked at my watch. "I must run," I said. "I am ever so late. I'll come in again to-morrow, Gordon! God bless you both!" I only heard, confusedly, the word or two with which they sought to detain me, but I ran away. She had said that I knew women's hearts. God forgive her! What man on earth can penetrate such things, can ever gauge the depths of them, see all the wondrous beauty that may hide in them and blossom forth, full of awe and wonder. Every one must worship something, if it be but an idea, and my reverence goes out to the woman who exalts, to the mother of men, to the consoler, for, when she is at her highest and best, she becomes an object of veneration among such earthly things as we may bend a knee to. The man had remained strong in his abasement, and the woman had seen it. She had been unembarrassed by my presence. Hers was the strength that spurns all pettiness. She knew that I loved Gordon and was assured of my regard for herself. If in her words there had been renunciation and the casting away of wounded pride, if in them there had been the surging of the great love that had long filled her heart, the whole world was welcome to hear them and to behold her while she gave her troth again into the man's keeping. She had risen above the smallness of recrimination, and, with a gesture, had swept away the past since in it there was nothing really shameful, nothing that could soil her ermine coat of fair and clean womanhood. Her faith in the man had returned, and, with it, the confidence born of her instinctive knowledge of a pure woman's mastery over men. She knew that Gordon had beheld those visions of hell that strengthen a man's dire need of heaven, and so, in all simplicity and with the wondrous openhandedness of a Ceres sowing abroad a world's supply of germinating seed, she had cast the treasure of herself before him. I jumped into a taxi and drove over to the little apartment where Baby Paul was to lie motherless for a few days. I rang the bell and heard Eulalie's heavy steps, hurrying to the door. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you have come, but I was hoping it was Monsieur the doctor!" Whereat I rushed in, filled with alarm. CHAPTER XXIV "THE MOTHER AND CHILD" Little Paul, as I immediately saw as soon as I looked at him, was very ill. He had, of late, always shown pleasure at my coming; he had babbled of simple things and of mysteries; his little arms spontaneously came to me and I would take him in my arms and get moist kisses from his tiny lips and dandle him and share in his ecstasies over woolly lambs. Porter came in a few minutes later and declared the trouble to be a beginning of measles. Eulalie acknowledged that, a week or ten days before, Baby Paul had come in contact with a blotchy infant in the Park. She had snatched him up and carried him away, after which she had thought no more about it. We sent at once for a trained nurse, whom Eulalie at first considered as an intruder with evil intentions, but whose gentle ministrations soon won her heart. "Am I to send immediately for Mrs. Dupont?" I asked the doctor. "It doesn't look like a very severe case," he answered, "but it might be better to communicate with her." A few minutes later I had Frances on the long-distance telephone, greatest of marvels. I stood in her little hallway in New York, and over in Buffalo, a half a thousand miles away or so, I heard her dear voice becoming excited and tremulous. "I simply must sing to-night," she was saying, "but from the concert-hall I will rush to the station and take the train. No, don't take the trouble to meet me, David dear, for I'll jump in a taxi and come ever so quick, but you can be at the apartment, if you like. No, I can't tell you the exact time, but it will be the first train after eleven o'clock. You can look in the time table and find out when it reaches New York. Thank you a thousand times, David dear!" When I announced my intention of remaining all night at the flat, Eulalie gave a clamorous sigh of relief. She proposed to make a bed for me on the sofa. She regretted that she had but a much worn pair of her slippers she could offer me, vast pedic recipients she brought me apologetically and which I felt compelled to decline. She insisted I should use a rug to wrap around my legs, because that woman in the cap persisted in leaving the window open. She wanted to know what she could prepare for my supper? At last, she left me in peace and the long night began. Sleep! It was impossible to think of such a thing. The room was kept very dark because Miss Follansbee explained that children's eyes were very sensitive during the measles, and easily inflamed. For many hours, from the sofa on which I sat, I watched this stranger, gradually realizing how capable and attentive she was. Porter came in again at twelve and remained for a long time with me, uttering words of encouragement. Yes, he informed me, children sometimes died of the measles, generally when it became complicated with pneumonia, but, with good care, the great majority recovered. There was nothing alarming, so far. The fever would probably fall a little as soon as the eruption had come out in full force. He drives a little car now and, I am glad to say, is prospering. I think he cast his bread upon the waters when he was so kind to Frances. At her words of advice, a number of singers have consulted him, and he is doing well. Of course she paid the very moderate fees he asked and told him, as she has told me, that she would ever be his debtor. So he went away again, after putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, and the hours went slowly by in the dimly lighted room, my thoughts going constantly to the mother who was now speeding towards us. I remember hoping that she would be able to sleep a little on the train. To me the hours were long, but, at least, I was near and fairly reassured; to her, in deep anxiety, they must be agonizing. It is possible that in the wee small hours I dozed a little, though I never reclined on the sofa. At any rate Miss Follansbee assured me that I had a few catnaps. At last the light began to return; carts and autos began to pass through the busy street; men and women were going by, hurriedly, seeking the day's work. Eulalie gave me some breakfast, with much strong and delicious coffee, and Miss Follansbee awaited the coming of Dr. Porter before retiring for a few hours of rest. He told me that he was quite satisfied, but I looked at him incredulously, for the baby's face was of an appalling hue. He insisted that it was all in the game and would last but for a few days. He promised to return early in the afternoon and, after he left, Miss Follansbee gave me many directions and strict injunctions, after which she went to the room that had been prepared for her, enjoining me to call her if there was the slightest need. The shades were lowered and the room kept dark. I sat by the little crib, thinking and watching, and the baby's harsh little cough distressed me badly, for I dearly loved him. So the morning wore on and I rose often and looked out of the window, as if, by some miracle, the train could have come in ahead of schedule time. Baby Paul began to moan, and I hastened back to him. He stretched his little arms out to me, being, perhaps, weary of the hot bed. At any rate he cried to have me take him up, so that I wrapped him in the little blanket and lifted him out. In my arms he rested quietly again and fell asleep, so that I dared not move. Then I heard the key in the latch, in the hallway outside, and she rushed in, casting her hat upon the bed. A second later she was kneeling at my side, weeping and yet glad, glad that he was living, glad to be again near him. And I dared only whisper a word of welcome to her, lest he might awaken. But soon he opened his eyes, that were very red, and blinked in the faint light, and wanted her. So he was taken from my arms into hers, and she sat with him in a rocking chair. For some minutes I stood up before her, in my clumsy way, looking at her. I could do so to my heart's content, for her eyes were only for Baby Paul. She rocked him, gently, and her wonderful voice came, sweet and low like the murmur of brooks, the distant song of birds, the sighing of aspens in a summer night's scented breeze. And so the baby slept again, secure and comforted in her dear arms. Then she looked at me, and a smile came to her face. It is possible that her quick glance detected some slight rumpling of collar and tie, or some disorder of hair I had last brushed the day before. "David dear, have you been up all night with him?" she asked. "Yes, but Miss Follansbee took care of him. I knew I would be perfectly useless, but then, Baby Paul is Baby Paul, you see, and--and any one has the right to love a baby. You don't object to that, I'm sure, you--you like to have me love him, don't you?" "I just love to see you so fond of him, Dave," she answered. "Yes, I felt that you did. And that's why I stayed, because I knew you wouldn't mind. And now I'll go away and--and come back early this evening to find out how you both are and--and I won't bother you. You'll tell me if I do, won't you?" "Of course, Dave, as soon as you grow troublesome, I'll let you know. I will tell you, when I become tired of you. Oh, Dave dear! You're the kindest and most lovable creature in the world, and--and it's a joy and a blessing to have you near!" "I'm awfully glad," I told her, "because when I can't see you and Baby Paul, life isn't--it isn't much of a pleasure, you know. And so I'll go off now and have a bath and fix up a little and then----" "Then you ought to lie down and have a good nap, because you need a rest, and don't come back too soon or I'll know you have been disobedient, Dave." She was smiling at me, and yet there was a tear hanging on her long lashes. Surely, the emotion of that summoning and of the hurried anxious journey had been hard upon her. So I went out, just as Frieda came bustling in, monstrously alarmed and immediately made happy by the knowledge that there was, as yet, no danger, and I went home where I met Mrs. Milliken on the doorstep. "How d'ye do, Mr. Cole," she said. "You look a bit played out and your bed ain't been slept in. At your time o' life you want to take more care of your health. I wanted to say something as I ain't told any one yet. I'm goin' to give up the house soon. My uncle Ambrose he died and has left me a little money, so I'm going to be a lady of leisure now and live with my daughter." "I wish you joy, Mrs. Milliken. You deserve a rest from your hard toiling." I left her and climbed up to my room. It seems that I shall have to give it up soon. Yet it is the only little corner of the earth I am attached to. Where shall I go? The room opposite is vacant still. I have been paying rent for it since Frances left, being unable to bear the idea of its being occupied by--by any one else. Besides, I can go in there when I want to and sit in the armchair and indulge in memories of the days when I saw her so often. I didn't know I was so happy then, but I realize it now, with no feelings of regret, because I know her life is so much fuller and happier now that she is in a world no longer of sadness and anxious care. And so I saw Frances and Baby Paul every day for another week, and he got along so well that it was a joy to watch his constant improvement. Mrs. Gobbins, over by the little lake, answered a letter of mine, saying that she would be delighted to have Mrs. Dupont there, and the baby, for as long a time as she cared to stay. Porter had recommended a little country air. It was heartbreaking to say good-by. I had meant to go with them, at least for a day, but at the last minute Ceballo insisted I must attend the first rehearsal of the "Land o' Love," a play in four acts. So I went to the theatre, but for the life of me could take little interest in what went on. I returned home with a dreadful headache, and the next morning my throat was sore and my limbs ached. When Mrs. Milliken came up to attend to the room, she found me still in bed and insisted on sending for Dr. Porter at once. "Hello! I'm afraid you'll have to go to the babies' ward," he told me, after a glance. "What the deuce do you mean?" I said. "I'm as sick as a dog." "I know you are and I beg your pardon, old man." "What is it?" I asked him. "Baby Paul has given you the measles," he answered. "Nonsense, grown people don't get that." "They sometimes do," he assured me, after which he prescribed some medicine and spent several hours with me, that day, while I anathematized my luck and felt properly ashamed of my infantile complaint. After this a bad cough came, followed by a pain in my chest, and the medicine put me asleep, I think, for I woke up to find Frieda on one side of me and a nurse on the other. It was Miss Follansbee, who had looked after Baby Paul, and Frieda had gone off and haled her back, bodily. It was only afterwards that I knew my measles were complicated with pneumonia. There was a week that was a sort of nightmare, I think, because for days I didn't know very much, and tossed about, and felt that pain in my side most of the time, and struggled unavailingly for a decent long breath that wouldn't hurt. One day a strange doctor came in with Dr. Porter. Later, arrived a morning when I felt ever so well and Miss Follansbee was dozing a little in her chair, looking very weary, and the breathing was no longer painful and Porter came in and capered about the room and Frieda smeared her cheeks with the rubbing in of tears of joy. I suppose I must have been rather badly off during some of those days. Then came the evening and with it a queer notion that visions and strange dreams were coming back to me, for through the open door there sounded a footfall I had been hearing vaguely and longing for. Suddenly, Frances rushed in and was kneeling by my bed. "Oh, Dave dearest!" she cried, "You wicked, wicked man! They tell me that you forbade them to let me know for fear I would bring Baby back before he was all well! I'll never forgive you!" As a proof of her anger, I suppose, she had taken up my thin bony hand and was kissing it. "Please, please don't," I whispered hoarsely. "You--you'll get it too, first thing you know, and it's bad when it gets on one's lungs. You might lose that beautiful dear voice of yours again." But she rose, shaking her head at me like a mother who feels that her boy is incorrigible, and dragged a chair by the bed and put her finger to her lips when I would have spoken again, and laid her soft hand on mine, whereupon sleep came, dreamless and beautiful. During the night a hand gave me water, once or twice, and milk, I think, and I slept again and, when I awoke in the morning, I turned my head. "Miss Follansbee," I said, "I rather think----" "I told her that she must have a good night's sleep, Dave," came the beloved voice, "and I've been playing nurse, ever so poorly, I'm afraid. But Dr. Porter said that you would be all right now. And--and I've been so happy to be in the dear old room, and to see the old typewriter, and the calabash, and to know you are getting well again." "I--I am thrice blessed," I said, "but it is too bad you took so much trouble. You must be dreadfully tired." "I've been tired so long, Dave," she said, with tears coming to her eyes. "It--it has been such weary waiting." "The nights are awfully long," I told her. "The nights and the days, David dearest. I've been waiting such a long, long time." She threw herself on her knees by the bed, and took up my hand, stroking it, and suddenly an amazing light seemed to flood the room, laden with knowledge, sweeping away fears, bringing a tremulous bliss to my heart. "Dearest love!" I cried. "Is this true, or is it another dream? How could I speak of my love to you? How could old Dave cry out to the beautiful star that was so high up in the wonderful sky? I feared it would vanish and leave me in utter darkness. Do--do you mean that I may tell you of my heart's desire?" "Yes, David dearest! Tell me of it. Tell it forever, for years and years to come. I've been so hungry for those words you dared not tell." "I--I am all unshaven and unshorn," I said, "and----" "But in spite of that, you're my own dearest Dave, with the strength of a man and the heart of a child." So she bent over and her dear lips touched mine, and the days of sorrow were ended. * * * * * Some days later she took my arm. It was my first walk. I was to go as far as the room that had been hers and back again. For this tremendous excursion I was clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown Frieda had bought for me, and my cheeks were shaven clean and, somehow, I felt young again, as if the dear hand in mine had brushed away a score of years. So I went with her, leaning upon her. She opened the door and led me in. Frieda was there, and Gordon and Sophia. Near the window there was an easel, and upon it I saw Gordon's masterpiece, which they had sent with their love. And the painted "Mother and Child" was mine, as the living ones also were. 
38551	----	[Illustration: Book Cover] THE CRUX BOOKS BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN Women and Economics $1.50 Concerning Children 1.25 In This Our World (verse) 1.25 The Yellow Wallpaper (story) 0.50 The Home 1.00 Human Work 1.00 What Diantha Did (novel) 1.00 The Man-Made World; or, Our Androcentric Culture 1.00 Moving the Mountain 1.00 The Crux 1.00 Suffrage Songs 0.10 THE CRUX A NOVEL BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN CHARLTON COMPANY NEW YORK 1911 Copyright, 1911 by Charlotte Perkins Gilman THE CO-OPERATIVE PRESS, 15 SPRUCE STREET, NEW YORK PREFACE This story is, first, for young women to read; second, for young men to read; after that, for anybody who wants to. Anyone who doubts its facts and figures is referred to "Social Diseases and Marriage," by Dr. Prince Morrow, or to "Hygiene and Morality," by Miss Lavinia Dock, a trained nurse of long experience. Some will hold that the painful facts disclosed are unfit for young girls to know. Young girls are precisely the ones who must know them, in order that they may protect themselves and their children to come. The time to know of danger is before it is too late to avoid it. If some say "Innocence is the greatest charm of young girls," the answer is, "What good does it do them?" CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE BACK WAY 9 II. BAINVILLE EFFECTS 31 III. THE OUTBREAK 60 IV. TRANSPLANTED 81 V. CONTRASTS 101 VI. NEW FRIENDS AND OLD 126 VII. SIDE LIGHTS 149 VIII. A MIXTURE 174 IX. CONSEQUENCES 204 X. DETERMINATION 229 XI. THEREAFTER 256 XII. ACHIEVEMENTS 283 _Who should know but the woman?--The young wife-to-be? Whose whole life hangs on the choice; To her the ruin, the misery; To her, the deciding voice._ _Who should know but the woman?--The mother-to-be? Guardian, Giver, and Guide; If she may not foreknow, forejudge and foresee, What safety has childhood beside?_ _Who should know but the woman?--The girl in her youth? The hour of the warning is then, That, strong in her knowledge and free in her truth, She may build a new race of new men._ CHAPTER I THE BACK WAY Along the same old garden path, Sweet with the same old flowers; Under the lilacs, darkly dense, The easy gate in the backyard fence-- Those unforgotten hours! The "Foote Girls" were bustling along Margate Street with an air of united purpose that was unusual with them. Miss Rebecca wore her black silk cloak, by which it might be seen that "a call" was toward. Miss Jessie, the thin sister, and Miss Sallie, the fat one, were more hastily attired. They were persons of less impressiveness than Miss Rebecca, as was tacitly admitted by their more familiar nicknames, a concession never made by the older sister. Even Miss Rebecca was hurrying a little, for her, but the others were swifter and more impatient. "Do come on, Rebecca. Anybody'd think you were eighty instead of fifty!" said Miss Sallie. "There's Mrs. Williams going in! I wonder if she's heard already. Do hurry!" urged Miss Josie. But Miss Rebecca, being concerned about her dignity, would not allow herself to be hustled, and the three proceeded in irregular order under the high-arched elms and fence-topping syringas of the small New England town toward the austere home of Mr. Samuel Lane. It was a large, uncompromising, square, white house, planted starkly in the close-cut grass. It had no porch for summer lounging, no front gate for evening dalliance, no path-bordering beds of flowers from which to pluck a hasty offering or more redundant tribute. The fragrance which surrounded it came from the back yard, or over the fences of neighbors; the trees which waved greenly about it were the trees of other people. Mr. Lane had but two trees, one on each side of the straight and narrow path, evenly placed between house and sidewalk--evergreens. Mrs. Lane received them amiably; the minister's new wife, Mrs. Williams, was proving a little difficult to entertain. She was from Cambridge, Mass., and emanated a restrained consciousness of that fact. Mr. Lane rose stiffly and greeted them. He did not like the Foote girls, not having the usual American's share of the sense of humor. He had no enjoyment of the town joke, as old as they were, that "the three of them made a full yard;" and had frowned down as a profane impertinent the man--a little sore under some effect of gossip--who had amended it with "make an 'ell, I say." Safely seated in their several rocking chairs, and severally rocking them, the Misses Foote burst forth, as was their custom, in simultaneous, though by no means identical remarks. "I suppose you've heard about Morton Elder?" "What do you think Mort Elder's been doing now?" "We've got bad news for poor Miss Elder!" Mrs. Lane was intensely interested. Even Mr. Lane showed signs of animation. "I'm not surprised," he said. "He's done it now," opined Miss Josie with conviction. "I always said Rella Elder was spoiling that boy." "It's too bad--after all she's done for him! He always was a scamp!" Thus Miss Sallie. "I've been afraid of it all along," Miss Rebecca was saying, her voice booming through the lighter tones of her sisters. "I always said he'd never get through college." "But who is Morton Elder, and what has he done?" asked Mrs. Williams as soon as she could be heard. This lady now proved a most valuable asset. She was so new to the town, and had been so immersed in the suddenly widening range of her unsalaried duties as "minister's wife," that she had never even heard of Morton Elder. A new resident always fans the languishing flame of local conversation. The whole shopworn stock takes on a fresh lustre, topics long trampled flat in much discussion lift their heads anew, opinions one scarce dared to repeat again become almost authoritative, old stories flourish freshly, acquiring new detail and more vivid color. Mrs. Lane, seizing her opportunity while the sisters gasped a momentary amazement at anyone's not knowing the town scapegrace, and taking advantage of her position as old friend and near neighbor of the family under discussion, swept into the field under such headway that even the Foote girls remained silent perforce; surcharged, however, and holding their breaths in readiness to burst forth at the first opening. "He's the nephew--orphan nephew--of Miss Elder--who lives right back of us--our yards touch--we've always been friends--went to school together, Rella's never married--she teaches, you know--and her brother--he owned the home--it's all hers now, he died all of a sudden and left two children--Morton and Susie. Mort was about seven years old and Susie just a baby. He's been an awful cross--but she just idolizes him--she's spoiled him, I tell her." Mrs. Lane had to breathe, and even the briefest pause left her stranded to wait another chance. The three social benefactors proceeded to distribute their information in a clattering torrent. They sought to inform Mrs. Williams in especial, of numberless details of the early life and education of their subject, matters which would have been treated more appreciatively if they had not been blessed with the later news; and, at the same time, each was seeking for a more dramatic emphasis to give this last supply of incident with due effect. No regular record is possible where three persons pour forth statement and comment in a rapid, tumultuous stream, interrupted by cross currents of heated contradiction, and further varied by the exclamations and protests of three hearers, or at least, of two; for the one man present soon relapsed into disgusted silence. Mrs. Williams, turning a perplexed face from one to the other, inwardly condemning the darkening flood of talk, yet conscious of a sinful pleasure in it, and anxious as a guest, _and_ a minister's wife, to be most amiable, felt like one watching three kinetescopes at once. She saw, in confused pictures of blurred and varying outline, Orella Elder, the young New England girl, only eighteen, already a "school ma'am," suddenly left with two children to bring up, and doing it, as best she could. She saw the boy, momentarily changing, in his shuttlecock flight from mouth to mouth, through pale shades of open mischief to the black and scarlet of hinted sin, the terror of the neighborhood, the darling of his aunt, clever, audacious, scandalizing the quiet town. "Boys are apt to be mischievous, aren't they?" she suggested when it was possible. "He's worse than mischievous," Mr. Lane assured her sourly. "There's a mean streak in that family." "That's on his mother's side," Mrs. Lane hastened to add. "She was a queer girl--came from New York." The Foote girls began again, with rich profusion of detail, their voices rising shrill, one above the other, and playing together at their full height like emulous fountains. "We ought not to judge, you know;" urged Mrs. Williams. "What do you say he's really done?" Being sifted, it appeared that this last and most terrible performance was to go to "the city" with a group of "the worst boys of college," to get undeniably drunk, to do some piece of mischief. (Here was great licence in opinion, and in contradiction.) "_Anyway_ he's to be suspended!" said Miss Rebecca with finality. "Suspended!" Miss Josie's voice rose in scorn. "_Expelled!_ They said he was expelled." "In disgrace!" added Miss Sallie. Vivian Lane sat in the back room at the window, studying in the lingering light of the long June evening. At least, she appeared to be studying. Her tall figure was bent over her books, but the dark eyes blazed under their delicate level brows, and her face flushed and paled with changing feelings. She had heard--who, in the same house, could escape hearing the Misses Foote?--and had followed the torrent of description, hearsay, surmise and allegation with an interest that was painful in its intensity. "It's a _shame_!" she whispered under her breath. "A _shame_! And nobody to stand up for him!" She half rose to her feet as if to do it herself, but sank back irresolutely. A fresh wave of talk rolled forth. "It'll half kill his aunt." "Poor Miss Elder! I don't know what she'll do!" "I don't know what _he'll_ do. He can't go back to college." "He'll have to go to work." "I'd like to know where--nobody'd hire him in this town." The girl could bear it no longer. She came to the door, and there, as they paused to speak to her, her purpose ebbed again. "My daughter, Vivian, Mrs. Williams," said her mother; and the other callers greeted her familiarly. "You'd better finish your lessons, Vivian," Mr. Lane suggested. "I have, father," said the girl, and took a chair by the minister's wife. She had a vague feeling that if she were there, they would not talk so about Morton Elder. Mrs. Williams hailed the interruption gratefully. She liked the slender girl with the thoughtful eyes and pretty, rather pathetic mouth, and sought to draw her out. But her questions soon led to unfortunate results. "You are going to college, I suppose?" she presently inquired; and Vivian owned that it was the desire of her heart. "Nonsense!" said her father. "Stuff and nonsense, Vivian! You're not going to college." The Foote girls now burst forth in voluble agreement with Mr. Lane. His wife was evidently of the same mind; and Mrs. Williams plainly regretted her question. But Vivian mustered courage enough to make a stand, strengthened perhaps by the depth of the feeling which had brought her into the room. "I don't know why you're all so down on a girl's going to college. Eve Marks has gone, and Mary Spring is going--and both the Austin girls. Everybody goes now." "I know one girl that won't," was her father's incisive comment, and her mother said quietly, "A girl's place is at home--'till she marries." "Suppose I don't want to marry?" said Vivian. "Don't talk nonsense," her father answered. "Marriage is a woman's duty." "What do you want to do?" asked Miss Josie in the interests of further combat. "Do you want to be a doctor, like Jane Bellair?" "I should like to very much indeed," said the girl with quiet intensity. "I'd like to be a doctor in a babies' hospital." "More nonsense," said Mr. Lane. "Don't talk to me about that woman! You attend to your studies, and then to your home duties, my dear." The talk rose anew, the three sisters contriving all to agree with Mr. Lane in his opinions about college, marriage and Dr. Bellair, yet to disagree violently among themselves. Mrs. Williams rose to go, and in the lull that followed the liquid note of a whippoorwill met the girl's quick ear. She quietly slipped out, unnoticed. The Lane's home stood near the outer edge of the town, with an outlook across wide meadows and soft wooded hills. Behind, their long garden backed on that of Miss Orella Elder, with a connecting gate in the gray board fence. Mrs. Lane had grown up here. The house belonged to her mother, Mrs. Servilla Pettigrew, though that able lady was seldom in it, preferring to make herself useful among two growing sets of grandchildren. Miss Elder was Vivian's favorite teacher. She was a careful and conscientious instructor, and the girl was a careful and conscientious scholar; so they got on admirably together; indeed, there was a real affection between them. And just as the young Laura Pettigrew had played with the younger Orella Elder, so Vivian had played with little Susie Elder, Miss Orella's orphan niece. Susie regarded the older girl with worshipful affection, which was not at all unpleasant to an emotional young creature with unemotional parents, and no brothers or sisters of her own. Moreover, Susie was Morton's sister. The whippoorwill's cry sounded again through the soft June night. Vivian came quickly down the garden path between the bordering beds of sweet alyssum and mignonette. A dew-wet rose brushed against her hand. She broke it off, pricking her fingers, and hastily fastened it in the bosom of her white frock. Large old lilac bushes hung over the dividing fence, a thick mass of honeysuckle climbed up by the gate and mingled with them, spreading over to a pear tree on the Lane side. In this fragrant, hidden corner was a rough seat, and from it a boy's hand reached out and seized the girl's, drawing her down beside him. She drew away from him as far as the seat allowed. "Oh Morton!" she said. "What have you done?" Morton was sulky. "Now Vivian, are you down on me too? I thought I had one friend." "You ought to tell me," she said more gently. "How can I be your friend if I don't know the facts? They are saying perfectly awful things." "Who are?" "Why--the Foote girls--everybody." "Oh those old maids aren't everybody, I assure you. You see, Vivian, you live right here in this old oyster of a town--and you make mountains out of molehills like everybody else. A girl of your intelligence ought to know better." She drew a great breath of relief. "Then you haven't--done it?" "Done what? What's all this mysterious talk anyhow? The prisoner has a right to know what he's charged with before he commits himself." The girl was silent, finding it difficult to begin. "Well, out with it. What do they say I did?" He picked up a long dry twig and broke it, gradually, into tiny, half-inch bits. "They say you--went to the city--with a lot of the worst boys in college----" "Well? Many persons go to the city every day. That's no crime, surely. As for 'the worst boys in college,'"--he laughed scornfully--"I suppose those old ladies think if a fellow smokes a cigarette or says 'darn' he's a tough. They're mighty nice fellows, that bunch--most of 'em. Got some ginger in 'em, that's all. What else?" "They say--you drank." "O ho! Said I got drunk, I warrant! Well--we did have a skate on that time, I admit!" And he laughed as if this charge were but a familiar joke. "Why Morton Elder! I think it is a--disgrace!" "Pshaw, Vivian!--You ought to have more sense. All the fellows get gay once in a while. A college isn't a young ladies' seminary." He reached out and got hold of her hand again, but she drew it away. "There was something else," she said. "What was it?" he questioned sharply. "What did they say?" But she would not satisfy him--perhaps could not. "I should think you'd be ashamed, to make your aunt so much trouble. They said you were suspended--or--_expelled_!" He shrugged his big shoulders and threw away the handful of broken twigs. "That's true enough--I might as well admit that." "Oh, _Morton_!--I didn't believe it. _Expelled!_" "Yes, expelled--turned down--thrown out--fired! And I'm glad of it." He leaned back against the fence and whistled very softly through his teeth. "Sh! Sh!" she urged. "Please!" He was quiet. "But Morton--what are you going to do?--Won't it spoil your career?" "No, my dear little girl, it will not!" said he. "On the contrary, it will be the making of me. I tell you, Vivian, I'm sick to death of this town of maiden ladies--and 'good family men.' I'm sick of being fussed over for ever and ever, and having wristers and mufflers knitted for me--and being told to put on my rubbers! There's no fun in this old clamshell--this kitchen-midden of a town--and I'm going to quit it." He stood up and stretched his long arms. "I'm going to quit it for good and all." The girl sat still, her hands gripping the seat on either side. "Where are you going?" she asked in a low voice. "I'm going west--clear out west. I've been talking with Aunt Rella about it. Dr. Bellair'll help me to a job, she thinks. She's awful cut up, of course. I'm sorry she feels bad--but she needn't, I tell her. I shall do better there than I ever should have here. I know a fellow that left college--his father failed--and he went into business and made two thousand dollars in a year. I always wanted to take up business--you know that!" She knew it--he had talked of it freely before they had argued and persuaded him into the college life. She knew, too, how his aunt's hopes all centered in him, and in his academic honors and future professional life. "Business," to his aunt's mind, was a necessary evil, which could at best be undertaken only after a "liberal education." "When are you going," she asked at length. "Right off--to-morrow." She gave a little gasp. "That's what I was whippoorwilling about--I knew I'd get no other chance to talk to you--I wanted to say good-by, you know." The girl sat silent, struggling not to cry. He dropped beside her, stole an arm about her waist, and felt her tremble. "Now, Viva, don't you go and cry! I'm sorry--I really am sorry--to make _you_ feel bad." This was too much for her, and she sobbed frankly. "Oh, Morton! How could you! How could you!--And now you've got to go away!" "There now--don't cry--sh!--they'll hear you." She did hush at that. "And don't feel so bad--I'll come back some time--to see you." "No, you won't!" she answered with sudden fierceness. "You'll just go--and stay--and I never shall see you again!" He drew her closer to him. "And do you care--so much--Viva?" "Of course, I care!" she said, "Haven't we always been friends, the best of friends?" "Yes--you and Aunt Rella have been about all I had," he admitted with a cheerful laugh. "I hope I'll make more friends out yonder. But Viva,"--his hand pressed closer--"is it only--friends?" She took fright at once and drew away from him. "You mustn't do that, Morton!" "Do what?" A shaft of moonlight shone on his teasing face. "What am I doing?" he said. It is difficult--it is well nigh impossible--for a girl to put a name to certain small cuddlings not in themselves terrifying, nor even unpleasant, but which she obscurely feels to be wrong. Viva flushed and was silent--he could see the rich color flood her face. "Come now--don't be hard on a fellow!" he urged. "I shan't see you again in ever so long. You'll forget all about me before a year's over." She shook her head, still silent. "Won't you speak to me--Viva?" "I wish----" She could not find the words she wanted. "Oh, I wish you--wouldn't!" "Wouldn't what, Girlie? Wouldn't go away? Sorry to disoblige--but I have to. There's no place for me here." The girl felt the sad truth of that. "Aunt Rella will get used to it after a while. I'll write to her--I'll make lots of money--and come back in a few years--astonish you all!--Meanwhile--kiss me good-by, Viva!" She drew back shyly. She had never kissed him. She had never in her life kissed any man younger than an uncle. "No, Morton--you mustn't----" She shrank away into the shadow. But, there was no great distance to shrink to, and his strong arms soon drew her close again. "Suppose you never see me again," he said. "Then you'll wish you hadn't been so stiff about it." She thought of this dread possibility with a sudden chill of horror, and while she hesitated, he took her face between her hands and kissed her on the mouth. Steps were heard coming down the path. "They're on," he said with a little laugh. "Good-by, Viva!" He vaulted the fence and was gone. "What are you doing here, Vivian?" demanded her father. "I was saying good-by to Morton," she answered with a sob. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself--philandering out here in the middle of the night with that scapegrace! Come in the house and go to bed at once--it's ten o'clock." Bowing to this confused but almost equally incriminating chronology, she followed him in, meekly enough as to her outward seeming, but inwardly in a state of stormy tumult. She had been kissed! Her father's stiff back before her could not blot out the radiant, melting moonlight, the rich sweetness of the flowers, the tender, soft, June night. "You go to bed," said he once more. "I'm ashamed of you." "Yes, father," she answered. Her little room, when at last she was safely in it and had shut the door and put a chair against it--she had no key--seemed somehow changed. She lit the lamp and stood looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were star-bright. Her cheeks flamed softly. Her mouth looked guilty and yet glad. She put the light out and went to the window, kneeling there, leaning out in the fragrant stillness, trying to arrange in her mind this mixture of grief, disapproval, shame and triumph. When the Episcopal church clock struck eleven, she went to bed in guilty haste, but not to sleep. For a long time she lay there watching the changing play of moonlight on the floor. She felt almost as if she were married. CHAPTER II. BAINVILLE EFFECTS. Lockstep, handcuffs, ankle-ball-and-chain, Dulltoil and dreary food and drink; Small cell, cold cell, narrow bed and hard; High wall, thick wall, window iron-barred; Stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard-- Young hearts weary of monotony and pain, Young hearts weary of reiterant refrain: "They say--they do--what will people think?" At the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor sat Miss Rebecca and Miss Josie Foote, Miss Sallie being out on a foraging expedition--marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect fresh food for thought. A tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk. "I should think Vivian Lane would get tired of wearing brown," said Miss Rebecca. "I don't know why she should," her sister promptly protested, "it's a good enough wearing color, and becoming to her." "She could afford to have more variety," said Miss Rebecca. "The Lanes are mean enough about some things, but I know they'd like to have her dress better. She'll never get married in the world." "I don't know why not. She's only twenty-five--and good-looking." "Good-looking! That's not everything. Plenty of girls marry that are not good-looking--and plenty of good-looking girls stay single." "Plenty of homely ones, too. Rebecca," said Miss Josie, with meaning. Miss Rebecca certainly was not handsome. "Going to the library, of course!" she pursued presently. "That girl reads all the time." "So does her grandmother. I see her going and coming from that library every day almost." "Oh, well--she reads stories and things like that. Sallie goes pretty often and she notices. We use that library enough, goodness knows, but they are there every day. Vivian Lane reads the queerest things--doctor's books and works on pedagoggy." "Godgy," said Miss Rebecca, "not goggy." And as her sister ignored this correction, she continued: "They might as well have let her go to college when she was so set on it." "College! I don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college, from what I hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." The Foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture. "I don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said Miss Rebecca with decision. "Nor I," agreed Miss Josie. "Men don't like learned women." "They don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either," remarked Miss Rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that remark about "homely ones." The tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite, and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner. "Nine years this Summer since Morton Elder went West," murmured Miss Josie, reminiscently. "I shouldn't wonder if Vivian had stayed single on his account." "Nonsense!" her sister answered sharply. "She's not that kind. She's not popular with men, that's all. She's too intellectual." "She ought to be in the library instead of Sue Elder," Miss Rebecca suggested. "She's far more competent. Sue's a feather-headed little thing." "She seems to give satisfaction so far. If the trustees are pleased with her, there's no reason for you to complain that I see," said Miss Rebecca with decision. * * * * * Vivian Lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take home. She had her card, her mother's and her father's--all utilized. Her grandmother kept her own card--and her own counsel. The pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant old gentleman, came to attend her. "You _have_ got a load," she said, scribbling complex figures with one end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the other. She whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets, dropped them into their proper openings in the desk and inserted the cards in their stead with delicate precision. "Can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "I'll help you carry them." "No, thanks. I'm not going right home." "You're going to see your Saint--I know!" said Miss Susie, tossing her bright head. "I'm jealous, and you know it." "Don't be a goose, Susie! You know you're my very best friend, but--she's different." "I should think she was different!" Susie sharply agreed. "And you've been 'different' ever since she came." "I hope so," said Vivian gravely. "Mrs. St. Cloud brings out one's very best and highest. I wish you liked her better, Susie." "I like you," Susie answered. "You bring out my 'best and highest'--if I've got any. She don't. She's like a lovely, faint, bright--bubble! I want to prick it!" Vivian smiled down upon her. "You bad little mouse!" she said. "Come, give me the books." "Leave them with me, and I'll bring them in the car." Susie looked anxious to make amends for her bit of blasphemy. "All right, dear. Thank you. I'll be home by that time, probably." * * * * * In the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and magazines were sold. "I believe Father'd like the new Centurion," she said to herself, and got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the place. She stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag of bulbs. "Your mother's forgotten about those, I guess," said Mrs. Crothers, the florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. Lucky you thought of them before it got too late in the season. Bennie was awfully pleased with that red and blue pencil you gave him, Miss Lane." Vivian walked on. A child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon her. "Aren't you coming in to see me--ever?" she demanded. Vivian stooped and kissed her. "Yes, dear, but not to-night. How's that dear baby getting on?" "She's better," said the little girl. "Mother said thank you--lots of times. Wait a minute--" The child fumbled in Vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous upward glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly. A long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. Vivian caught up with him and he joined her with eagerness. "Good evening, Miss Lane. Say--are you coming to the club to-morrow night?" She smiled cordially. "Of course I am, Johnny. I wouldn't disappoint my boys for anything--nor myself, either." They walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she bade him a cheery "good-night." Mrs. St. Cloud was at the window pensively watching the western sky. She saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender, radiant smile--a lovely being in a most unlovely room. There was a chill refinement above subdued confusion in that Cambridge-Bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second Mrs. Williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry, made the place somehow suggestive of excavations at Abydos. It was much the kind of parlor Vivian had been accustomed to from childhood, but Mrs. St. Cloud was of a type quite new to her. Clothed in soft, clinging fabrics, always with a misty, veiled effect to them, wearing pale amber, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and laces, sinking gracefully among deep cushions, even able to sink gracefully into a common Bainville chair--this beautiful woman had captured the girl's imagination from the first. Clearly known, she was a sister of Mrs. Williams, visiting indefinitely. Vaguely--and very frequently--hinted, her husband had "left her," and "she did not believe in divorce." Against her background of dumb patience, he shone darkly forth as A Brute of unknown cruelties. Nothing against him would she ever say, and every young masculine heart yearned to make life brighter to the Ideal Woman, so strangely neglected; also some older ones. Her Young Men's Bible Class was the pride of Mr. Williams' heart and joy of such young men as the town possessed; most of Bainville's boys had gone. "A wonderful uplifting influence," Mr. Williams called her, and refused to say anything, even when directly approached, as to "the facts" of her trouble. "It is an old story," he would say. "She bears up wonderfully. She sacrifices her life rather than her principles." To Vivian, sitting now on a hassock at the lady's feet and looking up at her with adoring eyes, she was indeed a star, a saint, a cloud of mystery. She reached out a soft hand, white, slender, delicately kept, wearing one thin gold ring, and stroked the girl's smooth hair. Vivian seized the hand and kissed it, blushing as she did so. "You foolish child! Don't waste your young affection on an old lady like me." "Old! You! You don't look as old as I do this minute!" said the girl with hushed intensity. "Life wears on you, I'm afraid, my dear.... Do you ever hear from him?" To no one else, not even to Susie, could Vivian speak of what now seemed the tragedy of her lost youth. "No," said she. "Never now. He did write once or twice--at first." "He writes to his aunt, of course?" "Yes," said Vivian. "But not often. And he never--says anything." "I understand. Poor child! You must be true, and wait." And the lady turned the thin ring on her finger. Vivian watched her in a passion of admiring tenderness. "Oh, you understand!" she exclaimed. "You understand!" "I understand, my dear," said Mrs. St. Cloud. When Vivian reached her own gate she leaned her arms upon it and looked first one way and then the other, down the long, still street. The country was in sight at both ends--the low, monotonous, wooded hills that shut them in. It was all familiar, wearingly familiar. She had known it continuously for such part of her lifetime as was sensitive to landscape effects, and had at times a mad wish for an earthquake to change the outlines a little. The infrequent trolley car passed just then and Sue Elder joined her, to take the short cut home through the Lane's yard. "Here you are," she said cheerfully, "and here are the books." Vivian thanked her. "Oh, say--come in after supper, can't you? Aunt Rella's had another letter from Mort." Vivian's sombre eyes lit up a little. "How's he getting on? In the same business he was last year?" she asked with an elaborately cheerful air. Morton had seemed to change occupations oftener than he wrote letters. "Yes, I believe so. I guess he's well. He never says much, you know. I don't think it's good for him out there--good for any boy." And Susie looked quite the older sister. "What are they to do? They can't stay here." "No, I suppose not--but we have to." "Dr. Bellair didn't," remarked Vivian. "I like her--tremendously, don't you?" In truth, Dr. Bellair was already a close second to Mrs. St. Cloud in the girl's hero-worshipping heart. "Oh, yes; she's splendid! Aunt Rella is so glad to have her with us. They have great times recalling their school days together. Aunty used to like her then, though she is five years older--but you'd never dream it. And I think she's real handsome." "She's not beautiful," said Vivian, with decision, "but she's a lot better. Sue Elder, I wish----" "Wish what?" asked her friend. Sue put the books on the gate-post, and the two girls, arm in arm, walked slowly up and down. Susie was a round, palely rosy little person, with a delicate face and soft, light hair waving fluffily about her small head. Vivian's hair was twice the length, but so straight and fine that its mass had no effect. She wore it in smooth plaits wound like a wreath from brow to nape. After an understanding silence and a walk past three gates and back again, Vivian answered her. "I wish I were in your shoes," she said. "What do you mean--having the Doctor in the house?" "No--I'd like that too; but I mean work to do--your position." "Oh, the library! You needn't; it's horrid. I wish I were in your shoes, and had a father and mother to take care of me. I can tell you, it's no fun--having to be there just on time or get fined, and having to poke away all day with those phooty old ladies and tiresome children." "But you're independent." "Oh, yes, I'm independent. I have to be. Aunt Rella _could_ take care of me, I suppose, but of course I wouldn't let her. And I dare say library work is better than school-teaching." "What'll we be doing when we're forty, I wonder?" said Vivian, after another turn. "Forty! Why I expect to be a grandma by that time," said Sue. She was but twenty-one, and forty looked a long way off to her. "A grandma! And knit?" suggested Vivian. "Oh, yes--baby jackets--and blankets--and socks--and little shawls. I love to knit," said Sue, cheerfully. "But suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend. "Oh, but I shall marry--you see if I don't. Marriage"--here she carefully went inside the gate and latched it--"marriage is--a woman's duty!" And she ran up the path laughing. Vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own door. The little sitting-room was hot, very hot; but Mr. Lane sat with his carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth with a shawl around him. "Shut the door, Vivian!" he exclaimed irritably. "I'll never get over this cold if such draughts are let in on me." "Why, it's not cold out, Father--and it's very close in here." Mrs. Lane looked up from her darning. "You think it's close because you've come in from outdoors. Sit down--and don't fret your father; I'm real worried about him." Mr. Lane coughed hollowly. He had become a little dry old man with gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever since Vivian could remember. "Dr. Bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a cold," remarked Vivian, as she took off her things. "Dr. Bellair has not been consulted in this case," her father returned wheezingly. "I'm quite satisfied with my family physician. He's a man, at any rate." "Save me from these women doctors!" exclaimed his wife. Vivian set her lips patiently. She had long since learned how widely she differed from both father and mother, and preferred silence to dispute. Mr. Lane was a plain, ordinary person, who spent most of a moderately useful life in the shoe business, from which he had of late withdrawn. Both he and his wife "had property" to a certain extent; and now lived peacefully on their income with neither fear nor hope, ambition nor responsibility to trouble them. The one thing they were yet anxious about was to see Vivian married, but this wish seemed to be no nearer to fulfillment for the passing years. "I don't know what the women are thinking of, these days," went on the old gentleman, putting another shovelful of coal on the fire with a careful hand. "Doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em! The Lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain--she was to cleave unto her husband!" "Some women have no husbands to cleave to, Father." "They'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he answered. "No man's going to want to marry one of these self-sufficient independent, professional women, of course." "I do hope, Viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that Dr. Bellair put foolish ideas into your head." "I want to do something to support myself--sometime, Mother. I can't live on my parents forever." "You be patient, child. There's money enough for you to live on. It's a woman's place to wait," put in Mr. Lane. "How long?" inquired Vivian. "I'm twenty-five. No man has asked me to marry him yet. Some of the women in this town have waited thirty--forty--fifty--sixty years. No one has asked them." "I was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked Vivian's grandmother. "And my mother wasn't but fifteen. Huh!" A sudden little derisive noise she made; such as used to be written "humph!" For the past five years, Mrs. Pettigrew had made her home with the Lanes. Mrs. Lane herself was but a feeble replica of her energetic parent. There was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and comparative idleness with some ill-health on the part of the daughter, had made the difference appear less. Mrs. Pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. In her active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her active middle-age, she had trotted about from daughter's house to son's house, helping with the grandchildren. And now she still trotted about in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly as a pendulum between her daughter's house and the public library. The books she brought home were mainly novels, and if she perused anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk about it. Indeed, it was a striking characteristic of Mrs. Pettigrew that she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on with a bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. And now, having dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her lips tight as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the black bag that always hung at her elbow. She was making one of those perennial knitted garments, which, in her young days, were called "Cardigan jackets," later "Jerseys," and now by the offensive name of "sweater." These she constructed in great numbers, and their probable expense was a source of discussion in the town. "How do you find friends enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she would smile enigmatically and reply, "Good presents make good friends." "If a woman minds her P's and Q's she can get a husband easy enough," insisted the invalid. "Just shove that lamp nearer, Vivian, will you." Vivian moved the lamp. Her mother moved her chair to follow it and dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her. "Supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged woman, opening the dining-room door. At this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up the path. "Gracious, that's the minister!" cried Mrs. Lane. "He said he'd be in this afternoon if he got time. I thought likely 'twould be to supper." She received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out presently to open a jar of quinces. The Reverend Otis Williams was by no means loathe to take occasional meals with his parishioners. It was noted that, in making pastoral calls, he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently arrived about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he approved. "It is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "Not feeling well, Mr. Lane? I'm sorry to hear it. Ah! Mrs. Pettigrew! Is that jacket for me, by any chance? A little sombre, isn't it? Good evening, Vivian. You are looking well--as you always do." Vivian did not like him. He had married her mother, he had christened her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet still she didn't like him. "A chilly evening, Mr. Lane," he pursued. "That's what I say," his host agreed. "Vivian says it isn't; I say it is." "Disagreement in the family! This won't do, Vivian," said the minister jocosely. "Duty to parents, you know! Duty to parents!" "Does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice of quiet sweetness, yet with a rebellious spark in her soft eyes. "Huh!" said her grandmother--and dropped her gray ball. Vivian picked it up and the old lady surreptitiously patted her. "Pardon me," said the reverend gentleman to Mrs. Pettigrew, "did you speak?" "No," said the old lady, "Seldom do." "Silence is golden, Mrs. Pettigrew. Silence is golden. Speech is silver, but silence is golden. It is a rare gift." Mrs. Pettigrew set her lips so tightly that they quite disappeared, leaving only a thin dented line in her smoothly pale face. She was called by the neighbors "wonderfully well preserved," a phrase she herself despised. Some visitor, new to the town, had the hardihood to use it to her face once. "Huh!" was the response. "I'm just sixty. Henry Haskins and George Baker and Stephen Doolittle are all older'n I am--and still doing business, doing it better'n any of the young folks as far as I can see. You don't compare them to canned pears, do you?" Mr. Williams knew her value in church work, and took no umbrage at her somewhat inimical expression; particularly as just then Mrs. Lane appeared and asked them to walk out to supper. Vivian sat among them, restrained and courteous, but inwardly at war with her surroundings. Here was her mother, busy, responsible, serving creamed codfish and hot biscuit; her father, eating wheezily, and finding fault with the biscuit, also with the codfish; her grandmother, bright-eyed, thin-lipped and silent. Vivian got on well with her grandmother, though neither of them talked much. "My mother used to say that the perfect supper was cake, preserves, hot bread, and a 'relish,'" said Mr. Williams genially. "You have the perfect supper, Mrs. Lane." "I'm glad if you enjoy it, I'm sure," said that lady. "I'm fond of a bit of salt myself." "And what are you reading now, Vivian," he asked paternally. "Ward," she answered, modestly and briefly. "Ward? Dr. Ward of the _Centurion_?" Vivian smiled her gentlest. "Oh, no," she replied; "Lester F. Ward, the Sociologist." "Poor stuff, I think!" said her father. "Girls have no business to read such things." "I wish you'd speak to Vivian about it, Mr. Williams. She's got beyond me," protested her mother. "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. "I'd like some more of that quince, Laura." "My dear young lady, you are not reading books of which your parents disapprove, I hope?" urged the minister. "Shouldn't I--ever?" asked the girl, in her soft, disarming manner. "I'm surely old enough!" "The duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied sonorously. "Does parental duty cease? Are you not yet a child in your father's house?" "Is a daughter always a child if she lives at home?" inquired the girl, as one seeking instruction. He set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat. "The duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long as she is blessed with parents." "And what is it?" she asked, large-eyed, attentive. "What is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "It is submission, obedience--obedience." "I see. So Mother ought to obey Grandmother," she pursued meditatively, and Mrs. Pettigrew nearly choked in her tea. Vivian was boiling with rebellion. To sit there and be lectured at the table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral interference, the minister preach like that. She slapped her grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the straight back--and refrained from further speech. When Mrs. Pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the minister, "Have you read Campbell's New Theology?" and from that on they were all occupied in listening to Mr. Williams' strong, clear and extensive views on the subject--which lasted into the parlor again. Vivian sat for awhile in the chair nearest the window, where some thin thread of air might possibly leak in, and watched the minister with a curious expression. All her life he had been held up to her as a person to honor, as a man of irreproachable character, great learning and wisdom. Of late she found with a sense of surprise that she did not honor him at all. He seemed to her suddenly like a relic of past ages, a piece of an old parchment--or papyrus. In the light of the studies she had been pursuing in the well-stored town library, the teachings of this worthy old gentleman appeared a jumble of age-old traditions, superimposed one upon another. "He's a palimpsest," she said to herself, "and a poor palimpsest at that." She sat with her shapely hands quiet in her lap while her grandmother's shining needles twinkled in the dark wool, and her mother's slim crochet hook ran along the widening spaces of some thin, white, fuzzy thing. The rich powers of her young womanhood longed for occupation, but she could never hypnotize herself with "fancywork." Her work must be worth while. She felt the crushing cramp and loneliness of a young mind, really stronger than those about her, yet held in dumb subjection. She could not solace herself by loving them; her father would have none of it, and her mother had small use for what she called "sentiment." All her life Vivian had longed for more loving, both to give and take; but no one ever imagined it of her, she was so quiet and repressed in manner. The local opinion was that if a woman had a head, she could not have a heart; and as to having a body--it was indelicate to consider such a thing. "I mean to have six children," Vivian had planned when she was younger. "And they shall never be hungry for more loving." She meant to make up to her vaguely imagined future family for all that her own youth missed. Even Grandma, though far more sympathetic in temperament, was not given to demonstration, and Vivian solaced her big, tender heart by cuddling all the babies she could reach, and petting cats and dogs when no children were to be found. Presently she arose and bade a courteous goodnight to the still prolix parson. "I'm going over to Sue's," she said, and went out. * * * * * There was a moon again--a low, large moon, hazily brilliant. The air was sweet with the odors of scarce-gone Summer, of coming Autumn. The girl stood still, half-way down the path, and looked steadily into that silver radiance. Moonlight always filled her heart with a vague excitement, a feeling that something ought to happen--soon. This flat, narrow life, so long, so endlessly long--would nothing ever end it? Nine years since Morton went away! Nine years since the strange, invading thrill of her first kiss! Back of that was only childhood; these years really constituted Life; and Life, in the girl's eyes, was a dreary treadmill. She was externally quiet, and by conscience dutiful; so dutiful, so quiet, so without powers of expression, that the ache of an unsatisfied heart, the stir of young ambitions, were wholly unsuspected by those about her. A studious, earnest, thoughtful girl--but study alone does not supply life's needs, nor does such friendship as her life afforded. Susie was "a dear"--Susie was Morton's sister, and she was very fond of her. But that bright-haired child did not understand--could not understand--all that she needed. Then came Mrs. St. Cloud into her life, stirring the depths of romance, of the buried past, and of the unborn future. From her she learned to face a life of utter renunciation, to be true, true to her ideals, true to her principles, true to the past, to be patient; and to wait. So strengthened, she had turned a deaf ear to such possible voice of admiration as might have come from the scant membership of the Young Men's Bible Class, leaving them the more devoted to Scripture study. There was no thin ring to turn upon her finger; but, for lack of better token, she had saved the rose she wore upon her breast that night, keeping it hidden among her precious things. And then, into the gray, flat current of her daily life, sharply across the trend of Mrs. St. Cloud's soft influence, had come a new force--Dr. Bellair. Vivian liked her, yet felt afraid, a slight, shivering hesitancy as before a too cold bath, a subtle sense that this breezy woman, strong, cheerful, full of new ideas, if not ideals, and radiating actual power, power used and enjoyed, might in some way change the movement of her life. Change she desired, she longed for, but dreaded the unknown. Slowly she followed the long garden path, paused lingeringly by that rough garden seat, went through and closed the gate. CHAPTER III. THE OUTBREAK There comes a time After white months of ice-- Slow months of ice--long months of ice-- There comes a time when the still floods below Rise, lift, and overflow-- Fast, far they go. Miss Orella sat in her low armless rocker, lifting perplexed, patient eyes to look up at Dr. Bellair. Dr. Bellair stood squarely before her, stood easily, on broad-soled, low-heeled shoes, and looked down at Miss Orella; her eyes were earnest, compelling, full of hope and cheer. "You are as pretty as a girl, Orella," she observed irrelevantly. Miss Orella blushed. She was not used to compliments, even from a woman, and did not know how to take them. "How you talk!" she murmured shyly. "I mean to talk," continued the doctor, "until you listen to reason." Reason in this case, to Dr. Bellair's mind, lay in her advice to Miss Elder to come West with her--to live. "I don't see how I can. It's--it's such a Complete Change." Miss Orella spoke as if Change were equivalent to Sin, or at least to Danger. "Do you good. As a physician, I can prescribe nothing better. You need a complete change if anybody ever did." "Why, Jane! I am quite well." "I didn't say you were sick. But you are in an advanced stage of _arthritis deformans_ of the soul. The whole town's got it!" The doctor tramped up and down the little room, freeing her mind. "I never saw such bed-ridden intellects in my life! I suppose it was so when I was a child--and I was too young to notice it. But surely it's worse now. The world goes faster and faster every day, the people who keep still get farther behind! I'm fond of you, Rella. You've got an intellect, and a conscience, and a will--a will like iron. But you spend most of your strength in keeping yourself down. Now, do wake up and use it to break loose! You don't have to stay here. Come out to Colorado with me--and Grow." Miss Elder moved uneasily in her chair. She laid her small embroidery hoop on the table, and straightened out the loose threads of silk, the doctor watching her impatiently. "I'm too old," she said at length. Jane Bellair laughed aloud, shortly. "Old!" she cried. "You're five years younger than I am. You're only thirty-six! Old! Why, child, your life's before you--to make." "You don't realize, Jane. You struck out for yourself so young--and you've grown up out there--it seems to be so different--there." "It is. People aren't afraid to move. What have you got here you so hate to leave, Rella?" "Why, it's--Home." "Yes. It's home--now. Are you happy in it?" "I'm--contented." "Don't you deceive yourself, Rella. You are not contented--not by a long chalk. You are doing your duty as you see it; and you've kept yourself down so long you've almost lost the power of motion. I'm trying to galvanize you awake--and I mean to do it." "You might as well sit down while you're doing it, anyway," Miss Elder suggested meekly. Dr. Bellair sat down, selecting a formidable fiddle-backed chair, the unflinching determination of its widely-placed feet being repeated by her own square toes. She placed herself in front of her friend and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her strong, intelligent hands clasped loosely. "What have you got to look forward to, Rella?" "I want to see Susie happily married--" "I said _you_--not Susie." "Oh--me? Why, I hope some day Morton will come back----" "I said _you_--not Morton." "Why I--you know I have friends, Jane--and neighbors. And some day, perhaps--I mean to go abroad." "Are you scolding Aunt Rella again, Dr. Bellair. I won't stand it." Pretty Susie stood in the door smiling. "Come and help me then," the doctor said, "and it won't sound so much like scolding." "I want Mort's letter--to show to Viva," the girl answered, and slipped out with it. She sat with Vivian on the stiff little sofa in the back room; the arms of the two girls were around one another, and they read the letter together. More than six months had passed since his last one. It was not much of a letter. Vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. The "Remember me to Viva--unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. Still it might mean more than appeared--far more. Men were reticent and proud, she had read. It was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. He was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. He did not wish her to feel bound to him. She had discussed it with Mrs. St. Cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy. "A man who cannot marry must speak of marriage--it is not honorable," her friend had told her. "Couldn't he--write to me--as a friend?" And the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "I have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often--misunderstood." The girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in Bainville. "No," Mrs. St. Cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world--yet not write to you--till he was ready to say 'come.' And, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt." So Vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to Viva--unless she's married." That last clause might mean much. Dr. Bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room. "She's trying to persuade Aunt Rella to go West!" said Susie. "Wouldn't it be funny if she did!" In Susie's eyes her Aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. Since she could remember, Aunt Rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored Spring flowers of New England, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. In her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order--and also making Susie's pretty dresses. To think of Aunt Orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving Bainville, was like a vision of trees walking. To Dr. Jane Bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, Miss Elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this quiet town, while all the world was open to her. "I couldn't think of leaving Susie!" protested Miss Orella. "Bring her along," said the doctor. "Best thing in the world for her!" She rose and came to the door. The two girls make a pretty picture. Vivian's oval face, with its smooth Madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little Susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her. "Come in here, girls," said the doctor. "I want you to help me. You're young enough to be movable, I hope." They cheerfully joined the controversy, but Miss Orella found small support in them. "Why don't you do it, Auntie!" Susie thought it an excellent joke. "I suppose you could teach school in Denver as well as here. And you could Vote! Oh, Auntie--to think of your Voting!" Miss Elder, too modestly feminine, too inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "Anti," fairly blushed at the idea. "She's hesitating on your account," Dr. Bellair explained to the girl. "Wants to see you safely married! I tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in Colorado than you ever will here." Vivian was grieved. She had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected Dr. Bellair to hold a different position. "Surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested. "No, but it's a very important thing to do--and to do right. It's a woman's duty." Vivian groaned in spirit. That again! The doctor watched her understandingly. "If women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "All you New England girls sit here and cut one another's throats. You can't possible marry, your boys go West, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they--drop." They heard the back door latch lift and close again, a quick, decided step--and Mrs. Pettigrew joined them. Miss Elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair. "Go right on," she said--and knitted briskly. "Do take my side, Mrs. Pettigrew," Miss Orella implored her. "Jane Bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to Colorado." "And she says I shall have a better chance to marry out there--and ought to do it!" said Susie, very solemnly. "And Vivian objects to being shown the path of duty." Vivian smiled. Her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled. "Grandma knows I hate that--point of view," she said. "I think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about--that." "I have some real good friends--boys, I mean," Susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even Vivian was a little amused, and Dr. Bellair laughed outright. "You won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, Miss Susan--if you ever do. There can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is--talk, sometimes worse. "I knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here--in a college town--who talked about 'friends.' She was married. She was a 'good' woman--perfectly 'good' woman. Her husband was not a very good man, I've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. She had a string of boys--college boys--always at her heels. Quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. She said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. She called them her 'acolytes.' Lots of them were fairly mad about her--one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself." There was a pained silence. "I don't see what this has to do with going to Colorado," said Mrs. Pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "What's your plan, Dr. Bellair?" "Why, I'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to Colorado with me, and grow up. She's a case of arrested development." "She wants me to keep boarders!" Miss Elder plaintively protested to Mrs. Pettigrew. That lady was not impressed. "It's quite a different matter out there, Mrs. Pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'Keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'Come Ye Disconsolate!' It's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. Where I live it's a sure thing if well managed--it's a good business." Mrs. Pettigrew wore an unconvinced aspect. "What do you call 'a good business?'" she asked. "The house I have in mind cleared a thousand a year when it was in right hands. That's not bad, over and above one's board and lodging. That house is in the market now. I've just had a letter from a friend about it. Orella could go out with me, and step right into Mrs. Annerly's shoes--she's just giving up." "What'd she give up for?" Mrs. Pettigrew inquired suspiciously. "Oh--she got married; they all do. There are three men to one woman in that town, you see." "I didn't know there was such a place in the world--unless it was a man-of-war," remarked Susie, looking much interested. Dr. Bellair went on more quietly. "It's not even a risk, Mrs. Pettigrew. Rella has a cousin who would gladly run this house for her. She's admitted that much. So there's no loss here, and she's got her home to come back to. I can write to Dick Hale to nail the proposition at once. She can go when I go, in about a fortnight, and I'll guarantee the first year definitely." "I wouldn't think of letting you do that, Jane! And if it's as good as you say, there's no need. But a fortnight! To leave home--in a fortnight!" "What are the difficulties?" the old lady inquired. "There are always some difficulties." "You are right, there," agreed the doctor. "The difficulties in this place are servants. But just now there's a special chance in that line. Dick says the best cook in town is going begging. I'll read you his letter." She produced it, promptly, from the breast pocket of her neat coat. Dr. Bellair wore rather short, tailored skirts of first-class material; natty, starched blouses--silk ones for "dress," and perfectly fitting light coats. Their color and texture might vary with the season, but their pockets, never. "'My dear Jane' (This is my best friend out there--a doctor, too. We were in the same class, both college and medical school. We fight--he's a misogynist of the worst type--but we're good friends all the same.) 'Why don't you come back? My boys are lonesome without you, and I am overworked--you left so many mishandled invalids for me to struggle with. Your boarding house is going to the dogs. Mrs. Annerly got worse and worse, failed completely and has cleared out, with a species of husband, I believe. The owner has put in a sort of caretaker, and the roomers get board outside--it's better than what they were having. Moreover, the best cook in town is hunting a job. Wire me and I'll nail her. You know the place pays well. Now, why don't you give up your unnatural attempt to be a doctor and assume woman's proper sphere? Come back and keep house!' "He's a great tease, but he tells the truth. The house is there, crying to be kept. The boarders are there--unfed. Now, Orella Elder, why don't you wake up and seize the opportunity?" Miss Orella was thinking. "Where's that last letter of Morton's?" Susie looked for it. Vivian handed it to her, and Miss Elder read it once more. "There's plenty of homeless boys out there besides yours, Orella," the doctor assured her. "Come on--and bring both these girls with you. It's a chance for any girl, Miss Lane." But her friend did not hear her. She found what she was looking for in the letter and read it aloud. "I'm on the road again now, likely to be doing Colorado most of the year if things go right. It's a fine country." Susie hopped up with a little cry. "Just the thing, Aunt Rella! Let's go out and surprise Mort. He thinks we are just built into the ground here. Won't it be fun, Viva?" Vivian had risen from her seat and stood at the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the shadowy little front yard. Morton might be there. She might see him. But--was it womanly to go there--for that? There were other reasons, surely. She had longed for freedom, for a chance to grow, to do something in life--something great and beautiful! Perhaps this was the opening of the gate, the opportunity of a lifetime. "You folks are so strong on duty," the doctor was saying, "Why can't you see a real duty in this? I tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering--good honest sweethearting and marrying, too. Come on, Rella. Do bigger work than you've ever done yet--and, as I said, bring both these nice girls with you. What do you say, Miss Lane?" Vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small Greek fret on the broad forehead. "I'd like to, very much, Dr. Bellair--on some accounts. But----" She could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood--"I'm sure Mother wouldn't let me." Dr. Bellair smiled broadly. "Aren't you over twenty-one?" she asked. "I'm twenty-five," the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done--as one who owned to ninety-seven. "And self-supporting?" pursued the doctor. Vivian flushed. "No--not yet," she answered; "but I mean to be." "Exactly! Now's your chance. Break away now, my dear, and come West. You can get work--start a kindergarten, or something. I know you love children." The girl's heart rose within her in a great throb of hope. "Oh--if I _could_!" she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of Mrs. St. Cloud. "It is a woman's place to wait--and to endure." She heard a step on the walk outside--looked out. "Why, here is Mrs. St. Cloud!" she cried. "Guess I'll clear out," said the doctor, as Susie ran to the door. She was shy, socially. "Nonsense, Jane," said her hostess, whispering. "Mrs. St. Cloud is no stranger. She's Mrs. Williams' sister--been here for years." She came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up. "I saw your light, Miss Elder, and thought I'd stop in for a moment. Good evening, Mrs. Pettigrew--and Miss Susie. Ah! Vivian!" "This is my friend, Dr. Bellair--Mrs. St. Cloud," Miss Elder was saying. But Dr. Bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward. "I've met Mrs. St. Cloud before, I think--when she was 'Mrs. James.'" The lady's face grew sad. "Ah, you knew my first husband! I lost him--many years ago--typhoid fever." "I think I heard," said the doctor. And then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, "Too bad." Not all Miss Elder's gentle hospitality, Mrs. Pettigrew's bright-eyed interest, Susie's efforts at polite attention, and Vivian's visible sympathy could compensate Mrs. St. Cloud for one inimical presence. "You must have been a mere girl in those days," she said sweetly. "What a lovely little town it was--under the big trees." "It certainly was," the doctor answered dryly. "There is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, I think," pursued the lady. "Especially in a co-educational town--don't you think so?" Vivian was a little surprised. She had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. She must have been mistaken. "Such a world of old memories as you call up, Dr. Bellair," their visitor pursued. "Those quiet, fruitful days! You remember Dr. Black's lectures? Of course you do, better than I. What a fine man he was! And the beautiful music club we had one Winter--and my little private dancing class--do you remember that? Such nice boys, Miss Elder! I used to call them my acolytes." Susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it. "I guess you'll have to excuse me, ladies," said Dr. Bellair. "Good-night." And she walked upstairs. Vivian's face flushed and paled and flushed again. A cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. Her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other. "Glad to've met you, Mrs. St. Cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "Good-night, Rella--and Susie. Come on child. It's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us." For once Vivian was glad to go. "That's a good scheme of Jane Bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them. "I--why yes--I don't see why not." Vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. All the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. She could not return to it. The flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic-- "Grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "Grandma, I believe I'll go." Mrs. Pettigrew nodded decisively. "I thought you would," she said. "Do you blame me, Grandma?" "Not a mite, child. Not a mite. But I'd sleep on it, if I were you." And Vivian slept on it--so far as she slept at all. CHAPTER IV TRANSPLANTED Sometimes a plant in its own habitat Is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted; A palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly, Growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly, When far transplanted. The days between Vivian's decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. It took some courage to make the choice. Had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking. By habit she would have turned to Mrs. St. Cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead,--she could never feel the same to her again. Dr. Bellair proved a tower of strength. "My dear girl," she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, "do remember that you are _not_ a child! You are twenty-five years old. You are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. This isn't wicked--it is a wise move; a practical one. Do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?" Her mother took it very hard. "I don't see how you can think of leaving us. We're getting old now--and here's Grandma to take care of----" "Huh!" said that lady, with such marked emphasis that Mrs. Lane hastily changed the phrase to "I mean to _be with_--you do like to have Vivian with you, you can't deny that, Mother." "But Mama," said the girl, "you are not old; you are only forty-three. I am sorry to leave you--I am really; but it isn't forever! I can come back. And you don't really need me. Sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don't depend on me for a thing, and never did. As to Grandma!"--and she looked affectionately at the old lady--"she don't need me nor anybody else. She's independent if ever anybody was. She won't miss me a mite--will you Grandma?" Mrs. Pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. "No," she said, "I shan't miss you a mite!" Vivian was a little grieved at the prompt acquiescence. She felt nearer to her grandmother in many ways than to either parent. "Well, I'll miss you!" said she, going to her and kissing her smooth pale cheek, "I'll miss you awfully!" Mr. Lane expressed his disapproval most thoroughly, and more than once; then retired into gloomy silence, alternated with violent dissuasion; but since a woman of twenty-five is certainly free to choose her way of life, and there was no real objection to this change, except that it _was_ a change, and therefore dreaded, his opposition, though unpleasant, was not prohibitive. Vivian's independent fortune of $87.50, the savings of many years, made the step possible, even without his assistance. There were two weeks of exceeding disagreeableness in the household, but Vivian kept her temper and her determination under a rain of tears, a hail of criticism, and heavy wind of argument and exhortation. All her friends and neighbors, and many who were neither, joined in the effort to dissuade her; but she stood firm as the martyrs of old. Heredity plays strange tricks with us. Somewhere under the girl's dumb gentleness and patience lay a store of quiet strength from some Pilgrim Father or Mother. Never before had she set her will against her parents; conscience had always told her to submit. Now conscience told her to rebel, and she did. She made her personal arrangements, said goodbye to her friends, declined to discuss with anyone, was sweet and quiet and kind at home, and finally appeared at the appointed hour on the platform of the little station. Numbers of curious neighbors were there to see them off, all who knew them and could spare the time seemed to be on hand. Vivian's mother came, but her father did not. At the last moment, just as the train drew in, Grandma appeared, serene and brisk, descending, with an impressive amount of hand baggage, from "the hack." "Goodbye, Laura," she said. "I think these girls need a chaperon. I'm going too." So blasting was the astonishment caused by this proclamation, and so short a time remained to express it, that they presently found themselves gliding off in the big Pullman, all staring at one another in silent amazement. "I hate discussion," said Mrs. Pettigrew. * * * * * None of these ladies were used to traveling, save Dr. Bellair, who had made the cross continent trip often enough to think nothing of it. The unaccustomed travelers found much excitement in the journey. As women, embarking on a new, and, in the eyes of their friends, highly doubtful enterprise, they had emotion to spare; and to be confronted at the outset by a totally unexpected grandmother was too much for immediate comprehension. She looked from one to the other, sparkling, triumphant. "I made up my mind, same as you did, hearing Jane Bellair talk," she explained. "Sounded like good sense. I always wanted to travel, always, and never had the opportunity. This was a real good chance." Her mouth shut, tightened, widened, drew into a crinkly delighted smile. They sat still staring at her. "You needn't look at me like that! I guess it's a free country! I bought my ticket--sent for it same as you did. And I didn't have to ask _anybody_--I'm no daughter. My duty, as far as I know it, is _done_! This is a pleasure trip!" She was triumph incarnate. "And you never said a word!" This from Vivian. "Not a word. Saved lots of trouble. Take care of me indeed! Laura needn't think I'm dependent on her _yet_!" Vivian's heart rather yearned over her mother, thus doubly bereft. "The truth is," her grandmother went on, "Samuel wants to go to Florida the worst way; I heard 'em talking about it! He wasn't willing to go alone--not he! Wants somebody to hear him cough, I say! And Laura couldn't go--'Mother was so dependent'--_Huh!_" Vivian began to smile. She knew this had been talked over, and given up on that account. She herself could have been easily disposed of, but Mrs. Lane chose to think her mother a lifelong charge. "Act as if I was ninety!" the old lady burst forth again. "I'll show 'em!" "I think you're dead right, Mrs. Pettigrew," said Dr. Bellair. "Sixty isn't anything. You ought to have twenty years of enjoyable life yet, before they call you 'old'--maybe more." Mrs. Pettigrew cocked an eye at her. "My grandmother lived to be a hundred and four," said she, "and kept on working up to the last year. I don't know about enjoyin' life, but she was useful for pretty near a solid century. After she broke her hip the last time she sat still and sewed and knitted. After her eyes gave out she took to hooking rugs." "I hope it will be forty years, Mrs. Pettigrew," said Sue, "and I'm real glad you're coming. It'll make it more like home." Miss Elder was a little slow in accommodating herself to this new accession. She liked Mrs. Pettigrew very much--but--a grandmother thus airily at large seemed to unsettle the foundations of things. She was polite, even cordial, but evidently found it difficult to accept the facts. "Besides," said Mrs. Pettigrew, "you may not get all those boarders at once and I'll be one to count on. I stopped at the bank this morning and had 'em arrange for my account out in Carston. They were some surprised, but there was no time to ask questions!" She relapsed into silence and gazed with keen interest at the whirling landscape. Throughout the journey she proved the best of travelers; was never car-sick, slept well in the joggling berth, enjoyed the food, and continually astonished them by producing from her handbag the most diverse and unlooked for conveniences. An old-fashioned traveller had forgotten her watchkey--Grandma produced an automatic one warranted to fit anything. "Takes up mighty little room--and I thought maybe it would come in handy," she said. She had a small bottle of liquid court-plaster, and plenty of the solid kind. She had a delectable lotion for the hands, a real treasure on the dusty journey; also a tiny corkscrew, a strong pair of "pinchers," sewing materials, playing cards, string, safety-pins, elastic bands, lime drops, stamped envelopes, smelling salts, troches, needles and thread. "Did you bring a trunk, Grandma?" asked Vivian. "Two," said Grandma, "excess baggage. All paid for and checked." "How did you ever learn to arrange things so well?" Sue asked admiringly. "Read about it," the old lady answered. "There's no end of directions nowadays. I've been studying up." She was so gleeful and triumphant, so variously useful, so steadily gay and stimulating, that they all grew to value her presence long before they reached Carston; but they had no conception of the ultimate effect of a resident grandmother in that new and bustling town. To Vivian the journey was a daily and nightly revelation. She had read much but traveled very little, never at night. The spreading beauty of the land was to her a new stimulus; she watched by the hour the endless panorama fly past her window, its countless shades of green, the brown and red soil, the fleeting dashes of color where wild flowers gathered thickly. She was repeatedly impressed by seeing suddenly beside her the name of some town which had only existed in her mind as "capital city" associated with "principal exports" and "bounded on the north." At night, sleeping little, she would raise her curtain and look out, sideways, at the stars. Big shadowy trees ran by, steep cuttings rose like a wall of darkness, and the hilly curves of open country rose and fell against the sky line like a shaken carpet. She faced the long, bright vistas of the car and studied people's faces--such different people from any she had seen before. A heavy young man with small, light eyes, sat near by, and cast frequent glances at both the girls, going by their seat at intervals. Vivian considered this distinctly rude, and Sue did not like his looks, so he got nothing for his pains, yet even this added color to the day. The strange, new sense of freedom grew in her heart, a feeling of lightness and hope and unfolding purpose. There was continued discussion as to what the girls should do. "We can be waitresses for Auntie till we get something else," Sue practically insisted. "The doctor says it will be hard to get good service and I'm sure the boarders would like us." "You can both find work if you want it. What do you want to do, Vivian?" asked Dr. Bellair, not for the first time. Vivian was still uncertain. "I love children best," she said. "I could teach--but I haven't a certificate. I'd _love_ a kindergarten; I've studied that--at home." "Shouldn't wonder if you could get up a kindergarten right off," the doctor assured her. "Meantime, as this kitten says, you could help Miss Elder out and turn an honest penny while you're waiting." "Wouldn't it--interfere with my teaching later?" the girl inquired. "Not a bit, not a bit. We're not so foolish out here. We'll fix you up all right in no time." It was morning when they arrived at last and came out of the cindery, noisy crowded cars into the wide, clean, brilliant stillness of the high plateau. They drew deep breaths; the doctor squared her shoulders with a glad, homecoming smile. Vivian lifted her head and faced the new surroundings as an unknown world. Grandma gazed all ways, still cheerful, and their baggage accrued about them as a rampart. A big bearded man, carelessly dressed, whirled up in a dusty runabout, and stepped out smiling. He seized Dr. Bellair by both hands, and shook them warmly. "Thought I'd catch you, Johnny," he said. "Glad to see you back. If you've got the landlady, I've got the cook!" "Here we are," said she. "Miss Orella Elder--Dr. Hale; Mrs. Pettigrew, Miss Susie Elder, Miss Lane--Dr. Richard Hale." He bowed deeply to Mrs. Pettigrew, shook hands with Miss Orella, and addressed himself to her, giving only a cold nod to the two girls, and quite turning away from them. Susie, in quiet aside to Vivian, made unfavorable comment. "This is your Western chivalry, is it?" she said. "Even Bainville does better than that." "I don't know why we should mind," Vivian answered. "It's Dr. Bellair's friend; he don't care anything about us." But she was rather of Sue's opinion. The big man took Dr. Bellair in his car, and they followed in a station carriage, eagerly observing their new surroundings, and surprised, as most Easterners are, by the broad beauty of the streets and the modern conveniences everywhere--electric cars, electric lights, telephones, soda fountains, where they had rather expected to find tents and wigwams. The house, when they were all safely within it, turned out to be "just like a real house," as Sue said; and proved even more attractive than the doctor had described it. It was a big, rambling thing, at home they would have called it a hotel, with its neat little sign, "The Cottonwoods," and Vivian finally concluded that it looked like a seaside boarding house, built for the purpose. A broad piazza ran all across the front, the door opening into a big square hall, a sort of general sitting-room; on either side were four good rooms, opening on a transverse passage. The long dining-room and kitchen were in the rear of the hall. Dr. Bellair had two, her office fronting on the side street, with a bedroom behind it. They gave Mrs. Pettigrew the front corner room on that side and kept the one opening from the hall as their own parlor. In the opposite wing was Miss Elder's room next the hall, and the girls in the outer back corner, while the two front ones on that side were kept for the most impressive and high-priced boarders. Mrs. Pettigrew regarded her apartments with suspicion as being too "easy." "I don't mind stairs," she said. "Dr. Bellair has to be next her office--but why do I have to be next Dr. Bellair?" It was represented to her that she would be nearer to everything that went on and she agreed without more words. Dr. Hale exhibited the house as if he owned it. "The agent's out of town," he said, "and we don't need him anyway. He said he'd do anything you wanted, in reason." Dr. Bellair watched with keen interest the effect of her somewhat daring description, as Miss Orella stepped from room to room examining everything with a careful eye, with an expression of growing generalship. Sue fluttered about delightedly, discovering advantages everywhere and making occasional disrespectful remarks to Vivian about Dr. Hale's clothes. "Looks as if he never saw a clothes brush!" she said. "A finger out on his glove, a button off his coat. No need to tell us there's no woman in his house!" "You can decide about your cook when you've tried her," he said to Miss Elder. "I engaged her for a week--on trial. She's in the kitchen now, and will have your dinner ready presently. I think you'll like her, if----" "Good boy!" said Dr. Bellair. "Sometimes you show as much sense as a woman--almost." "What's the 'if'" asked Miss Orella, looking worried. "Question of character," he answered. "She's about forty-five, with a boy of sixteen or so. He's not over bright, but a willing worker. She's a good woman--from one standpoint. She won't leave that boy nor give him up to strangers; but she has a past!" "What is her present?" Dr. Bellair asked, "that's the main thing." Dr. Hale clapped her approvingly on the shoulder, but looked doubtingly toward Miss Orella. "And what's her future if somebody don't help her?" Vivian urged. "Can she cook?" asked Grandma. "Is she a safe person to have in the house?" inquired Dr. Bellair meaningly. "She can cook," he replied. "She's French, or of French parentage. She used to keep a little--place of entertainment. The food was excellent. She's been a patient of mine--off and on--for five years--and I should call her perfectly safe." Miss Orella still looked worried. "I'd like to help her and the boy, but would it--look well? I don't want to be mean about it, but this is a very serious venture with us, Dr. Hale, and I have these girls with me." "With you and Dr. Bellair and Mrs. Pettigrew the young ladies will be quite safe, Miss Elder. As to the woman's present character, she has suffered two changes of heart, she's become a religious devotee--and a man-hater! And from a business point of view, I assure you that if Jeanne Jeaune is in your kitchen you'll never have a room empty." "Johnny Jones! queer name for a woman!" said Grandma. They repeated it to her carefully, but she only changed to "Jennie June," and adhered to one or the other, thereafter. "What's the boy's name?" she asked further. "Theophile," Dr. Hale replied. "Huh!" said she. "Why don't she keep an eating-house still?" asked Dr. Bellair rather suspiciously. "That's what I like best about her," he answered. "She is trying to break altogether with her past. She wants to give up 'public life'--and private life won't have her." They decided to try the experiment, and found it worked well. There were two bedrooms over the kitchen where "Mrs. Jones" as Grandma generally called her, and her boy, could be quite comfortable and by themselves; and although of a somewhat sour and unsociable aspect, and fiercely watchful lest anyone offend her son, this questionable character proved an unquestionable advantage. With the boy's help, she cooked for the houseful, which grew to be a family of twenty-five. He also wiped dishes, helped in the laundry work, cleaned and scrubbed and carried coal; and Miss Elder, seeing his steady usefulness, insisted on paying wages for him too. This unlooked for praise and gain won the mother's heart, and as she grew more at home with them, and he less timid, she encouraged him to do the heavier cleaning in the rest of the house. "Huh!" said Grandma. "I wish more sane and moral persons would work like that!" Vivian watched with amazement the swift filling of the house. There was no trouble at all about boarders, except in discriminating among them. "Make them pay in advance, Rella," Dr. Bellair advised, "it doesn't cost them any more, and it is a great convenience. 'References exchanged,' of course. There are a good many here that I know--you can always count on Mr. Dykeman and Fordham Grier, and John Unwin." Before a month was over the place was full to its limits with what Sue called "assorted boarders," the work ran smoothly and the business end of Miss Elder's venture seemed quite safe. They had the twenty Dr. Bellair prophesied, and except for her, Mrs. Pettigrew, Miss Peeder, a teacher of dancing and music; Mrs. Jocelyn, who was interested in mining, and Sarah Hart, who described herself as a "journalist," all were men. Fifteen men to eight women. Miss Elder sat at the head of her table, looked down it and across the other one, and marvelled continuously. Never in her New England life had she been with so many men--except in church--and they were more scattered. This houseful of heavy feet and broad shoulders, these deep voices and loud laughs, the atmosphere of interchanging jests and tobacco smoke, was new to her. She hated the tobacco smoke, but that could not be helped. They did not smoke in her parlor, but the house was full of it none the less, in which constant presence she began to reverse the Irishman's well known judgment of whiskey, allowing that while all tobacco was bad, some tobacco was much worse than others. CHAPTER V CONTRASTS Old England thinks our country Is a wilderness at best-- And small New England thinks the same Of the large free-minded West. Some people know the good old way Is the only way to do, And find there must be something wrong In anything that's new. To Vivian the new life offered a stimulus, a sense of stir and promise even beyond her expectations. She wrote dutiful letters to her mother, trying to describe the difference between this mountain town and Bainville, but found the New England viewpoint an insurmountable obstacle. To Bainville "Out West" was a large blank space on the map, and the blank space in the mind which matched it was but sparsely dotted with a few disconnected ideas such as "cowboy," "blizzard," "prairie fire," "tornado," "border ruffian," and the like. The girl's painstaking description of the spreading, vigorous young town, with its fine, modern buildings, its banks and stores and theatres, its country club and parks, its pleasant social life, made small impression on the Bainville mind. But the fact that Miss Elder's venture was successful from the first did impress old acquaintances, and Mrs. Lane read aloud to selected visitors her daughter's accounts of their new and agreeable friends. Nothing was said of "chaps," "sombreros," or "shooting up the town," however, and therein a distinct sense of loss was felt. Much of what was passing in Vivian's mind she could not make clear to her mother had she wished to. The daily presence and very friendly advances of so many men, mostly young and all polite (with the exception of Dr. Hale, whose indifference was almost rude by contrast), gave a new life and color to the days. She could not help giving some thought to this varied assortment, and the carefully preserved image of Morton, already nine years dim, waxed dimmer. But she had a vague consciousness of being untrue to her ideals, or to Mrs. St. Cloud's ideals, now somewhat discredited, and did not readily give herself up to the cheerful attractiveness of the position. Susie found no such difficulty. Her ideals were simple, and while quite within the bounds of decorum, left her plenty of room for amusement. So popular did she become, so constantly in demand for rides and walks and oft-recurring dances, that Vivian felt called upon to give elder sisterly advice. But Miss Susan scouted her admonitions. "Why shouldn't I have a good time?" she said. "Think how we grew up! Half a dozen boys to twenty girls, and when there was anything to go to--the lordly way they'd pick and choose! And after all our efforts and machinations most of us had to dance with each other. And the quarrels we had! Here they stand around three deep asking for dances--and _they_ have to dance with each other, and _they_ do the quarreling. I've heard 'em." And Sue giggled delightedly. "There's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves, Susie, of course, but aren't you--rather hard on them?" "Oh, nonsense!" Sue protested. "Dr. Bellair said I should get married out here! She says the same old thing--that it's 'a woman's duty,' and I propose to do it. That is--they'll propose, and I won't do it! Not till I make up my mind. Now see how you like this!" She had taken a fine large block of "legal cap" and set down their fifteen men thereon, with casual comment. 1. Mr. Unwin--Too old, big, quiet. 2. Mr. Elmer Skee--Big, too old, funny. 3. Jimmy Saunders--Middle-sized, amusing, nice. 4. P. R. Gibbs--Too little, too thin, too cocky. 5. George Waterson--Middling, pretty nice. 6. J. J. Cuthbert--Big, horrid. 7. Fordham Greer--Big, pleasant. 8. W. S. Horton--Nothing much. 9. A. L. Dykeman--Interesting, too old. 10. Professor Toomey--Little, horrid. 11. Arthur Fitzwilliam--Ridiculous, too young. 12. Howard Winchester--Too nice, distrust him. 13. Lawson W. Briggs--Nothing much. 14. Edward S. Jenks--Fair to middling. 15. Mr. A. Smith--Minus. She held it up in triumph. "I got 'em all out of the book--quite correct. Now, which'll you have." "Susie Elder! You little goose! Do you imagine that all these fifteen men are going to propose to you?" "I'm sure I hope so!" said the cheerful damsel. "We've only been settled a fortnight and one of 'em has already!" Vivian was impressed at once. "Which?--You don't mean it!" Sue pointed to the one marked "minus." "It was only 'A. Smith.' I never should be willing to belong to 'A. Smith,' it's too indefinite--unless it was a last resort. Several more are--well, extremely friendly! Now don't look so severe. You needn't worry about me. I'm not quite so foolish as I talk, you know." She was not. Her words were light and saucy, but she was as demure and decorous a little New Englander as need be desired; and she could not help it if the hearts of the unattached young men of whom the town was full, warmed towards her. Dr. Bellair astonished them at lunch one day in their first week. "Dick Hale wants us all to come over to tea this afternoon," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Tea? Where?" asked Mrs. Pettigrew sharply. "At his house. He has 'a home of his own,' you know. And he particularly wants you, Mrs. Pettigrew--and Miss Elder--the girls, of course." "I'm sure I don't care to go," Vivian remarked with serene indifference, but Susie did. "Oh, come on, Vivian! It'll be so funny! A man's home!--and we may never get another chance. He's such a bear!" Dr. Hale's big house was only across the road from theirs, standing in a large lot with bushes and trees about it. "He's been here nine years," Dr. Bellair told them. "That's an old inhabitant for us. He boarded in that house for a while; then it was for sale and he bought it. He built that little office of his at the corner--says he doesn't like to live where he works, or work where he lives. He took his meals over here for a while--and then set up for himself." "I should think he'd be lonely," Miss Elder suggested. "Oh, he has his boys, you know--always three or four young fellows about him. It's a mighty good thing for them, too." Dr. Hale's home proved a genuine surprise. They had regarded it as a big, neglected-looking place, and found on entering the gate that the inside view of that rampant shrubbery was extremely pleasant. Though not close cut and swept of leaves and twigs, it still was beautiful; and the tennis court and tether-ball ring showed the ground well used. Grandma looked about her with a keen interrogative eye, and was much impressed, as, indeed, were they all. She voiced their feelings justly when, the true inwardness of this pleasant home bursting fully upon them, she exclaimed: "Well, of all things! A man keeping house!" "Why not?" asked Dr. Hale with his dry smile. "Is there any deficiency, mental or physical, about a man, to prevent his attempting this abstruse art?" She looked at him sharply. "I don't know about deficiency, but there seems to be somethin' about 'em that keeps 'em out of the business. I guess it's because women are so cheap." "No doubt you are right, Mrs. Pettigrew. And here women are scarce and high. Hence my poor efforts." His poor efforts had bought or built a roomy pleasant house, and furnished it with a solid comfort and calm attractiveness that was most satisfying. Two Chinamen did the work; cooking, cleaning, washing, waiting on table, with silent efficiency. "They are as steady as eight-day clocks," said Dr. Hale. "I pay them good wages and they are worth it." "Sun here had to go home once--to be married, also, to see his honored parents, I believe, and to leave a grand-'Sun' to attend to the ancestors; but he brought in another Chink first and trained him so well that I hardly noticed the difference. Came back in a year or so, and resumed his place without a jar." Miss Elder watched with fascinated eyes these soft-footed servants with clean, white garments and shiny coils of long, braided hair. "I may have to come to it," she admitted, "but--dear me, it doesn't seem natural to have a man doing housework!" Dr. Hale smiled again. "You don't want men to escape from dependence, I see. Perhaps, if more men knew how comfortably they could live without women, the world would be happier." There was a faint wire-edge to his tone, in spite of the courteous expression, but Miss Elder did not notice it and if Mrs. Pettigrew did, she made no comment. They noted the varied excellences of his housekeeping with high approval. "You certainly know how, Dr. Hale," said Miss Orella; "I particularly admire these beds--with the sheets buttoned down, German fashion, isn't it? What made you do that?" "I've slept so much in hotels," he answered; "and found the sheets always inadequate to cover the blankets--and the marks of other men's whiskers! I don't like blankets in my neck. Besides it saves washing." Mrs. Pettigrew nodded vehemently. "You have sense," she said. The labor-saving devices were a real surprise to them. A "chute" for soiled clothing shot from the bathroom on each floor to the laundry in the basement; a dumbwaiter of construction large and strong enough to carry trunks, went from cellar to roof; the fireplaces dropped their ashes down mysterious inner holes; and for the big one in the living-room a special "lift" raised a box of wood up to the floor level, hidden by one of the "settles." "Saves work--saves dirt--saves expense," said Dr. Hale. Miss Hale and her niece secretly thought the rooms rather bare, but Dr. Bellair was highly in favor of that very feature. "You see Dick don't believe in jimcracks and dirt-catchers, and he likes sunlight. Books all under glass--no curtains to wash and darn and fuss with--none of those fancy pincushions and embroidered thingummies--I quite envy him." "Why don't you have one yourself, Johnny?" he asked her. "Because I don't like housekeeping," she said, "and you do. Masculine instinct, I suppose!" "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew with her sudden one-syllable chuckle. The girls followed from room to room, scarce noticing these comments, or the eager politeness of the four pleasant-faced young fellows who formed the doctor's present family. She could not but note the intelligent efficiency of the place, but felt more deeply the underlying spirit, the big-brotherly kindness which prompted his hospitable care of these nice boys. It was delightful to hear them praise him. "O, he's simply great," whispered Archie Burns, a ruddy-cheeked young Scotchman. "He pretends there's nothing to it--that he wants company--that we pay for all we get--and that sort of thing, you know; but this is no boarding house, I can tell you!" And then he flushed till his very hair grew redder--remembering that the guests came from one. "Of course not!" Vivian cordially agreed with him. "You must have lovely times here. I don't wonder you appreciate it!" and she smiled so sweetly that he felt at ease again. Beneath all this cheery good will and the gay chatter of the group her quick sense caught an impression of something hidden and repressed. She felt the large and quiet beauty of the rooms; the smooth comfort, the rational, pleasant life; but still more she felt a deep keynote of loneliness. The pictures told her most. She noted one after another with inward comment. "There's 'Persepolis,'" she said to herself--"loneliness incarnate; and that other lion-and-ruin thing,--loneliness and decay. Gerome's 'Lion in the Desert,' too, the same thing. Then Daniel--more lions, more loneliness, but power. 'Circe and the Companions of Ulysses'--cruel, but loneliness and power again--of a sort. There's that 'Island of Death' too--a beautiful thing--but O dear!--And young Burne-Jones' 'Vampire' was in one of the bedrooms--that one he shut the door of!" While they ate and drank in the long, low-ceiled wide-windowed room below, she sought the bookcases and looked them over curiously. Yes--there was Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Plato, Emerson and Carlisle--the great German philosophers, the French, the English--all showing signs of use. Dr. Hale observed her inspection. It seemed to vaguely annoy him, as if someone were asking too presuming questions. "Interested in philosophy, Miss Lane?" he asked, drily, coming toward her. "Yes--so far as I understand it," she answered. "And how far does that go?" She felt the inference, and raised her soft eyes to his rather reproachfully. "Not far, I am afraid. But I do know that these books teach one how to bear trouble." He met her gaze steadily, but something seemed to shut, deep in his eyes. They looked as unassailable as a steel safe. He straightened his big shoulders with a defiant shrug, and returned to sit by Mrs. Pettigrew, to whom he made himself most agreeable. The four young men did the honors of the tea table, with devotion to all; and some especially intended for the younger ladies. Miss Elder cried out in delight at the tea. "Where did you get it, Dr. Hale? Can it be had here?" "I'm afraid not. That is a particular brand. Sun brought me a chest of it when he came from his visit." When they went home each lady was given a present, Chinese fashion--lychee nuts for Sue, lily-bulbs for Vivian, a large fan for Mrs. Pettigrew, and a package of the wonderful tea for Miss Orella. "That's a splendid thing for him to do," she said, as they walked back. "Such a safe place for those boys!" "It's lovely of him," Sue agreed. "I don't care if he is a woman-hater." Vivian said nothing, but admitted, on being questioned, that "he was very interesting." Mrs. Pettigrew was delighted with their visit. "I like this country," she declared. "Things are different. A man couldn't do that in Bainville--he'd be talked out of town." That night she sought Dr. Bellair and questioned her. "Tell me about that man," she demanded. "How old is he?" "Not as old as he looks by ten years," said the doctor. "No, I can't tell you why his hair's gray." "What woman upset him?" asked the old lady. Dr. Bellair regarded her thoughtfully. "He has made me no confidences, Mrs. Pettigrew, but I think you are right. It must have been a severe shock--for he is very bitter against women. It is a shame, too, for he is one of the best of men. He prefers men patients--and gets them. The women he will treat if he must, but he is kindest to the 'fallen' ones, and inclined to sneer at the rest. And yet he's the straightest man I ever knew. I'm thankful to have him come here so much. He needs it." Mrs. Pettigrew marched off, nodding sagely. She felt a large and growing interest in her new surroundings, more especially in the numerous boys, but was somewhat amazed at her popularity among them. These young men were mainly exiles from home; the older ones, though more settled perhaps, had been even longer away from their early surroundings; and a real live Grandma, as Jimmy Saunders said, was an "attraction." "If you were mine," he told her laughingly, "I'd get a pianist and some sort of little side show, and exhibit you all up and down the mountains!--for good money. Why some of the boys never had a Grandma, and those that did haven't seen one since they were kids!" "Very complimentary, I'm sure--but impracticable," said the old lady. The young men came to her with confidences, they asked her advice, they kept her amused with tales of their adventures; some true, some greatly diversified; and she listened with a shrewd little smile and a wag of the head--so they never were quite sure whether they were "fooling" Grandma or not. To her, as a general confidant, came Miss Peeder with a tale of woe. The little hall that she rented for her dancing classes had burned down on a windy Sunday, and there was no other suitable and within her means. "There's Sloan's; but it's over a barroom--it's really not possible. And Baker's is too expensive. The church rooms they won't let for dancing--I don't know what I _am_ to do, Mrs. Pettigrew!" "Why don't you ask Orella Elder to rent you her dining-room--it's big enough. They could move the tables----" Miss Peeder's eyes opened in hopeful surprise. "Oh, if she _would_! Do _you_ think she would? It would be ideal." Miss Elder being called upon, was quite fluttered by the proposition, and consulted Dr. Bellair. "Why not?" said that lady. "Dancing is first rate exercise--good for us all. Might as well have the girls dance here under your eye as going out all the time--and it's some addition to the income. They'll pay extra for refreshments, too. I'd do it." With considerable trepidation Miss Orella consented, and their first "class night" was awaited by her in a state of suppressed excitement. To have music and dancing--"with refreshments"--twice a week--in her own house--this seemed to her like a career of furious dissipation. Vivian, though with a subtle sense of withdrawal from a too general intimacy, was inwardly rather pleased; and Susie bubbled over with delight. "Oh what fun!" she cried. "I never had enough dancing! I don't believe anybody has!" "We don't belong to the Class, you know," Vivian reminded her. "Oh yes! Miss Peeder says we must _all_ come--that she would feel _very_ badly if we didn't; and the boarders have all joined--to a man!" Everyone seemed pleased except Mrs. Jeaune. Dancing she considered immoral; music, almost as much so--and Miss Elder trembled lest she lose her. But the offer of extra payments for herself and son on these two nights each week proved sufficient to quell her scruples. Theophile doubled up the tables, set chairs around the walls, waxed the floor, and was then sent to bed and locked in by his anxious mother. She labored, during the earlier hours of the evening, in the preparation of sandwiches and coffee, cake and lemonade--which viands were later shoved through the slide by the austere cook, and distributed as from a counter by Miss Peeder's assistant. Mrs. Jeaune would come no nearer, but peered darkly upon them through the peep-hole in the swinging door. It was a very large room, due to the time when many "mealers" had been accommodated. There were windows on each side, windows possessing the unusual merit of opening from the top; wide double doors made the big front hall a sort of anteroom, and the stairs and piazza furnished opportunities for occasional couples who felt the wish for retirement. In the right-angled passages, long hat-racks on either side were hung with "Derbies," "Kossuths" and "Stetsons," and the ladies took off their wraps, and added finishing touches to their toilettes in Miss Elder's room. The house was full of stir and bustle, of pretty dresses, of giggles and whispers, and the subdued exchange of comments among the gentlemen. The men predominated, so that there was no lack of partners for any of the ladies. Miss Orella accepted her new position with a half-terrified enjoyment. Not in many years had she found herself so in demand. Her always neat and appropriate costume had blossomed suddenly for the occasion; her hair, arranged by the affectionate and admiring Susie, seemed softer and more voluminous. Her eyes grew brilliant, and the delicate color in her face warmed and deepened. Miss Peeder had installed a pianola to cover emergencies, but on this opening evening she had both piano and violin--good, lively, sole-stirring music. Everyone was on the floor, save a few gentlemen who evidently wished they were. Sue danced with the gaiety and lightness of a kitten among wind-blown leaves, Vivian with gliding grace, smooth and harmonious, Miss Orella with skill and evident enjoyment, though still conscientious in every accurate step. Presently Mrs. Pettigrew appeared, sedately glorious in black silk, jet-beaded, and with much fine old lace. She bore in front of her a small wicker rocking chair, and headed for a corner near the door. Her burden was promptly taken from her by one of the latest comers, a tall person with a most devoted manner. "Allow _me_, ma'am," he said, and placed the little chair at the point she indicated. "No lady ought to rustle for rockin' chairs with so many gentlemen present." He was a man of somewhat advanced age, but his hair was still more black than white and had a curly, wiggish effect save as its indigenous character was proven by three small bare patches of a conspicuous nature. He bowed so low before her that she could not help observing these distinctions, and then answered her startled look before she had time to question him. "Yes'm," he explained, passing his hand over head; "scalped three several times and left for dead. But I'm here yet. Mr. Elmer Skee, at your service." "I thought when an Indian scalped you there wasn't enough hair left to make Greeley whiskers," said Grandma, rising to the occasion. "Oh, no, ma'am, they ain't so efficacious as all that--not in these parts. I don't know what the ancient Mohawks may have done, but the Apaches only want a patch--smaller to carry and just as good to show off. They're collectors, you know--like a phil-e-a-to-lol-o-gist!" "Skee, did you say?" pursued the old lady, regarding him with interest and convinced that there was something wrong with the name of that species of collector. "Yes'm. Skee--Elmer Skee. No'm, _not_ pronounced 'she.' Do I look like it?" Mr. Skee was an interesting relic of that stormy past of the once Wild West which has left so few surviving. He had crossed the plains as a child, he told her, in the days of the prairie schooner, had then and there lost his parents and his first bit of scalp, was picked up alive by a party of "movers," and had grown up in a playground of sixteen states and territories. Grandma gazed upon him fascinated. "I judge you might be interesting to talk with," she said, after he had given her this brief sketch of his youth. "Thank you, ma'am," said Mr. Skee. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?" "I haven't danced in thirty years," said she, dubitating. "The more reason for doing it now," he calmly insisted. "Why not?" said Mrs. Pettigrew, and they forthwith executed a species of march, the gentleman pacing with the elaborate grace of a circus horse, and Grandma stepping at his side with great decorum. Later on, warming to the occasion, Mr. Skee frisked and high-stepped with the youngest and gayest, and found the supper so wholly to his liking that he promptly applied for a room, and as soon as one was vacant it was given to him. Vivian danced to her heart's content and enjoyed the friendly merriment about her; but when Fordham Greer took her out on the long piazza to rest and breathe a little, she saw the dark bulk of the house across the street and the office with its half-lit window, and could not avoid thinking of the lonely man there. He had not come to the dance, no one expected that, of course; but all his boys had come and were having the best of times. "It's his own fault, of course; but it's a shame," she thought. The music sounded gaily from within, and young Greer urged for another dance. She stood there for a moment, hesitating, her hand on his arm, when a tall figure came briskly up the street from the station, turned in at their gate, came up the steps---- The girl gave a little cry, and shrank back for an instant, then eagerly came forward and gave her hand to him. It was Morton. CHAPTER VI NEW FRIENDS AND OLD 'Twould be too bad to be true, my dear, And wonders never cease; Twould be too bad to be true, my dear, If all one's swans were geese! Vivian's startled cry of welcome was heard by Susie, perched on the stairs with several eager youths gathered as close as might be about her, and several pairs of hands helped her swift descent to greet her brother. Miss Orella, dropping Mr. Dykeman's arm, came flying from the ball-room. "Oh, Morton! Morton! When did you come? Why didn't you let us know? Oh, my _dear_ boy!" She haled him into their special parlor, took his hat away from him, pulled out the most comfortable chair. "Have you had supper? And to think that we haven't a room for you! But there's to be one vacant--next week. I'll see that there is. You shall have my room, dear boy. Oh, I am so glad to see you!" Susie gave him a sisterly hug, while he kissed her, somewhat gingerly, on the cheek, and then she perched herself on the arm of a chair and gazed upon him with affectionate interest. Vivian gazed also, busily engaged in fitting present facts to past memories. Surely he had not looked just like that! The Morton of her girlhood's dream had a clear complexion, a bright eye, a brave and gallant look--the voice only had not changed. But here was Morton in present fact, something taller, it seemed, and a good deal heavier, well dressed in a rather vivid way, and making merry over his aunt's devotion. "Well, if it doesn't seem like old times to have Aunt 'Rella running 'round like a hen with her head cut off, to wait on me." The simile was not unjust, though certainly ungracious, but his aunt was far too happy to resent it. "You sit right still!" she said. "I'll go and bring you some supper. You must be hungry." "Now do sit down and hear to reason, Auntie!" he said, reaching out a detaining hand and pulling her into a seat beside him. "I'm not hungry a little bit; had a good feed on the diner. Never mind about the room--I don't know how long I can stay--and I left my grip at the Allen House anyway. How well you're looking, Auntie! I declare I'd hardly have known you! And here's little Susie--a regular belle! And Vivian--don't suppose I dare call you Vivian now, Miss Lane?" Vivian gave a little embarrassed laugh. If he had used her first name she would never have noticed it. Now that he asked her, she hardly knew what answer to make, but presently said: "Why, of course, I always call you Morton." "Well, I'll come when you call me," he cheerfully replied, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and looking around the pretty room. "How well you're fixed here. Guess it was a wise move, Aunt 'Rella. But I'd never have dreamed you'd do it. Your Dr. Bellair must have been a powerful promoter to get you all out here. I wouldn't have thought anybody in Bainville could move--but me. Why, there's Grandma, as I live!" and he made a low bow. Mrs. Pettigrew, hearing of his arrival from the various would-be partners of the two girls, had come to the door and stood there regarding him with a non-committal expression. At this address she frowned perceptibly. "My name is Mrs. Pettigrew, young man. I've known you since you were a scallawag in short pants, but I'm no Grandma of yours." "A thousand pardons! Please excuse me, Mrs. Pettigrew," he said with exaggerated politeness. "Won't you be seated?" And he set a chair for her with a flourish. "Thanks, no," she said. "I'll go back," and went back forthwith, attended by Mr. Skee. "One of these happy family reunions, ma'am?" he asked with approving interest. "If there's one thing I do admire, it's a happy surprise." "'Tis some of a surprise," Mrs. Pettigrew admitted, and became rather glum, in spite of Mr. Skee's undeniably entertaining conversation. "Some sort of a fandango going on?" Morton asked after a few rather stiff moments. "Don't let me interrupt! On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined! And if she must"--he looked at Vivian, and went on somewhat lamely--"dance, why not dance with me? May I have the pleasure, Miss Lane?" "Oh, no," cried Miss Orella, "we'd much rather be with you!" "But I'd rather dance than talk, any time," said he, and crooked his elbow to Vivian with an impressive bow. Somewhat uncertain in her own mind, and unwilling to again disappoint Fordham Greer, who had already lost one dance and was visibly waiting for her in the hall, the girl hesitated; but Susie said, "Go on, give him part of one. I'll tell Mr. Greer." So Vivian took Morton's proffered arm and returned to the floor. She had never danced with him in the old days; no special memory was here to contrast with the present; yet something seemed vaguely wrong. He danced well, but more actively than she admired, and during the rest of the evening devoted himself to the various ladies with an air of long usage. She was glad when the dancing was over and he had finally departed for his hotel, glad when Susie had at last ceased chattering and dropped reluctantly to sleep. For a long time she lay awake trying to straighten out things in her mind and account to herself for the sense of vague confusion which oppressed her. Morton had come back! That was the prominent thing, of which she repeatedly assured herself. How often she had looked forward to that moment, and felt in anticipation a vivid joy. She had thought of it in a hundred ways, always with pleasure, but never in this particular way--among so many strangers. It must be that which confused her, she thought, for she was extremely sensitive to the attitude of those about her. She felt an unspoken criticism of Morton on the part of her new friends in the house, and resented it; yet in her own mind a faint comparison would obtrude itself between his manners and those of Jimmie Saunders or Mr. Greer, for instance. The young Scotchman she had seen regarding Morton with an undisguised dislike, and this she inwardly resented, even while herself disliking his bearing to his aunt--and to her grandmother. It was all contradictory and unsatisfying, and she fell asleep saying over to herself, "He has come back! He has come back!" and trying to feel happy. Aunt Orella was happy at any rate. She would not rest until her beloved nephew was installed in the house, practically turning out Mr. Gibbs in order to accommodate him. Morton protested, talked of business and of having to go away at any time; and Mr. Gibbs, who still "mealed" with them, secretly wished he would. But Morton did not go away. It was a long time since he had been petted and waited on, and he enjoyed it hugely, treating his aunt with a serio-comic affection that was sometimes funny, sometimes disagreeable. At least Susie found it so. Her first surprise over, she fell back on a fund of sound common sense, strengthened by present experience, and found a good deal to criticise in her returned brother. She was so young when he left, and he had teased her so unmercifully in those days, that her early memories of him were rather mixed in sentiment, and now he appeared, not as the unquestioned idol of a manless family in a well-nigh manless town, but as one among many; and of those many several were easily his superiors. He was her brother, and she loved him, of course; but there were so many wanting to be "brothers" if not more, and they were so much more polite! Morton petted, patronized and teased her, and she took it all in good part, as after the manner of brothers, but his demeanor with other people was not to her mind. His adoring aunt, finding no fault whatever with this well-loved nephew, lavished upon him the affection of her unused motherhood, and he seemed to find it a patent joke, open to everyone, that she should be so fond. To this and, indeed, to his general walk and conversation, Mrs. Pettigrew took great exception. "Fine boy--Rella's nephew!" she said to Dr. Bellair late one night when, seeing a light over her neighbor's transom, she dropped in for a little chat. Conversation seemed easier for her here than in the atmosphere of Bainville. "Fine boy--eh? Nice complexion!" Dr. Bellair was reading a heavy-weight book by a heavier-weight specialist. She laid it down, took off her eyeglasses, and rubbed them. "Better not kiss him," she said. "I thought as much!" said Grandma. "I _thought_ as much! Huh!" "Nice world, isn't it?" the doctor suggested genially. "Nothing the matter with the world, that I know of," her visitor answered. "Nice people, then--how's that?" "Nothing the matter with the people but foolishness--plain foolishness. Good land! Shall we _never_ learn anything!" "Not till it's too late apparently," the doctor gloomily agreed, turning slowly in her swivel chair. "That boy never was taught anything to protect him. What did Rella know? Or for that matter, what do any boys' fathers and mothers know? Nothing, you'd think. If they do, they won't teach it to their children." "Time they did!" said the old lady decidedly. "High time they did! It's never too late to learn. I've learned a lot out of you and your books, Jane Bellair. Interesting reading! I don't suppose you could give an absolute opinion now, could you?" "No," said Dr. Bellair gravely, "no, I couldn't; not yet, anyway." "Well, we've got to keep our eyes open," Mrs. Pettigrew concluded. "When I think of that girl of mine----" "Yes--or any girl," the doctor added. "You look out for any girl--that's your business; I'll look out for mine--if I can." Mrs. Pettigrew's were not the only eyes to scrutinize Morton Elder. Through the peep-hole in the swing door to the kitchen, Jeanne Jeaune watched him darkly with one hand on her lean chest. She kept her watch on whatever went on in that dining-room, and on the two elderly waitresses whom she had helped Miss Elder to secure when the house filled up. They were rather painfully unattractive, but seemed likely to stay where no young and pretty damsel could be counted on for a year. Morton joked with perseverance about their looks, and those who were most devoted to Susie seemed to admire his wit, while Vivian's special admirers found it pointless in the extreme. "Your waitresses are the limit, Auntie," he said, "but the cook is all to the good. Is she a plain cook or a handsome one?" "Handsome is as handsome does, young man," Mrs. Pettigrew pointedly replied. "Mrs. Jones is a first-class cook and her looks are neither here nor there." "You fill me with curiosity," he replied. "I must go out and make her acquaintance. I always get solid with the cook; it's worth while." The face at the peep-hole darkened and turned away with a bitter and determined look, and Master Theophile was hastened at his work till his dim intelligence wondered, and then blessed with an unexpected cookie. Vivian, Morton watched and followed assiduously. She was much changed from what he remembered--the young, frightened, slender girl he had kissed under the lilac bushes, a kiss long since forgotten among many. Perhaps the very number of his subsequent acquaintances during a varied and not markedly successful career in the newer states made this type of New England womanhood more marked. Girls he had known of various sorts, women old and young had been kind to him, for Morton had the rough good looks and fluent manner which easily find their way to the good will of many female hearts; but this gentle refinement of manner and delicate beauty had a novel charm for him. Sitting by his aunt at meals he studied Vivian opposite, he watched her in their few quiet evenings together, under the soft lamplight on Miss Elder's beloved "center table;" and studied her continually in the stimulating presence of many equally devoted men. All that was best in him was stirred by her quiet grace, her reserved friendliness; and the spur of rivalry was by no means wanting. Both the girls had their full share of masculine attention in that busy houseful, each having her own particular devotees, and the position of comforter to the others. Morton became openly devoted to Vivian, and followed her about, seeking every occasion to be alone with her, a thing difficult to accomplish. "I don't ever get a chance to see anything of you," he said. "Come on, take a walk with me--won't you?" "You can see me all day, practically," she answered. "It seems to me that I never saw a man with so little to do." "Now that's too bad, Vivian! Just because a fellow's out of a job for a while! It isn't the first time, either; in my business you work like--like anything, part of the time, and then get laid off. I work hard enough when I'm at it." "Do you like it--that kind of work?" the girl asked. They were sitting in the family parlor, but the big hall was as usual well occupied, and some one or more of the boarders always eager to come in. Miss Elder at this moment had departed for special conference with her cook, and Susie was at the theatre with Jimmie Saunders. Fordham Greer had asked Vivian, as had Morton also, but she declined both on the ground that she didn't like that kind of play. Mrs. Pettigrew, being joked too persistently about her fondness for "long whist," had retired to her room--but then, her room was divided from the parlor only by a thin partition and a door with a most inefficacious latch. "Come over here by the fire," said Morton, "and I'll tell you all about it." He seated himself on a sofa, comfortably adjacent to the fireplace, but Vivian preferred a low rocker. "I suppose you mean travelling--and selling goods?" he pursued. "Yes, I like it. There's lots of change--and you meet people. I'd hate to be shut up in an office." "But do you--get anywhere with it? Is there any outlook for you? Anything worth doing?" "There's a good bit of money to be made, if you mean that; that is, if a fellow's a good salesman. I'm no slouch myself, when I feel in the mood. But it's easy come, easy go, you see. And it's uncertain. There are times like this, with nothing doing." "I didn't mean money, altogether," said the girl meditatively, "but the work itself; I don't see any future for you." Morton was pleased with her interest. Reaching between his knees he seized the edge of the small sofa and dragged it a little nearer, quite unconscious that the act was distasteful to her. Though twenty-five years old, Vivian was extremely young in many ways, and her introspection had spent itself in tending the inner shrine of his early image. That ikon was now jarringly displaced by this insistent presence, and she could not satisfy herself yet as to whether the change pleased or displeased her. Again and again his manner antagonized her, but his visible devotion carried an undeniable appeal, and his voice stirred the deep well of emotion in her heart. "Look here, Vivian," he said, "you've no idea how it goes through me to have you speak like that! You see I've been knocking around here for all this time, and I haven't had a soul to take an interest. A fellow needs the society of good women--like you." It is an old appeal, and always reaches the mark. To any women it is a compliment, and to a young girl, doubly alluring. As she looked at him, the very things she most disliked, his too free manner, his coarsened complexion, a certain look about the eyes, suddenly assumed a new interest as proofs of his loneliness and lack of right companionship. What Mrs. St. Cloud had told her of the ennobling influence of a true woman, flashed upon her mind. "You see, I had no mother," he said simply--"and Aunt Rella spoiled me--." He looked now like the boy she used to know. "Of course I ought to have behaved better," he admitted. "I was ungrateful--I can see it now. But it did seem to me I couldn't stand that town a day longer!" She could sympathize with this feeling and showed it. "Then when a fellow knocks around as I have so long, he gets to where he doesn't care a hang for anything. Seeing you again makes a lot of difference, Vivian. I think, perhaps--I could take a new start." "Oh do! Do!" she said eagerly. "You're young enough, Morton. You can do anything if you'll make up your mind to it." "And you'll help me?" "Of course I'll help you--if I can," said she. A feeling of sincere remorse for wasted opportunities rose in the young man's mind; also, in the presence of this pure-eyed girl, a sense of shame for his previous habits. He walked to the window, his hands in his pockets, and looked out blankly for a moment. "A fellow does a lot of things he shouldn't," he began, clearing his throat; she met him more than half way with the overflowing generosity of youth and ignorance: "Never mind what you've done, Morton--you're going to do differently now! Susie'll be so proud of you--and Aunt Orella!" "And you?" He turned upon her suddenly. "Oh--I? Of course! I shall be very proud of my old friend." She met his eyes bravely, with a lovely look of hope and courage, and again his heart smote him. "I hope you will," he said and straightened his broad shoulders manfully. "Morton Elder!" cried his aunt, bustling in with deep concern in her voice, "What's this I hear about you're having a sore throat?" "Nothing, I hope," said he cheerfully. "Now, Morton"--Vivian showed new solicitude--"you know you have got a sore throat; Susie told me." "Well, I wish she'd hold her tongue," he protested. "It's nothing at all--be all right in a jiffy. No, I won't take any of your fixings, Auntie." "I want Dr. Bellair to look at it anyhow," said his aunt, anxiously. "She'll know if it's diphtheritic or anything. She's coming in." "She can just go out again," he said with real annoyance. "If there's anything I've no use for it's a woman doctor!" "Oh hush, hush!" cried Vivian, too late. "Don't apologize," said Dr. Bellair from her doorway. "I'm not in the least offended. Indeed, I had rather surmised that that was your attitude; I didn't come in to prescribe, but to find Mrs. Pettigrew." "Want me?" inquired the old lady from her doorway. "Who's got a sore throat?" "Morton has," Vivian explained, "and he won't let Aunt Rella--why where is she?" Miss Elder had gone out as suddenly as she had entered. "Camphor's good for sore throat," Mrs. Pettigrew volunteered. "Three or four drops on a piece of sugar. Is it the swelled kind, or the kind that smarts?" "Oh--Halifax!" exclaimed Morton, disgustedly. "It isn't _any_ kind. I haven't a sore throat." "Camphor's good for cold sores; you have one of them anyhow," the old lady persisted, producing a little bottle and urging it upon Morton. "Just keep it wet with camphor as often as you think of it, and it'll go away." Vivian looked on, interested and sympathetic, but Morton put his hand to his lip and backed away. "If you ladies don't stop trying to doctor me, I'll clear out to-morrow, so there!" This appalling threat was fortunately unheard by his aunt, who popped in again at this moment, dragging Dr. Hale with her. Dr. Bellair smiled quietly to herself. "I wouldn't tell him what I wanted him for, or he wouldn't have come, I'm sure--doctors are so funny," said Miss Elder, breathlessly, "but here he is. Now, Dr. Hale, here's a foolish boy who won't listen to reason, and I'm real worried about him. I want you to look at his throat." Dr. Hale glanced briefly at Morton's angry face. "The patient seems to be of age, Miss Elder; and, if you'll excuse me, does not seem to have authorized this call." "My affectionate family are bound to have me an invalid," Morton explained. "I'm in imminent danger of hot baths, cold presses, mustard plasters, aconite, belladonna and quinine--and if I can once reach my hat--" He sidled to the door and fled in mock terror. "Thank you for your good intentions, Miss Elder," Dr. Hale remarked drily. "You can bring water to the horse, but you can't make him drink it, you see." "Now that that young man has gone we might have a game of whist," Mrs. Pettigrew suggested, looking not ill-pleased. "For which you do not need me in the least," and Dr. Hale was about to leave, but Dr. Bellair stopped him. "Don't be an everlasting Winter woodchuck, Dick! Sit down and play; do be good. I've got to see old Mrs. Graham yet; she refuses to go to sleep without it--knowing I'm so near. By by." Mrs. Pettigrew insisted on playing with Miss Elder, so Vivian had the questionable pleasure of Dr. Hale as a partner. He was an expert, used to frequent and scientific play, and by no means patient with the girl's mistakes. He made no protest at a lost trick, but explained briefly between hands what she should have remembered and how the cards lay, till she grew quite discouraged. Her game was but mediocre, played only to oblige; and she never could see why people cared so much about a mere pastime. Pride came to her rescue at last; the more he criticised, the more determined she grew to profit by all this advice; but her mind would wander now and then to Morton, to his young life so largely wasted, it appeared, and to what hope might lie before him. Could she be the help and stimulus he seemed to think? How much did he mean by asking her to help him? "Why waste a thirteenth trump on your partner's thirteenth card?" Dr. Hale was asking. She flushed a deep rose color and lifted appealing eyes to him. "Do forgive me; my mind was elsewhere." "Will you not invite it to return?" he suggested drily. He excused himself after a few games, and the girl at last was glad to have him go. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Mrs. Pettigrew, sitting unaccountably late at her front window, watched the light burn steadily in the small office at the opposite corner. Presently she saw a familiar figure slip in there, and, after a considerable stay, come out quietly, cross the street, and let himself in at their door. "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. CHAPTER VII. SIDE LIGHTS. High shines the golden shield in front, To those who are not blind; And clear and bright In all men's sight, The silver shield behind. In breadth and sheen each face is seen; How tall it is, how wide; But its thinness shows To only those Who stand on either side. Theophile wept aloud in the dining-room, nursing one hand in the other, like a hurt monkey. Most of the diners had departed, but Professor Toomey and Mr. Cuthbert still lingered about Miss Susie's corner, to the evident displeasure of Mr. Saunders, who lingered also. Miss Susie smiled upon them all; and Mr. Saunders speculated endlessly as to whether this was due to her general friendliness of disposition, to an interest in pleasing her aunt's boarders, to personal preference, or, as he sometimes imagined, to a desire to tease him. Morton was talking earnestly with Vivian at the other end of the table, from which the two angular waitresses had some time since removed the last plate. One of them opened the swing door a crack and thrust her head in. "He's burnt his hand," she said, "and his Ma's out. We don't dare go near him." Both of these damsels professed great terror of the poor boy, though he was invariably good natured, and as timid as a rabbit. "Do get the doctor!" cried Susie, nervously; she never felt at ease with Theophile. "Dr. Bellair, I fear, is not in her office," Professor Toomey announced. "We might summon Dr. Hale." "Nonsense!" said Mr. Cuthbert, rising heavily. "He's a great baby, that's all. Here! Quit that howling and show me your hand!" He advanced upon Theophile, who fled toward Vivian. Morton rose in her defence. "Get out!" he said, "Go back to the kitchen. There's nothing the matter with you." "Wait till you get burned, and see if you think it's nothing," Jimmy Saunders remarked with some acidity. He did not like Mr. Elder. "Come here youngster, let me see it." But the boy was afraid of all of them, and cowered in a corner, still bawling. "Stop your noise," Mr. Cuthbert shouted, "Get out of this, or I'll put you out." Vivian rose to her feet. "You will do nothing of the kind. If you, all of you, will go away, I can quiet Theophile, myself." Susie went promptly. She had every confidence in her friend's management. Mr. Cuthbert was sulky, but followed Susie; and Mr. Saunders, after some hesitation, followed Susie, too. Morton lingered, distrustful. "Please go, Morton. I know how to manage him. Just leave us alone," Vivian urged. "You'd better let me put him out, and keep him out, till the old woman comes back," Morton insisted. "You mean kindly, I don't doubt, but you're making me very angry," said the girl, flushing; and he reluctantly left the room. Professor Toomey had departed long since, to fulfill his suggestion of calling Dr. Hale, but when that gentleman appeared, he found that Vivian had quieted the boy, stayed him with flagons and comforted him with apples, as it were, and bound up his hand in wet cooking soda. "It's not a very bad burn," she told the doctor, "but it hurt, and he was frightened. He is afraid of everybody but his mother, and the men were cross to him." "I see," said Dr. Hale, watching Theophile as he munched his apple, keeping carefully behind Vivian and very near her. "He does not seem much afraid of you, I notice, and he's used to me. The soda is all right. Where did you learn first aid to the injured, and how to handle--persons of limited understanding?" "The former I studied. The latter comes by nature, I think," replied the girl, annoyed. He laughed, rather suddenly. "It's a good quality, often needed in this world." "What's all this rumpus?" demanded Grandma, appearing at the door. "Waking me up out of my nap!" Grandma's smooth, fine, still dark hair, which she wore in "water waves," was somewhat disarranged, and she held a little shawl about her. "Only the household baby, playing with fire," Dr. Hale answered. "Miss Lane resolved herself into a Red Cross society, and attended to the wounded. However I think I'll have a look at it now I'm here." Then was Vivian surprised, and compelled to admiration, to see with what wise gentleness the big man won the confidence of the frightened boy, examined the hurt hand, and bound it up again. "You'll do, all right, won't you Theophile," he said, and offered him a shining nickel and a lozenge, "Which will you have, old man?" After some cautious hesitation the boy chose the lozenge, and hastily applied it where it would do the most good. "Where's Mrs. Jones all this time?" suddenly demanded Grandma, who had gone back to her room and fetched forth three fat, pink gumdrops for the further consolation of the afflicted. "She had to go out to buy clothes for him, she hardly ever leaves him you know," Vivian explained. "And the girls out there are so afraid that they won't take any care of him." This was true enough, but Vivian did not know that "Mrs. Jones" had returned and, peering through her favorite peephole, had seen her send out the others, and attend to the boy's burn with her own hand. Jeanne Jeaune was not a sentimental person, and judged from her son's easy consolation that he was little hurt, but she watched the girl's prompt tenderness with tears in her eyes. "She regards him, as any other boy;" thought the mother. "His infirmity, she does not recall it." Dr. Hale had long since won her approval, and when Theophile at last ran out, eager to share his gumdrops, he found her busy as usual in the kitchen. She was a silent woman, professionally civil to the waitresses, but never cordial. The place pleased her, she was saving money, and she knew that there must be _some_ waitresses--these were probably no worse than others. For her unfortunate son she expected little, and strove to keep him near her so far as possible; but Vivian's real kindness touched her deeply. She kept a sharp eye on whatever went on in the dining-room, and what with the frequent dances and the little groups which used to hang about the table after meals, or fill a corner of the big room for quiet chats, she had good opportunities. Morton's visible devotion she watched with deep disapproval; though she was not at all certain that her "young lady" was favorably disposed toward him. She could see and judge the feelings of the men, these many men who ate and drank and laughed and paid court to both the girls. Dr. Hale's brusque coldness she accepted, as from a higher order of being. Susie's gay coquetries were transparent to her; but Vivian she could not read so well. The girl's deep conscientiousness, her courtesy and patience with all, and the gentle way in which she evaded the attentions so persistently offered, were new to Jeanne's experience. When Morton hung about and tried always to talk with Vivian exclusively, she saw her listen with kind attention, but somehow without any of that answering gleam which made Susie's blue eyes so irresistible. "She has the lovers, but she has _no_ beauty--to compare with my young lady!" Jeanne commented inwardly. If the sad-eyed Jeanne had been of Scotch extraction instead of French, she might have quoted the explanation of the homely widow of three husbands when questioned by the good-looking spinster, who closed her inquiry by saying aggrievedly, "And ye'r na sae bonny." "It's na the bonny that does it," explained the triple widow, "It's the come hither i' the een." Susie's eyes sparkled with the "come hither," but those who came failed to make any marked progress. She was somewhat more cautious after the sudden approach and overthrow of Mr. A. Smith; yet more than one young gentleman boarder found business called him elsewhere, with marked suddenness; his place eagerly taken by another. The Cottonwoods had a waiting list, now. Vivian made friends first, lovers afterward. Then if the love proved vain, the friendship had a way of lingering. Hers was one of those involved and over-conscientious characters, keenly sensitive to the thought of duty and to others, pain. She could not play with hearts that might be hurt in the handling, nor could she find in herself a quick and simple response to the appeals made to her; there were so many things to be considered. Morton studied her with more intensity than he had ever before devoted to another human being; his admiration and respect grew with acquaintance, and all that was best in him rose in response to her wise, sweet womanliness. He had the background of their childhood's common experiences and her early sentiment--how much he did not know, to aid him. Then there was the unknown country of his years of changeful travel, many tales that he could tell her, many more which he found he could not. He pressed his advantage, cautiously, finding the fullest response when he used the appeal to her uplifting influence. When they talked in the dining-room the sombre eye at the peephole watched with growing disapproval. The kitchen was largely left to her and her son by her fellow workers, on account of their nervous dislike for Theophile, and she utilized her opportunities. Vivian had provided the boy with some big bright picture blocks, and he spent happy hours in matching them on the white scoured table, while his mother sewed, and watched. He had forgotten his burn by now, and she sewed contentedly for there was no one talking to her young lady but Dr. Hale, who lingered unaccountably. To be sure, Vivian had brought him a plate of cakes from the pantry, and he seemed to find the little brown things efficiently seductive, or perhaps it was Grandma who held him, sitting bolt upright in her usual place, at the head of one table, and asking a series of firm but friendly questions. This she found the only way of inducing Dr. Hale to talk at all. Yes, he was going away--Yes, he would be gone some time--A matter of weeks, perhaps--He could not say--His boys were all well--He did not wonder that they saw a good deal of them--It was a good place for them to come. "You might come oftener yourself," said Grandma, "and play real whist with me. These young people play _Bridge_!" She used this word with angry scorn, as symbol of all degeneracy; and also despised pinochle, refusing to learn it, though any one could induce her to play bezique. Some of the more venturous and argumentative, strove to persuade her that the games were really the same. "You needn't tell me," Mrs. Pettigrew would say, "I don't want to play any of your foreign games." "But, Madam, bezique is not an English word," Professor Toomey had insisted, on one occasion; to which she had promptly responded, "Neither is 'bouquet!'" Dr. Hale shook his head with a smile. He had a very nice smile, even Vivian admitted that. All the hard lines of his face curved and melted, and the light came into those deep-set eyes and shone warmly. "I should enjoy playing whist with you very often, Mrs. Pettigrew; but a doctor has no time to call his own. And a good game of whist must not be interrupted by telephones." "There's Miss Orella!" said Grandma, as the front door was heard to open. "She's getting to be quite a gadder." "It does her good, I don't doubt," the doctor gravely remarked, rising to go. Miss Orella met him in the hall, and bade him good-bye with regret. "We do not see much of you, doctor; I hope you'll be back soon." "Why it's only a little trip; you good people act as if I were going to Alaska," he said, "It makes me feel as if I had a family!" "Pity you haven't," remarked Grandma with her usual definiteness. Dykeman stood holding Miss Orella's wrap, with his dry smile. "Good-bye, Hale," he said. "I'll chaperon your orphan asylum for you. So long." "Come out into the dining-room," said Miss Orella, after Dr. Hale had departed. "I know you must be hungry," and Mr. Dykeman did not deny it. In his quiet middle-aged way, he enjoyed this enlarged family circle as much as the younger fellows, and he and Mr. Unwin seemed to vie with one another to convince Miss Orella that life still held charms for her. Mr. Skee also hovered about her to a considerable extent, but most of his devotion was bestowed upon damsels of extreme youth. "Here's one that's hungry, anyhow," remarked Dr. Bellair, coming out of her office at the moment, with her usual clean and clear-starched appearance. "I've been at it for eighteen hours, with only bites to eat. Yes, all over; both doing well." It was a source of deep self-congratulation to Dr. Bellair to watch her friend grow young again in the new atmosphere. To Susie it appeared somewhat preposterous, as her Aunt seems to her mind a permanently elderly person; while to Mrs. Pettigrew it looked only natural. "Rella's only a young thing anyway," was her comment. But Jane Bellair marked and approved the added grace of each new gown, the blossoming of lace and ribbon, the appearance of long-hoarded bits of family jewelry, things held "too showy to wear" in Bainville, but somehow quite appropriate here. Vivian and Grandma made Miss Orella sit down at her own table head, and bustled about in the pantry, bringing cheese and crackers, cake and fruit; but the doctor poked her head through the swing door and demanded meat. "I don't want a refection, I want food," she said, and Jeanne cheerfully brought her a plate of cold beef. She was much attached to Dr. Bellair, for reasons many and good. "What I like about this place," said Mrs. Pettigrew, surveying the scene from the head of her table, "is that there's always something going on." "What I like about it," remarked Dr. Bellair, between well-Fletcherized mouthfuls, "is that people have a chance to grow and are growing." "What I like," Mr. Dykeman looked about him, and paused in the middle of a sentence, as was his wont; "is being beautifully taken care of and made comfortable--any man likes that." Miss Orella beamed upon him. Emboldened, he went on: "And what I like most is the new, delightful"--he was gazing admiringly at her, and she looked so embarrassed that he concluded with a wide margin of safety--"friends I'm making." Miss Orella's rosy flush, which had risen under his steady gaze, ebbed again to her usual soft pink. Even her coldest critics, in the most caustic Bainvillian circles, could never deny that she had "a good complexion." New England, like old England, loves roses on the cheeks, and our dry Western winds play havoc with them. But Miss Orella's bloomed brighter than at home. "It is pleasant," she said softly; "all this coming and going--and the nice people--who stay." She looked at no one in particular, yet Mr. Dykeman seemed pleased. "There's another coming, I guess," remarked Grandma, as a carriage was heard to stop outside, the gate slammed, and trunk-burdened steps pounded heavily across the piazza. The bell rang sharply, Mr. Dykeman opened the door, and the trunk came in first--a huge one, dumped promptly on the hall floor. Behind the trunk and the man beneath it entered a lady; slim, elegant, graceful, in a rich silk dust coat and soft floating veils. "My dear Miss Elder!" she said, coming forward; "and Vivian! Dear Vivian! I thought you could put me up, somewhere, and told him to come right here. O--and please--I haven't a bit of change left in my purse--will you pay the man?" "Well, if it isn't Mrs. St. Cloud," said Grandma, without any note of welcome in her voice. Mr. Dykeman paid the man; looked at the trunk, and paid him some more. The man departed swearing softly at nothing in particular, and Mr. Dykeman departed also to his own room. Miss Orella's hospitable soul was much exercised. Refuse shelter to an old acquaintance, a guest, however unexpected, she could not; yet she had no vacant room. Vivian, flushed and excited, moved anew by her old attraction, eagerly helped the visitor take off her wraps, Mrs. Pettigrew standing the while, with her arms folded, in the doorway of her room, her thin lips drawn to a hard line, as one intending to repel boarders at any risk to life or limb. Dr. Bellair had returned to her apartments at the first sound of the visitor's voice. She, gracious and calm in the midst of confusion, sat in a wreath of down-dropped silken wrappings, and held Vivian's hand. "You dear child!" she said, "how well you look! What a charming place this is. The doctors sent me West for my health; I'm on my way to California. But when I found the train stopped here--I didn't know that it did till I saw the name--I had them take my trunk right off, and here I am! It is such a pleasure to see you all." "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew, and disappeared completely, closing the door behind her. "Anything will do, Miss Elder," the visitor went on. "I shall find a hall bedroom palatial after a sleeping car; or a garret--anything! It's only for a few days, you know." Vivian was restraining herself from hospitable offers by remembering that her room was also Susie's, and Miss Orella well knew that to give up hers meant sleeping on a hard, short sofa in that all-too-public parlor. She was hastily planning in her mind to take Susie in with her and persuade Mrs. Pettigrew to harbor Vivian, somewhat deterred by memories of the old lady's expression as she departed, when Mr. Dykeman appeared at the door, suitcase in hand. "I promised Hale I'd keep house for those fatherless boys, you know," he said. "In the meantime, you're quite welcome to use my room, Miss Elder." And he departed, her blessing going with him. More light refreshments were now in order. Mrs. St. Cloud protesting that she wanted nothing, but finding much to praise in the delicacies set before her. Several of the other boarders drifted in, always glad of an extra bite before going to bed. Susie and Mr. Saunders returned from a walk, Morton reappeared, and Jeanne, peering sharply in, resentful of this new drain upon her pantry shelves, saw a fair, sweet-faced woman, seated at ease, eating daintily, while Miss Elder and Vivian waited upon her, and the men all gathered admiringly about. Jeanne Jeaune wagged her head. "Ah, ha, Madame!" she muttered softly, "Such as you I have met before!" Theophile she had long since sent to bed, remaining up herself to keep an eye on the continued disturbance in the front of the house. Vivian and Susie brought the dishes out, and would have washed them or left them till morning for the maids. "Truly, no," said Jeanne Jeaune; "go you to your beds; I will attend to these." One by one she heard them go upstairs, distant movement and soft dissuasion as two gentlemen insisted on bearing Mrs. St. Cloud's trunk into her room, receding voices and closing doors. There was no sound in the dining-room now, but still she waited; the night was not yet quiet. Miss Elder and Susie, Vivian also, hovered about, trying to make this new guest comfortable, in spite of her graceful protests that they must not concern themselves in the least about her, that she wanted nothing--absolutely nothing. At last they left her, and still later, after some brief exchange of surprised comment and warm appreciation of Mr. Dykeman's thoughtfulness, the family retired. Vivian, when her long hair was smoothly braided for the night, felt an imperative need for water. "Don't you want some, Susie? I'll bring you a glass." But Susie only huddled the bedclothes about her pretty shoulders and said: "Don't bring me _anything_, until to-morrow morning!" So her room-mate stole out softly in her wrapper, remembering that a pitcher of cool water still stood on one of the tables. The windows to the street let in a flood of light from a big street lamp, and she found her way easily, but was a bit startled for a moment to find a man still sitting there, his head upon his arms. "Why, Morton," she said; "is that you? What are you sitting up for? It's awfully late. I'm just after some water." She poured a glassful. "Don't you want some?" "No, thank you," he said. "Yes, I will. Give me some, please." The girl gave him a glass, drank from her own and set it down, turning to go, but he reached out and caught a flowing sleeve of her kimono. "Don't go, Vivian! Do sit down and talk to a fellow. I've been trying to see you for days and days." "Why, Morton Elder, how absurd! You have certainly seen me every day, and we've talked hours this very evening. This is no time for conversation, surely." "The best time in the world," he assured her. "All the other times there are people about--dozens--hundreds--swarms! I want to talk to just you." There were certainly no dozens or hundreds about now, but as certainly there was one, noting with keen and disapproving interest this midnight tête-à-tête. It did not last very long, and was harmless and impersonal enough while it lasted. Vivian sat for a few moments, listening patiently while the young man talked of his discouragements, his hopes, his wishes to succeed in life, to be worthy of her; but when the personal note sounded, when he tried to take her hand in the semi-darkness, then her New England conscience sounded also, and she rose to her feet and left him. "We'll talk about that another time," she said. "Now do be quiet and do not wake people up." He stole upstairs, dutifully, and she crept softly back to her room and got into bed, without eliciting more than a mild grunt from sleepy Susie. Silence reigned at last in the house. Not for long, however. At about half past twelve Dr. Bellair was roused from a well-earned sleep by a light, insistent tap upon her door. She listened, believing it to be a wind-stirred twig; but no, it was a finger tap--quiet--repeated. She opened the door upon Jeanne in her stocking feet. "Your pardon, Mrs. Doctor," said the visitor, "but it is of importance. May I speak for a little? No, I'm not ill, and we need not a light." They sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor. "You are a doctor, and you can make an end to it--you must make an end to it," said Jeanne, after a little hesitation. "This young man--this nephew--he must not marry my young lady." "What makes you think he wants to?" asked the doctor. "I have seen, I have heard--I know," said Jeanne. "You know, all can see that he loves her. _He!_ Not such as he for my young lady." "Why do you object to him, Jeanne?" "He has lived the bad life," said the woman, grimly. "Most young men are open to criticism," said Dr. Bellair. "Have you anything definite to tell me--anything that you could _prove_?--if it were necessary to save her?" She leaned forward, elbows on knees. Jeanne sat in the flickering shadows, considering her words. "He has had the sickness," she said at last. "Can you prove that?" "I can prove to you, a doctor, that Coralie and Anastasia and Estelle--they have had it. They are still alive; but not so beautiful." "Yes; but how can you prove it on him?" "I know he was with them. Well, it was no secret. I myself have seen--he was there often." "How on earth have you managed not to be recognized?" Dr. Bellair inquired after a few moments. Jeanne laughed bitterly. "That was eight years ago; he was but a boy--gay and foolish, with the others. What does a boy know?... Also, at that time I was blonde, and--of a difference." "I see," said the doctor, "I see! That's pretty straight. You know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. But that was a long time ago." "I have heard of him since, many times, in such company," said Jeanne. They sat in silence for some time. A distant church clock struck a single deep low note. The woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: "You must save her, doctor--you will! I was young once," she went on. "I did not know--as she does not. I married, and--_that_ came to me! It made me a devil--for awhile. Tell her, doctor--if you must; tell her about my boy!" She went away, weeping silently, and Dr. Bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness. CHAPTER VIII. A MIXTURE. In poetry and painting and fiction we see Such praise for the Dawn of the Day, We've long since been convinced that a sunrise must be All Glorious and Golden and Gay. But we find there are mornings quite foggy and drear, With the clouds in a low-hanging pall; Till the grey light of daylight can hardly make clear That the sun has arisen at all. Dr. Richard Hale left his brood of temporary orphans without really expecting for them any particular oversight from Andrew Dykeman; but the two were sufficiently close friends to well warrant the latter in moving over to The Monastery--as Jimmie Saunders called it. Mr. Dykeman was sufficiently popular with the young men to be welcome, even if he had not had a good excuse, and when they found how super-excellent his excuse was they wholly approved. To accommodate Miss Orella was something--all the boys liked Miss Orella. They speculated among themselves on her increasing youth and good looks, and even exchanged sagacious theories as to the particular acting cause. But when they found that Mr. Dykeman's visit was to make room for the installation of Mrs. St. Cloud, they were more than pleased. All the unexpressed ideals of masculine youth seemed centered in this palely graceful lady; the low, sweet voice, the delicate hands, the subtle sympathy of manner, the nameless, quiet charm of dress. Young Burns became her slave on sight, Lawson and Peters fell on the second day; not one held out beyond the third. Even Susie's attractions paled, her very youth became a disadvantage; she lacked that large considering tenderness. "Fact is," Mr. Peters informed his friends rather suddenly, "young women are selfish. Naturally, of course. It takes some experience to--well, to understand a fellow." They all agreed with him. Mr. Dykeman, quiet and reserved as always, was gravely polite to the newcomer, and Mr. Skee revolved at a distance, making observations. Occasionally he paid some court to her, at which times she was cold to him; and again he devoted himself to the other ladies with his impressive air, as of one bowing low and sweeping the floor with a plumed hat. Mr. Skee's Stetson had, as a matter of fact, no sign of plumage, and his bows were of a somewhat jerky order; but his gallantry was sweeping and impressive, none the less. If he remained too far away Mrs. St. Cloud would draw him to her circle, which consisted of all the other gentlemen. There were two exceptions. Mr. James Saunders had reached the stage where any woman besides Susie was but a skirted ghost, and Morton was by this time so deeply devoted to Vivian that he probably would not have wavered even if left alone. He was not wholly a free agent, however. Adela St. Cloud had reached an age when something must be done. Her mysterious absent husband had mysteriously and absently died, and still she never breathed a word against him. But the Bible Class in Bainville furnished no satisfactory material for further hopes, the place of her earlier dwelling seemed not wholly desirable now, and the West had called her. Finding herself comfortably placed in Mr. Dykeman's room, and judging from the number of his shoe-trees and the quality of his remaining toilet articles that he might be considered "suitable," she decided to remain in the half-way house for a season. So settled, why, for a thousand reasons one must keep one's hand in. There were men in plenty, from twenty year old Archie to the uncertain decades of Mr. Skee. Idly amusing herself, she questioned that gentleman indirectly as to his age, drawing from him astounding memories of the previous century. When confronted with historic proof that the events he described were over a hundred years passed, he would apologize, admitting that he had no memory for dates. She owned one day, with gentle candor, to being thirty-three. "That must seem quite old to a man like you, Mr. Skee. I feel very old sometimes!" She lifted large eyes to him, and drew her filmy scarf around her shoulders. "Your memory must be worse than mine, ma'am," he replied, "and work the same way. You've sure got ten or twenty years added on superfluous! Now me!" He shook his head; "I don't remember when I was born at all. And losin' my folks so young, _and_ the family Bible--I don't expect I ever shall. But I 'low I'm all of ninety-seven." This being palpably impossible, and as the only local incidents he could recall in his youth were quite dateless adventures among the Indians, she gave it up. Why Mr. Skee should have interested her at all was difficult to say, unless it was the appeal to his uncertainty--he was at least a game fish, if not edible. Of the women she met, Susie and Vivian were far the most attractive, wherefore Mrs. St. Cloud, with subtle sympathy and engaging frankness, fairly cast Mr. Saunders in Susie's arms, and vice versa, as opportunity occurred. Morton she rather snubbed, treated him as a mere boy, told tales of his childhood that were in no way complimentary--so that he fled from her. With Vivian she renewed her earlier influence to a great degree. With some inquiry and more intuition she discovered what it was that had chilled the girl's affection for her. "I don't wonder, my dear child," she said; "I never told you of that--I never speak of it to anyone.... It was one of the--" she shivered slightly--"darkest griefs of a very dark time.... He was a beautiful boy.... I never _dreamed_----" The slow tears rose in her beautiful eyes till they shone like shimmering stars. "Heaven send no such tragedy may ever come into your life, dear!" She reached a tender hand to clasp the girl's. "I am so glad of your happiness!" Vivian was silent. As a matter of fact, she was not happy enough to honestly accept sympathy. Mrs. St. Cloud mistook her attitude, or seemed to. "I suppose you still blame me. Many people did. I often blame myself. One cannot be _too_ careful. It's a terrible responsibility, Vivian--to have a man love you." The girl's face grew even more somber. That was one thing which was troubling her. "But your life is all before you," pursued the older woman. "Your dream has come true! How happy--how wonderfully happy you must be!" "I am not, not _really_," said the girl. "At least----" "I know--I know; I understand," Mrs. St. Cloud nodded with tender wisdom. "You are not sure. Is not that it?" That was distinctly "it," and Vivian so agreed. "There is no other man?" "Not the shadow of one!" said the girl firmly. And as her questioner had studied the field and made up her mind to the same end, she believed her. "Then you must not mind this sense of uncertainty. It always happens. It is part of the morning clouds of maidenhood, my dear--it vanishes with the sunrise!" And she smiled beatifically. Then the girl unburdened herself of her perplexities. She could always express herself so easily to this sympathetic friend. "There are so many things that I--dislike--about him," she said. "Habits of speech--of manners. He is not--not what I----" She paused. "Not all the Dream! Ah! My dear child, they never are! We are given these beautiful ideals to guard and guide us; but the real is never quite the same. But when a man's soul opens to you--when he loves--these small things vanish. They can be changed--you will change them." "Yes--he says so," Vivian admitted. "He says that he knows that he is--unworthy--and has done wrong things. But so have I, for that matter." Mrs. St. Cloud agreed with her. "I am glad you feel that, my dear. Men have their temptations--their vices--and we good women are apt to be hard on them. But have we no faults? Ah, my dear, I have seen good women--young girls, like yourself--ruin a man's whole life by--well, by heartlessness; by lack of understanding. Most young men do things they become ashamed of when they really love. And in the case of a motherless boy like this--lonely, away from his home, no good woman's influence about--what else could we expect? But you can make a new man of him. A glorious work!" "That's what he says. I'm not so sure--" The girl hesitated. "Not sure you can? Oh, my child, it is the most beautiful work on earth! To see from year to year a strong, noble character grow under your helping hand! To be the guiding star, the inspiration of a man's life. To live to hear him say: "'Ah, who am I that God should bow From heaven to choose a wife for me? What have I done He should endow My home with thee?'" There was a silence. Vivian's dark eyes shone with appreciation for the tender beauty of the lines, the lovely thought. Then she arose and walked nervously across the floor, returning presently. "Mrs. St. Cloud----" "Call me Adela, my dear." "Adela--dear Adela--you--you have been married. I have no mother. Tell me, ought not there to be more--more love? I'm fond of Morton, of course, and I do want to help him--but surely, if I loved him--I should feel happier--more sure!" "The first part of love is often very confusing, my dear. I'll tell you how it is: just because you are a woman grown and feel your responsibilities, especially here, where you have so many men friends, you keep Morton at a distance. Then the external sort of cousinly affection you have for him rather blinds you to other feelings. But I have not forgotten--and I'm sure you have not--the memory of that hot, sweet night so long ago; the world swimming in summer moonlight and syringa sweetness; the stillness everywhere--and your first kiss!" Vivian started to her feet. She moved to the window and stood awhile; came back and kissed her friend warmly, and went away without another word. The lady betook herself to her toilet, and spent some time on it, for there was one of Miss Peeder's classes that night. Mrs. St. Cloud danced with many, but most with Mr. Dykeman; no woman in the room had her swimming grace of motion, and yet, with all the throng of partners about her she had time to see Susie's bright head bobbing about beneath Mr. Saunders down-bent, happy face, and Vivian, with her eyes cast down, dancing with Morton, whose gaze never left her. He was attention itself, he brought her precisely the supper she liked, found her favorite corner to rest in, took her to sit on the broad piazza between dances, remained close to her, still talking earnestly, when all the outsiders had gone. Vivian found it hard to sleep that night. All that he had said of his new hope, new power, new courage, bore out Mrs. St. Cloud's bright promise of a new-built life. And some way, as she had listened and did not forbid, the touch of his hand, the pressure of his arm, grew warmer and brought back the memories of that summer night so long ago. He had begged hard for a kiss before he left her, and she quite had to tear herself away, as Susie drifted in, also late; and Aunt Orella said they must all go to bed right away--she was tired if they were not. She did look tired. This dance seemed somehow less agreeable to her than had others. She took off her new prettinesses and packed them away in a box in the lower drawer. "I'm an old fool!" she said. "Trying to dress up like a girl. I'm ashamed of myself!" Quite possibly she did not sleep well either, yet she had no room-mate to keep her awake by babbling on, as Susie did to Vivian. Her discourse was first, last and always about Jimmie Saunders. He had said this, he had looked that, he had done so; and what did Vivian think he meant? And wasn't he handsome--and _so_ clever! Little Susie cuddled close and finally dropped off asleep, her arms around Vivian. But the older girl counted the hours; her head, or her heart, in a whirl. Morton Elder was wakeful, too. So much so that he arose with a whispered expletive, took his shoes in his hand, and let himself softly out for a tramp in the open. This was not the first of his love affairs, but with all his hot young heart he wished it was. He stood still, alone on the high stretches of moonlit mesa and looked up at the measureless, brilliant spaces above him. "I'll keep straight--if I can have her!" he repeated under his breath. "I will! I will!" It had never occurred to him before to be ashamed of the various escapades of his youth. He had done no more than others, many others. None of "the boys" he associated with intended to do what was wrong; they were quite harsh in judgment of those who did, according to their standards. None of them had been made acquainted with the social or pathological results of their amusements, and the mere "Zutritt ist Verboten" had never impressed them at all. But now the gentler influences of his childhood, even the narrow morality of Bainville, rose in pleasant colors in his mind. He wished he had saved his money, instead of spending it faster than it came in. He wished he had kept out of poker and solo and barrooms generally. He wished, in a dumb, shamed way, that he could come to her as clean as she was. But he threw his shoulders back and lifted his head determinedly. "I'll be good to her," he determined; "I'll make her a good husband." In the days that followed his devotion was as constant as before, but more intelligent. His whole manner changed and softened. He began to read the books she liked, and to talk about them. He was gentler to everyone, more polite, even to the waitresses, tender and thoughtful of his aunt and sister. Vivian began to feel a pride in him, and in her influence, deepening as time passed. Mrs. Pettigrew, visiting the library on one of her frequent errands, was encountered there and devotedly escorted home by Mr. Skee. "That is a most fascinating young lady who has Mr. Dykeman's room; don't you think so, ma'am?" quoth he. "I do not," said Mrs. Pettigrew. "Young! She's not so young as you are--nothing like--never was!" He threw back his head and laughed his queer laugh, which looked so uproarious and made so little noise. "She certainly is a charmer, whatever her age may be," he continued. "Glad you think so, Mr. Skee. It may be time you lost a fourth!" "Lost a fourth? What in the--Hesperides!" "If you can't guess what, you needn't ask me!" said the lady, with some tartness. "But for my own part I prefer the Apaches. Good afternoon, Mr. Skee." She betook herself to her room with unusual promptness, and refused to be baited forth by any kind of offered amusement. "It's right thoughtful of Andy Dykeman, gettin' up this entertainment for Mrs. St. Cloud, isn't it, Mrs. Elder?" Thus Mr. Skee to Miss Orella a little later. "I don't think it is Mr. Dykeman's idea at all," she told him. "It's those boys over there. They are all wild about her, quite naturally." She gave a little short sigh. "If Dr. Hale were at home I doubt if he would encourage it." "I'm pretty sure he wouldn't, Ma'am. He's certainly down on the fair sex, even such a peacherino as this one. But with Andy, now, it's different. He is a man of excellent judgment." "I guess all men's judgment is pretty much alike in some ways," said Miss Orella, oracularly. She seemed busy and constrained, and Mr. Skee drifted off and paid court as best he might to Dr. Bellair. "Charmed to find you at home, Ma'am," he said; "or shall I say at office?" "Call it what you like, Mr. Skee; it's been my home for a good many years now." "It's a mighty fine thing for a woman, livin' alone, to have a business, seems to me," remarked the visitor. "It's a fine thing for any woman, married or single, to my mind," she answered. "I wish I could get Vivian Lane started in that kindergarten she talks about." "There's kids enough, and goodness knows they need a gardener! What's lackin'? House room?" "She thinks she's not really competent. She has no regular certificate, you see. Her parents would never let go of her long enough," the doctor explained. "Some parents _are_ pretty graspin', ain't they? To my mind, Miss Vivian would be a better teacher than lots of the ticketed ones. She's got the natural love of children." "Yes, and she has studied a great deal. She just needs an impetus." "Perhaps if she thought there was 'a call' she might be willing. I doubt if the families here realize what they're missin'. Aint there some among your patients who could be stirred up a little?" The doctor thought there were, and he suggested several names from his apparently unlimited acquaintance. "I believe in occupation for the young. It takes up their minds," said Mr. Skee, and departed with serenity. He strolled over to Dr. Hale's fence and leaned upon it, watching the preparations. Mr. Dykeman, in his shirt-sleeves, stood about offering suggestions, while the young men swarmed here and there with poles and stepladders, hanging Chinese lanterns. "Hello, Elmer; come in and make yourself useful," called Mr. Dykeman. "I'll come in, but I'll be switched if I'll be useful," he replied, laying a large hand on the fence and vaulting his long legs over it with an agility amazing in one of his alleged years. "You all are sure putting yourself out for this occasion. Is it somebody's birthday?" "No; it's a get-up of these youngsters. They began by wanting Mrs. St. Cloud to come over to tea--afternoon tea--and now look at this!" "Did she misunderstand the invitation as bad as that?" "O, no; just a gradual change of plan. One thing leads to another, you know. Here, Archie! That bush won't hold the line. Put it on the willow." "I see," said Mr. Skee; "and, as we're quotin' proverbs, I might remark that 'While the cat's away the mice will play.'" Mr. Dykeman smiled. "It's rather a good joke on Hale, isn't it?" "Would be if he should happen to come home--and find this hen-party on." They both chuckled. "I guess he's good for a week yet," said Mr. Dykeman. "Those medical associations do a lot of talking. Higher up there, George--a good deal higher." He ran over to direct the boys, and Mr. Skee, hands behind him, strolled up and down the garden, wearing a meditative smile. He and Andrew Dykeman had been friends for many long years. Dr. Bellair used her telephone freely after Mr. Skee's departure, making notes and lists of names. Late in the afternoon she found Vivian in the hall. "I don't see much of you these days, Miss Lane," she said. The girl flushed. Since Mrs. St. Cloud's coming and their renewed intimacy she had rather avoided the doctor, and that lady had kept herself conspicuously out of the way. "Don't call me Miss Lane; I'm Vivian--to my friends." "I hope you count me a friend?" said Dr. Bellair, gravely. "I do, Doctor, and I'm proud to. But so many things have been happening lately," she laughed, a little nervously. "The truth is, I'm really ashamed to talk to you; I'm so lazy." "That's exactly what I wanted to speak about. Aren't you ready to begin that little school of yours?" "I'd like to--I should, really," said the girl. "But, somehow, I don't know how to set about it." "I've been making some inquiries," said the doctor. "There are six or eight among my patients that you could count on--about a dozen young ones. How many could you handle?" "Oh, I oughtn't to have more than twenty in any case. A dozen would be plenty to begin with. Do you think I _could_ count on them--really?" "I tell you what I'll do," her friend offered; "I'll take you around and introduce you to any of them you don't know. Most of 'em come here to the dances. There's Mrs. Horsford and Mrs. Blake, and that little Mary Jackson with the twins. You'll find they are mostly friends." "You are awfully kind," said the girl. "I wish"--her voice took on a sudden note of intensity--"I do wish I were strong, like you, Dr. Bellair." "I wasn't very strong--at your age--my child. I did the weakest of weak things--" Vivian was eager to ask her what it was, but a door opened down one side passage and the doctor quietly disappeared down the other, as Mrs. St. Cloud came out. "I thought I heard your voice," she said. "And Miss Elder's, wasn't it?" "No; it was Dr. Bellair." "A strong character, and a fine physician, I understand. I'm sorry she does not like me." Mrs. St. Cloud's smile made it seem impossible that anyone should dislike her. Vivian could not, however, deny the fact, and was not diplomatic enough to smooth it over, which her more experienced friend proceeded to do. "It is temperamental," she said gently. "If we had gone to school together we would not have been friends. She is strong, downright, progressive; I am weaker, more sensitive, better able to bear than to do. You must find her so stimulating." "Yes," the girl said. "She was talking to me about my school." "Your school?" "Didn't you know I meant to have a sort of kindergarten? We planned it even before starting; but Miss Elder seemed to need me at first, and since then--things--have happened----" "And other things will happen, dear child! Quite other and different things." The lady's smile was bewitching. Vivian flushed slowly under her gaze. "Oh, my dear, I watched you dancing together! You don't mind my noticing, do you?" Her voice was suddenly tender and respectful. "I do not wish to intrude, but you are very dear to me. Come into my room--do--and tell me what to wear to-night." Mrs. St. Cloud's clothes had always been a delight to Vivian. They were what she would have liked to wear--and never quite have dared, under the New England fear of being "too dressy." Her own beauty was kept trimly neat, like a closed gentian. Her friend was in the gayest mood. She showed her a trunkful of delicate garments and gave her a glittering embroidered scarf, which the girl rapturously admired, but declared she would never have the courage to wear. "You shall wear it this very night," declared the lady. "Here--show me what you've got. You shall be as lovely as you _are_, for once!" So Vivian brought out her modest wardrobe, and the older woman chose a gown of white, insisted on shortening the sleeves to fairy wings of lace, draped the scarf about her white neck, raised the soft, close-bound hair to a regal crown, and put a shining star in it, and added a string of pearls on the white throat. "Look at yourself now, child!" she said. Vivian looked, in the long depths of Mr. Dykeman's mirror. She knew that she had beauty, but had never seen herself so brilliantly attired. Erect, slender, graceful, the long lines of her young body draped in soft white, and her dark head, crowned and shining, poised on its white column, rising from the shimmering lace. Her color deepened as she looked, and added to the picture. "You shall wear it to-night! You shall!" cried her admiring friend. "To please me--if no one else!" Whether to please her or someone else, Vivian consented, the two arriving rather late at the garden party across the way. Mr. Dykeman, looking very tall and fine in his evening clothes, was a cordial host, ably seconded by the eager boys about him. The place was certainly a credit to their efforts, the bare rooms being turned to bowers by vines and branches brought from the mountains, and made fragrant by piled flowers. Lights glimmered through colored shades among the leaves, and on the dining table young Peters, who came from Connecticut, had rigged a fountain by means of some rubber tubing and an auger hole in the floor. This he had made before Mr. Dykeman caught him, and vowed Dr. Hale would not mind. Mr. Peters' enjoyment of the evening, however, was a little dampened by his knowledge of the precarious nature of this arrangement. He danced attendance on Mrs. St. Cloud, with the others, but wore a preoccupied expression, and stole in once or twice from the lit paths outside to make sure that all was running well. It was well to and during supper time, and the young man was complimented on his ingenuity. "Reminds me of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon," said Mr. Skee, sentimentally. "Why?" asked Mrs. Pettigrew. "Oh, _why_, Ma'am? How can a fellow say why?" he protested. "Because it is so--so efflorescent, I suppose." "Reminds me of a loose faucet," said she, _sotto voce_, to Dr. Bellair. Mr. Peters beamed triumphantly, but in the very hour of his glory young Burns, hastening to get a cup of coffee for his fair one, tripped over the concealed pipe, and the fountain poured forth its contributions among the feet of the guests. This was a minor misadventure, however, hurting no one's feeling but Mr. Peters', and Mrs. St. Cloud was so kind to him in consequence that he was envied by all the others. Mr. Dykeman was attentive to his guests, old and young, but Mrs. Pettigrew had not her usual smile for him; Miss Orella declined to dance, alleging that she was too tired, and Dr. Bellair somewhat dryly told him that he need not bother with her. He was hardly to be blamed if he turned repeatedly to Mrs. St. Cloud, whose tactful sweetness was always ready. She had her swarm of young admirers about her, yet never failed to find a place for her host, a smile and a word of understanding. Her eyes were everywhere. She watched Mr. Skee waltzing with the youngest, providing well-chosen refreshments for Miss Orella, gallantly escorting Grandma to see the "Lovers' Lane" they had made at the end of the garden. Its twin lines of lights were all outside; within was grateful shadow. Mrs. St. Cloud paced through this fragrant arbor with each and every one of the receiving party, uttering ever-fresh expressions of admiration and gratitude for their kind thoughtfulness, especially to Mr. Dykeman. When she saw Susie and Mr. Saunders go in at the farther end, she constituted herself a sort of protective agency to keep every one else out, holding them in play with various pleasant arts. And Vivian? When she arrived there was a little gasp from Morton, who was waiting for her near the door. She was indeed a sight to make a lover's heart leap. He had then, as it were, surrounded her. Vainly did the others ask for dances. Morton had unblushingly filled out a card with his own name and substituted it for the one she handed him. She protested, but the music sounded and he whirled her away before she could expostulate to any avail. His eyes spoke his admiration, and for once his tongue did not spoil the impression. Half laughing and half serious, she let him monopolize her, but quite drove him away when Mr. Dykeman claimed his dance. "All filled up!" said Morton for her, showing his card. "Mine was promised yesterday, was it not, Miss Lane?" said the big man, smiling. And she went with him. He took her about the garden later, gravely admiring and attentive, and when Susie fairly rushed into her arms, begging her to come and talk with her, he left them both in a small rose-crowned summer-house and went back to Mrs. St. Cloud. "Oh, Vivian, Vivian! What do you think!" Susie's face was buried on Vivian's shoulder. "I'm engaged!" Vivian held her close and kissed her soft hair. Her joyous excitement was contagious. "He's the nicest man in the world!" breathed Susie, "and he loves me!" "We all supposed he did. Didn't you know it before?" "Oh, yes, in a way; but, Vivian--he kissed me!" "Well, child, have you never in all your little life been kissed before?" Susie lifted a rosy, tearful face for a moment. "Never, never, never!" she said. "I thought I had, but I haven't! Oh, I am so happy!" "What's up?" inquired Morton, appearing with a pink lantern in his hand, in impatient search for his adored one. "Susie--crying?" "No, I'm _not_," she said, and ran forthwith back to the house, whence Jimmy was bringing her ice cream. Vivian started to follow her. "Oh, no, Vivian; don't go. Wait." He dropped the lantern and took her hands. The paper cover flared up, showing her flushed cheeks and starry eyes. He stamped out the flame, and in the sudden darkness caught her in his arms. For a moment she allowed him, turning her head away. He kissed her white shoulder. "No! No, Morton--don't! You mustn't!" She tried to withdraw herself, but he held her fast. She could feel the pounding of his heart. "Oh, Vivian, don't say no! You will marry me, won't you? Some day, when I'm more worth while. Say you will! Some day--if not now. I love you so; I need you so! Say yes, Vivian." He was breathing heavily. His arms held her motionless. She still kept her face turned from him. "Let me go, Morton; let me go! You hurt me!" "Say yes, dear, and I'll let you go--for a little while." "Yes," said Vivian. The ground jarred beside them, as a tall man jumped the hedge boundary. He stood a moment, staring. "Well, is this my house, or Coney Island?" they heard him say. And then Morton swore softly to himself as Vivian left him and came out. "Good evening, Dr. Hale," she said, a little breathlessly. "We weren't expecting you so soon." "I should judge not," he answered. "What's up, anyhow?" "The boys--and Mr. Dykeman--are giving a garden party for Mrs. St. Cloud." "For whom?" "For Adela St. Cloud. She is visiting us. Aren't you coming in?" "Not now," he said, and was gone without another word. CHAPTER IX. CONSEQUENCES. You may have a fondness for grapes that are green, And the sourness that greenness beneath; You may have a right To a colic at night-- But consider your children's teeth! Dr. Hale retired from his gaily illuminated grounds in too much displeasure to consider the question of dignity. One suddenly acting cause was the news given him by Vivian. The other was the sight of Morton Elder's face as he struck a match to light his cigarette. Thus moved, and having entered and left his own grounds like a thief in the night, he proceeded to tramp in the high-lying outskirts of the town until every light in his house had gone out. Then he returned, let himself into his office, and lay there on a lounge until morning. Vivian had come out so quickly to greet the doctor from obscure motives. She felt a sudden deep objection to being found there with Morton, a wish to appear as one walking about unconcernedly, and when that match glow made Morton's face shine out prominently in the dark shelter, she, too, felt a sudden displeasure. Without a word she went swiftly to the house, excused herself to her Grandmother, who nodded understandingly, and returned to The Cottonwoods, to her room. She felt that she must be alone and think; think of that irrevocable word she had uttered, and its consequences. She sat at her window, rather breathless, watching the rows of pink lanterns swaying softly on the other side of the street; hearing the lively music, seeing young couples leave the gate and stroll off homeward. Susie's happiness came more vividly to mind than her own. It was so freshly joyous, so pure, so perfectly at rest. She could not feel that way, could not tell with decision exactly how she did feel. But if this was happiness, it was not as she had imagined it. She thought of that moonlit summer night so long ago, and the memory of its warm wonder seemed sweeter than the hasty tumult and compulsion of to-night. She was stirred through and through by Morton's intense emotion, but with a sort of reaction, a wish to escape. He had been so madly anxious, he had held her so close; there seemed no other way but to yield to him--in order to get away. And then Dr. Hale had jarred the whole situation. She had to be polite to him, in his own grounds. If only Morton had kept still--that grating match--his face, bent and puffing, Dr. Hale must have seen him. And again she thought of little Susie with almost envy. Even after that young lady had come in, bubbled over with confidences and raptures, and finally dropped to sleep without Vivian's having been able to bring herself to return the confidences, she stole back to her window again to breathe. Why had Dr. Hale started so at the name of Mrs. St. Cloud? That was puzzling her more than she cared to admit. By and by she saw his well-known figure, tall and erect, march by on the other side and go into the office. "O, well," she sighed at last, "I'm not young, like Susie. Perhaps it _is_ like this--" Now Morton had been in no special need of that cigarette at that special moment, but he did not wish to seem to hide in the dusky arbor, nor to emerge lamely as if he had hidden. So he lit the match, more from habit than anything else. When it was out, and the cigarette well lighted, he heard the doctor's sudden thump on the other side of the fence and came out to rejoin Vivian. She was not there. He did not see her again that night, and his meditations were such that next day found him, as a lover, far more agreeable to Vivian than the night before. He showed real understanding, no triumph, no airs of possession; took no liberties, only said: "When I am good enough I shall claim you--my darling!" and looked at her with such restrained longing that she quite warmed to him again. He held to this attitude, devoted, quietly affectionate; till her sense of rebellion passed away and her real pleasure in his improvement reasserted itself. As they read together, if now and then his arm stole around her waist, he always withdrew it when so commanded. Still, one cannot put the same severity into a prohibition too often repeated. The constant, thoughtful attention of a man experienced in the art of pleasing women, the new and frankly inexperienced efforts he made to meet her highest thoughts, to learn and share her preferences, both pleased her. He was certainly good looking, certainly amusing, certainly had become a better man from her companionship. She grew to feel a sort of ownership in this newly arisen character; a sort of pride in it. Then, she had always been fond of Morton, since the time when he was only "Susie's big brother." That counted. Another thing counted, too, counted heavily, though Vivian never dreamed of it and would have hotly repudiated the charge. She was a woman of full marriageable age, with all the unused powers of her woman's nature calling for expression, quite unrecognized. He was a man who loved her, loved her more deeply than he had ever loved before, than he had even known he could love; who quite recognized what called within him and meant to meet the call. And he was near her every day. After that one fierce outbreak he held himself well in check. He knew he had startled her then, almost lost her. And with every hour of their companionship he felt more and more how much she was to him. Other women he had pursued, overtaken, left behind. He felt that there was something in Vivian which was beyond him, giving a stir and lift of aspiration which he genuinely enjoyed. Day by day he strove to win her full approval, and day by day he did not neglect the tiny, slow-lapping waves of little tendernesses, small affectionate liberties at well-chosen moments, always promptly withdrawing when forbidden, but always beginning again a little further on. Dr. Bellair went to Dr. Hale's office and sat herself down solidly in the patient's chair. "Dick," she said, "are you going to stand for this?" "Stand for what, my esteemed but cryptic fellow-practitioner?" She eyed his calm, reserved countenance with friendly admiration. "You are an awfully good fellow, Dick, but dull. At the same time dull and transparent. Are you going to sit still and let that dangerous patient of yours marry the finest girl in town?" "Your admiration for girls is always stronger than mine, Jane; and I have, if you will pardon the boast, more than one patient." "All right, Dick--if you want it made perfectly clear to your understanding. Do you mean to let Morton Elder marry Vivian Lane?" "What business is it of mine?" he demanded, more than brusquely--savagely. "You know what he's got." "I am a physician, not a detective. And I am not Miss Lane's father, brother, uncle or guardian." "Or lover," added Dr. Bellair, eyeing him quietly. She thought she saw a second's flicker of light in the deep gray eyes, a possible tightening of set lips. "Suppose you are not," she said; "nor even a humanitarian. You _are_ a member of society. Do you mean to let a man whom you know has no right to marry, poison the life of that splendid girl?" He was quite silent for a moment, but she could see the hand on the farther arm of his chair grip it till the nails were white. "How do you know he--wishes to marry her?" "If you were about like other people, you old hermit, you'd know it as well as anybody. I think they are on the verge of an engagement, if they aren't over it already. Once more, Dick, shall you do anything?" "No," said he. Then, as she did not add a word, he rose and walked up and down the office in big strides, turning upon her at last. "You know how I feel about this. It is a matter of honor--professional honor. You women don't seem to know what the word means. I've told that good-for-nothing young wreck that he has no right to marry for years yet, if ever. That is all I can do. I will not betray the confidence of a patient." "Not if he had smallpox, or scarlet fever, or the bubonic plague? Suppose a patient of yours had the leprosy, and wanted to marry your sister, would you betray his confidence?" "I might kill my sister," he said, glaring at her. "I refuse to argue with you." "Yes, I think you'd better refuse," she said, rising. "And you don't have to kill Vivian Lane, either. A man's honor always seems to want to kill a woman to satisfy it. I'm glad I haven't got the feeling. Well, Dick, I thought I'd give you a chance to come to your senses, a real good chance. But I won't leave you to the pangs of unavailing remorse, you poor old goose. That young syphilitic is no patient of mine." And she marched off to perform a difficult duty. She was very fond of Vivian. The girl's unselfish sweetness of character and the depth of courage and power she perceived behind the sensitive, almost timid exterior, appealed to her. If she had had a daughter, perhaps she would have been like that. If she had had a daughter would she not have thanked anyone who would try to save her from such a danger? From that worse than deadly peril, because of which she had no daughter. Dr. Bellair was not the only one who watched Morton's growing devotion with keen interest. To his aunt it was a constant joy. From the time her boisterous little nephew had come to rejoice her heart and upset her immaculate household arrangements, and had played, pleasantly though tyrannically, with the little girl next door, Miss Orella had dreamed this romance for him. To have it fail was part of her grief when he left her, to have it now so visibly coming to completion was a deep delight. If she had been blind to his faults, she was at least vividly conscious of the present sudden growth of virtues. She beamed at him with affectionate pride, and her manner to Mrs. Pettigrew was one of barely subdued "I told you so." Indeed, she could not restrain herself altogether, but spoke to that lady with tender triumph of how lovely it was to have Morton so gentle and nice. "You never did like the boy, I know, but you must admit that he is behaving beautifully now." "I will," said the old lady; "I'll admit it without reservation. He's behaving beautifully--now. But I'm not going to talk about him--to you, Orella." So she rolled up her knitting work and marched off. "Too bad she's so prejudiced and opinionated," said Miss Elder to Susie, rather warmly. "I'm real fond of Mrs. Pettigrew, but when she takes a dislike----" Susie was so happy herself that she seemed to walk in an aura of rosy light. Her Jimmie was so evidently the incarnation of every masculine virtue and charm that he lent a reflected lustre to other men, even to her brother. Because of her love for Jimmie, she loved Morton better--loved everybody better. To have her only brother marry her dearest friend was wholly pleasant to Susie. It was not difficult to wring from Vivian a fair knowledge of how things stood, for, though reserved by nature, she was utterly unused to concealing anything, and could not tell an efficient lie if she wanted to. "Are you engaged or are you not, you dear old thing?" demanded Susie. And Vivian admitted that there was "an understanding." But Susie absolutely must not speak of it. For a wonder she did not, except to Jimmie. But people seemed to make up their minds on the subject with miraculous agreement. The general interest in the manifold successes of Mrs. St. Cloud gave way to this vivid personal interest, and it was discussed from two sides among their whole circle of acquaintance. One side thought that a splendid girl was being wasted, sacrificed, thrown away, on a disagreeable, good-for-nothing fellow. The other side thought the "interesting" Mr. Elder might have done better; they did not know what he could see in her. They, that vaguely important They, before whom we so deeply bow, were also much occupied in their mind by speculations concerning Mr. Dykeman and two Possibilities. One quite patently possible, even probable, giving rise to the complacent "Why, anybody could see that!" and the other a fascinatingly impossible Possibility of a sort which allows the even more complacent "Didn't you? Why, I could see it from the first." Mr. Dykeman had been a leading citizen in that new-built town for some ten years, which constituted him almost the Oldest Inhabitant. He was reputed to be extremely wealthy, though he never said anything about it, and neither his clothing nor his cigars reeked of affluence. Perhaps nomadic chambermaids had spread knowledge of those silver-backed appurtenances, and the long mirror. Or perhaps it was not woman's gossip at all, but men's gossip, which has wider base, and wider circulation, too. Mr. Dykeman had certainly "paid attentions" to Miss Elder. Miss Elder had undeniably brightened and blossomed most becomingly under these attentions. He had danced with her, he had driven with her, he had played piquet with her when he might have played whist. To be sure, he did these things with other ladies, and had done them for years past, but this really looked as if there might be something in it. Mr. Skee, as Mr. Dykeman's oldest friend, was even questioned a little; but it was not very much use to question Mr. Skee. His manner was not repellant, and not in the least reserved. He poured forth floods of information so voluminous and so varied that the recipient was rather drowned than fed. So opinions wavered as to Mr. Dykeman's intentions. Then came this lady of irresistible charm, and the unmarried citizens of the place fell at her feet as one man. Even the married ones slanted over a little. Mr. Dykeman danced with her, more than he had with Miss Elder. Mr. Dykeman drove with her, more than he had with Miss Elder. Mr. Dykeman played piquet with her, and chess, which Miss Elder could not play. And Miss Elder's little opening petals of ribbon and lace curled up and withered away; while Mrs. St. Cloud's silken efflorescence, softly waving and jewel-starred, flourished apace. Dr. Bellair had asked Vivian to take a walk with her; and they sat together, resting, on a high lonely hill, a few miles out of town. "It's a great pleasure to see this much of you, Dr. Bellair," said the girl, feeling really complimented. "I'm afraid you won't think so, my dear, when you hear what I have to say: what I _have_ to say." The girl flushed a little. "Are you going to scold me about something? Have I done anything wrong?" Her eyes smiled bravely. "Go on, Doctor. I know it will be for my best good." "It will indeed, dear child," said the doctor, so earnestly that Vivian felt a chill of apprehension. "I am going to talk to you 'as man to man' as the story books say; as woman to woman. When I was your age I had been married three years." Vivian was silent, but stole out a soft sympathetic hand and slipped it into the older woman's. She had heard of this early-made marriage, also early broken; with various dark comments to which she had paid no attention. Dr. Bellair was Dr. Bellair, and she had a reverential affection for her. There was a little silence. The Doctor evidently found it hard to begin. "You love children, don't you, Vivian?" The girl's eyes kindled, and a heavenly smile broke over her face. "Better than anything in the world," she said. "Ever think about them?" asked her friend, her own face whitening as she spoke. "Think about their lovely little soft helplessness--when you hold them in your arms and have to do _everything_ for them. Have to go and turn them over--see that the little ear isn't crumpled--that the covers are all right. Can't you see 'em, upside down on the bath apron, grabbing at things, perfectly happy, but prepared to howl when it comes to dressing? And when they are big enough to love you! Little soft arms that will hardly go round your neck. Little soft cheeks against yours, little soft mouths and little soft kisses,--ever think of them?" The girl's eyes were like stars. She was looking into the future; her breath came quickly; she sat quite still. The doctor swallowed hard, and went on. "We mostly don't go much farther than that at first. It's just the babies we want. But you can look farther--can follow up, year by year, the lovely changing growing bodies and minds, the confidence and love between you, the pride you have as health is established, strength and skill developed, and character unfolds and deepens. "Then when they are grown, and sort of catch up, and you have those splendid young lives about you, intimate strong friends and tender lovers. And you feel as though you had indeed done something for the world." She stopped, saying no more for a little, watching the girl's awed shining face. Suddenly that face was turned to her, full of exquisite sympathy, the dark eyes swimming with sudden tears; and two soft eager arms held her close. "Oh, Doctor! To care like that and not--!" "Yes, my dear;" said the doctor, quietly. "And not have any. Not be able to have any--ever." Vivian caught her breath with pitying intensity, but her friend went on. "Never be able to have a child, because I married a man who had gonorrhea. In place of happy love, lonely pain. In place of motherhood, disease. Misery and shame, child. Medicine and surgery, and never any possibility of any child for me." The girl was pale with horror. "I--I didn't know--" She tried to say something, but the doctor burst out impatiently: "No! You don't know. I didn't know. Girls aren't taught a word of what's before them till it's too late--not _then_, sometimes! Women lose every joy in life, every hope, every capacity for service or pleasure. They go down to their graves without anyone's telling them the cause of it all." "That was why you--left him?" asked Vivian presently. "Yes, I left him. When I found I could not be a mother I determined to be a doctor, and save other women, if I could." She said this with such slow, grave emphasis that Vivian turned a sudden startled face to her, and went white to the lips. "I may be wrong," the doctor said, "you have not given me your confidence in this matter. But it is better, a thousand times better, that I should make this mistake than for you to make that. You must not marry Morton Elder." Vivian did not admit nor deny. She still wore that look of horror. "You think he has--That?" "I do not know whether he has gonorrhea or not; it takes a long microscopic analysis to be sure; but there is every practical assurance that he's had it, and I know he's had syphilis." If Vivian could have turned paler she would have, then. "I've heard of--that," she said, shuddering. "Yes, the other is newer to our knowledge, far commoner, and really more dangerous. They are two of the most terrible diseases known to us; highly contagious, and in the case of syphilis, hereditary. Nearly three-quarters of the men have one or the other, or both." But Vivian was not listening. Her face was buried in her hands. She crouched low in agonized weeping. "Oh, come, come, my dear. Don't take it so hard. There's no harm done you see, it's not too late." "Oh, it _is_ too late! It is!" wailed the girl. "I have promised to marry him." "I don't care if you were at the altar, child; you _haven't_ married him, and you mustn't." "I have given my word!" said the girl dully. She was thinking of Morton now. Of his handsome face, with it's new expression of respectful tenderness; of all the hopes they had built together; of his life, so dependent upon hers for its higher interests. She turned to the doctor, her lips quivering. "He _loves_ me!" she said. "I--we--he says I am all that holds him up, that helps him to make a newer better life. And he has changed so--I can see it! He says he has loved me, really, since he was seventeen!" The older sterner face did not relax. "He told me he had--done wrong. He was honest about it. He said he wasn't--worthy." "He isn't," said Dr. Bellair. "But surely I owe some duty to him. He depends on me. And I have promised--" The doctor grew grimmer. "Marriage is for motherhood," she said. "That is its initial purpose. I suppose you might deliberately forego motherhood, and undertake a sort of missionary relation to a man, but that is not marriage." "He loves me," said the girl with gentle stubbornness. She saw Morton's eyes, as she had so often seen them lately; full of adoration and manly patience. She felt his hand, as she had felt it so often lately, holding hers, stealing about her waist, sometimes bringing her fingers to his lips for a strong slow kiss which she could not forget for hours. She raised her head. A new wave of feeling swept over her. She saw a vista of self-sacrificing devotion, foregoing much, forgiving much, but rejoicing in the companionship of a noble life, a soul rebuilt, a love that was passionately grateful. Her eyes met those of her friend fairly. "And I love him!" she said. "Will you tell that to your crippled children?" asked Dr. Bellair. "Will they understand it if they are idiots? Will they see it if they are blind? Will it satisfy you when they are dead?" The girl shrank before her. "You _shall_ understand," said the doctor. "This is no case for idealism and exalted emotion. Do you want a son like Theophile?" "I thought you said--they didn't have any." "Some don't--that is one result. Another result--of gonorrhea--is to have children born blind. Their eyes may be saved, with care. But it is not a motherly gift for one's babies--blindness. You may have years and years of suffering yourself--any or all of those diseases 'peculiar to women' as we used to call them! And we pitied the men who 'were so good to their invalid wives'! You may have any number of still-born children, year after year. And every little marred dead face would remind you that you allowed it! And they may be deformed and twisted, have all manner of terrible and loathsome afflictions, they and their children after them, if they have any. And many do! dear girl, don't you see that's wicked?" Vivian was silent, her two hands wrung together; her whole form shivering with emotion. "Don't think that you are 'ruining his life,'" said the doctor kindly. "He ruined it long ago--poor boy!" The girl turned quickly at the note of sympathy. "They don't know either," her friend went on. "What could Miss Orella do, poor little saint, to protect a lively young fellow like that! All they have in their scatter-brained heads is 'it's naughty but it's nice!' And so they rush off and ruin their whole lives--and their wives'--and their children's. A man don't have to be so very wicked, either, understand. Just one mis-step may be enough for infection." "Even if it did break his heart, and yours--even if you both lived single, he because it is the only decent thing he can do now, you because of a misguided sense of devotion; that would be better than to commit this plain sin. Beware of a biological sin, my dear; for it there is no forgiveness." She waited a moment and went on, as firmly and steadily as she would have held the walls of a wound while she placed the stitches. "If you two love each other so nobly and devotedly that it is higher and truer and more lasting than the ordinary love of men and women, you might be 'true' to one another for a lifetime, you see. And all that friendship can do, exalted influence, noble inspiration--that is open to you." Vivian's eyes were wide and shining. She saw a possible future, not wholly unbearable. "Has he kissed you yet?" asked the doctor suddenly. "No," she said. "That is--except----" "Don't let him. You might catch it. Your friendship must be distant. Well, shall we be going back? I'm sorry, my dear. I did hate awfully to do it. But I hated worse to see you go down those awful steps from which there is no returning." "Yes," said Vivian. "Thank you. Won't you go on, please? I'll come later." An hour the girl sat there, with the clear blue sky above her, the soft steady wind rustling the leaves, the little birds that hopped and pecked and flirted their tails so near her motionless figure. She thought and thought, and through all the tumult of ideas it grew clearer to her that the doctor was right. She might sacrifice herself. She had no right to sacrifice her children. A feeling of unreasoning horror at this sudden outlook into a field of unknown evil was met by her clear perception that if she was old enough to marry, to be a mother, she was surely old enough to know these things; and not only so, but ought to know them. Shy, sensitive, delicate in feeling as the girl was, she had a fair and reasoning mind. CHAPTER X. DETERMINATION. You may shut your eyes with a bandage, The while world vanishes soon; You may open your eyes at a knothole And see the sun and moon. It must have grieved anyone who cared for Andrew Dykeman, to see Mrs. St. Cloud's manner toward him change with his changed circumstances--she had been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than Carston comment "knew for a fact," but not kinder than it surmised. Then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed a worn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides or other expensive entertainment. She saw men on the piazza stop talking as he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but no one would tell her anything definite till she questioned Mr. Skee. "I am worried about Mr. Dykeman," she said to this ever-willing confidant, beckoning him to a chair beside her. A chair, to the mind of Mr. Skee, seemed to be for pictorial uses, only valuable as part of the composition. He liked one to stand beside, to put a foot on, to lean over from behind, arms on the back; to tip up in front of him as if he needed a barricade; and when he was persuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddle and bent forward, or--and this was the utmost decorum he was able to approach--tipped backward against the wall. "He does not look well," said the lady, "you are old friends--do tell me; if it is anything wherein a woman's sympathy would be of service?" "I'm afraid not, Ma'am," replied Mr. Skee darkly. "Andy's hard hit in a worse place than his heart. I wouldn't betray a friend's confidence for any money, Ma'am; but this is all over town. It'll go hard with Andy, I'm afraid, at his age." "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "So sorry! But surely with a man of his abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!--" "Dunno 'bout the abilities--not in this case. Unless he has ability enough to discover a mine bigger'n the one he's lost! You see, Ma'am, it's this way," and he sunk his voice to a confidential rumble. "Andy had a bang-up mine, galena ore--not gold, you understand, but often pays better. And he kept on putting the money it made back into it to make more. Then, all of a sudden, it petered out! No more eggs in that basket. 'Course he can't sell it--now. And last year he refused half a million. Andy's sure down on his luck." "But he will recover! You western men are so wonderful! He will find another mine!" "O yes, he _may_! Certainly he _may_, Ma'am. Not that he found this one--he just bought it." "Well--he can buy another, there are more, aren't there?" "Sure there are! There's as good mines in the earth as ever was salted--that's my motto! But Andy's got no more money to buy any mines. What he had before he inherited. No, Ma'am," said Mr. Skee, with a sigh. "I'm afraid its all up with Andy Dykeman financially!" This he said more audibly; and Miss Elder and Miss Pettigrew, sitting in their parlor, could not help hearing. Miss Elder gave a little gasp and clasped her hands tightly, but Miss Pettigrew arose, and came outside. "What's this about Mr. Dykeman?" she questioned abruptly. "Has he had losses?" "There now," said Mr. Skee, remorsefully, "I never meant to give him away like that. Mrs. Pettigrew, Ma'am, I must beg you not to mention it further. I was only satisfyin' this lady here, in answer to sympathetic anxiety, as to what was making Andrew H. Dykeman so down in the mouth. Yes'm--he's lost every cent he had in the world, or is likely to have. Of course, among friends, he'll get a job fast enough, bookkeepin', or something like that--though he's not a brilliant man, Andy isn't. You needn't to feel worried, Mrs. Pettigrew; he'll draw a salary all right, to the end of time; but he's out of the game of Hot Finance." Mrs. Pettigrew regarded the speaker with a scintillating eye. He returned her look with unflinching seriousness. "Have a chair, Ma'am," he said. "Let me bring out your rocker. Sit down and chat with us." "No, thanks," said the old lady. "It seems to me a little--chilly, out here. I'll go in." She went in forthwith, to find Miss Orella furtively wiping her eyes. "What are you crying about, Orella Elder! Just because a man's lost his money? That happens to most of 'em now and then." "Yes, I know--but you heard what he said. Oh, I can't believe it! To think of his having to be provided for by his friends--and having to take a small salary--after being so well off! I am so sorry for him!" Miss Elder's sorrow was increased to intensity by noting Mrs. St. Cloud's changed attitude. Mr. Dykeman made no complaint, uttered no protest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was working in an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by Mr. Skee. That gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, now appeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developed a pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmony in socks and scarfs. Men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, but all were certain that "Old Skee must have struck it rich." Mr. Skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts and entertainments. He produced two imposing presents for Susie; one a "betrothal gift," the other a conventional wedding present. "This is a new one to me," he said when he offered her the first; "but I understand it's the thing. In fact I'm sure of it--for I've consulted Mrs. St. Cloud and she helped me to buy 'em." He consulted Mrs. St. Cloud about a dinner he proposed giving to Mr. Saunders--"one of these Farewell to Egypt affairs," he said. "Not that I imagine Jim Saunders ever was much of a--Egyptian--but then----!" He consulted her also about Vivian--did she not think the girl looked worn and ill? Wouldn't it be a good thing to send her off for a trip somewhere? He consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a library of his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. How many books did she think a man ought really to own--to spend his declining years among. Also, and at considerable length he consulted her about the best possible place of residence. "I'm getting to be an old man, Mrs. St. Cloud," he remarked meditatively; "and I'm thinking of buying and building somewhere. But it's a ticklish job. Lo! these many years I've been perfectly contented to live wherever I was at; and now that I'm considering a real Home--blamed if I know where to put it! I'm distracted between A Model Farm, and A Metropolitan Residence. Which would you recommend, Ma'am?" The lady's sympathy and interest warmed to Mr. Skee as they cooled to Mr. Dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but in soft graduations, steady and continuous. The one wore his new glories with an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and the other accepted that which had befallen him without rebellion. Miss Orella's tender heart was deeply touched. As fast as Mrs. St. Cloud gave the cold shoulder to her friend, she extended a warm hand; when they chatted about Mr. Skee's visible success, she spoke bravely of the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present her weekly bills to the boarders, she left none in Mr. Dykeman's room. This he took for an oversight at first; but when he found the omission repeated on the following week, he stood by his window smiling thoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of Miss Orella. She sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which was promptly hidden as he entered. He stood by the door looking at her in spite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in her face, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was so unfailingly attractive. Then he came forward, calmly inquiring, "Why haven't you sent me my board bill?" She lifted her eyes to his, and dropped them, flushing. "I--excuse me; but I thought----" "You thought I couldn't conveniently pay it?" "O please excuse me! I didn't mean to be--to do anything you wouldn't like. But I did hear that you were--temporarily embarrassed. And I want you to feel sure, Mr. Dykeman, that to your real friends it makes no difference in the _least_. And if--for a while that is--it should be a little more convenient to--to defer payment, please feel perfectly at liberty to wait!" She stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shining tears that did not fall, full of tender sympathy for his misfortune. "Have you heard that I've lost all my money?" he asked. She nodded softly. "And that I can't ever get it back--shall have to do clerk's work at a clerk's salary--as long as I live?" Again she nodded. He took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returned to her. "Would you marry a poor man?" he asked in a low tender voice. "Would you marry a man not young, not clever, not rich, but who loved you dearly? You are the sweetest woman I ever saw, Orella Elder--will you marry me?" She came to him, and he drew her close with a long sigh of utter satisfaction. "Now I am rich indeed," he said softly. She held him off a little. "Don't talk about being rich. It doesn't matter. If you like to live here--why this house will keep us both. If you'd rather have a little one--I can live _so_ happily--on _so_ little! And there is my own little home in Bainville--perhaps you could find something to do there. I don't care the least in the world--so long as you love me!" "I've loved you since I first set eyes on you," he answered her. "To see the home you've made here for all of us was enough to make any man love you. But I thought awhile back that I hadn't any chance--you weren't jealous of that Artificial Fairy, were you?" And conscientiously Miss Orella lied. Carston society was pleased, but not surprised at Susie's engagement; it was both pleased and surprised when Miss Elder's was announced. Some there were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; but disputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise. Some thought Miss Elder foolish to take up with a man of full middle age, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness to Mr. Dykeman, in marrying an old maid. Others again darkly hinted that he knew which side his bread was buttered--"and first-rate butter, too." Adding that they "did hate to see a man sit around and let his wife keep boarders!" In Bainville circles the event created high commotion. That one of their accumulated maidens, part of the Virgin Sacrifice of New England, which finds not even a Minotaur--had thus triumphantly escaped from their ranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. The fact that he was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it open to the more captious to criticize the lady sharply. But the calm contentment of Andrew Dykeman's face, and the decorous bliss of Miss Elder's were untroubled by what anyone thought or said. Little Susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; without success. "One was enough to attend to, at one time," her aunt replied. * * * * * In all this atmosphere of wooings and weddings, Vivian walked apart, as one in a bad dream that could never end. That day when Dr. Bellair left her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world, was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, the bar to any other. Its small events were as clear to her as those which stand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to the pleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and a sad-faced woman came down from it. She had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face she knew, dreading worst of all to see Morton. The boy she had known so long, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to an unbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real to her recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame. She wished--eagerly, desperately, she wished--she need never see him again. She thought of the man's resource of running away--if she could just _go_, go at once, and write to him from somewhere. Distant Bainville seemed like a haven of safety; even the decorous, narrow, monotony of its dim life had a new attraction. These terrors were not in Bainville, surely. Then the sickening thought crept in that perhaps they were--only they did not know it. Besides, she had no money to go with. If only she had started that little school sooner! Write to her father for money she would not. No, she must bear it here. The world was discolored in the girl's eyes. Love had become a horror and marriage impossible. She pushed the idea from her, impotently, as one might push at a lava flow. In her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of "evil"--a distant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must be avoided. She had known that there was such a thing as "sin," and abhorred the very thought of it. Morton's penitential confessions had given no details; she had pictured him only as being "led astray," as being "fast," even perhaps "wicked." Wickedness could be forgiven; and she had forgiven him, royally. But wickedness was one thing, disease was another. Forgiveness was no cure. The burden of new knowledge so distressed her that she avoided the family entirely that evening, avoided Susie, went to her grandmother and asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room. "Surely, my child, glad to have you," said Mrs. Pettigrew affectionately. "Better try my bed--there's room a-plenty." The girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. Her grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to time, and said, "There! There!" in a pleasantly soothing manner. After some time she remarked, "If you want to say things, my dear, say 'em--anything you please." In the still darkness they talked long and intimately; and the wise old head straightened things out somewhat for the younger one. "Doctors don't realize how people feel about these matters," said Mrs. Pettigrew. "They are so used to all kinds of ghastly things they forget that other folks can't stand 'em. She was too hard on you, dearie." But Vivian defended the doctor. "Oh, no, Grandma. She did it beautifully. And it hurt her so. She told me about her own--disappointment." "Yes, I remember her as a girl, you see. A fine sweet girl she was too. It was an awful blow--and she took it hard. It has made her bitter, I think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had to cope with." "But, Grandma--is it--_can_ it be as bad as she said? Seventy-five per cent! Three-quarters of--of everybody!" "Not everybody dear, thank goodness. Our girls are mostly clean, and they save the race, I guess." "I don't even want to _see_ a man again!" said the girl with low intensity. "Shouldn't think you would, at first. But, dear child--just brace yourself and look it fair in the face! The world's no worse than it was yesterday--just because you know more about it!" "No," Vivian admitted, "But it's like uncovering a charnel house!" she shuddered. "Never saw a charnel house myself," said the old lady, "even with the lid on. But now see here child; you mustn't feel as if all men were Unspeakable Villains. They are just ignorant boys--and nobody ever tells 'em the truth. Nobody used to know it, for that matter. All this about gonorrhea is quite newly discovered--it has set the doctors all by the ears. Having women doctors has made a difference too--lots of difference." "Besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fast now, since the general airing began. Dr. Prince Morrow in New York, with that society of his--(I can never remember the name--makes me think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have taken it up. You must have seen some of those articles, Vivian." "I have," the girl said, "but I couldn't bear to read them--ever." "That's it!" responded her grandmother, tartly; "we bring up girls to think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before them. Proper!--Why my dear child, the young girls are precisely the ones _to_ know! it's no use to tell a woman who has buried all her children--or wishes she had!--that it was all owing to her ignorance, and her husband's. You have to know beforehand if it's to do you any good." After awhile she continued: "Women are waking up to this all over the country, now. Nice women, old and young. The women's clubs and congresses are taking it up, as they should. Some states have passed laws requiring a medical certificate--a clean bill of health--to go with a license to marry. You can see that's reasonable! A man has to be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured; Marriage and Parentage are more important than those things! And we are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to know. There's hope for us!" "But Grandma--it's so awful--about the children." "Yes dear, yes. It's pretty awful. But don't feel as if we were all on the brink of perdition. Remember that we've got a whole quarter of the men to bank on. That's a good many, in this country. We're not so bad as Europe--not yet--in this line. Then just think of this, child. We have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this load of disease on us. Think what we can do when we're rid of it! And that's in the hands of woman, my dear--as soon as we know enough. Don't be afraid of knowledge. When we all know about this we can stop it! Think of that. We can religiously rid the world of all these--'undesirable citizens.'" "How, Grandma?" "Easy enough, my dear. By not marrying them." There was a lasting silence. Grandma finally went to sleep, making a little soft whistling sound through her parted lips; but Vivian lay awake for long slow hours. * * * * * It was one thing to make up her own mind, though not an easy one, by any means; it was quite another to tell Morton. He gave her no good opportunity. He did not say again, "Will you marry me?" So that she could say, "No," and be done with it. He did not even say, "When will you marry me?" to which she could answer "Never!" He merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable attentions. She forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and leaned forward as if to kiss her. He stopped short. "What is the matter, Vivian--are you ill?" "No--" She could say nothing further, but tried to pass him. "Look here--there _is_ something. You've been--different--for several days. Have I done anything you don't like?" "Oh, Morton!" His question was so exactly to the point; and so exquisitely inadequate! He had indeed. "I care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," he went on. "Come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me the worst.'" "As well now as ever." thought the girl. Yet when they sat on the long window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing was true. "Now then--What is wrong between us?" he said. She answered only, "I will tell you the worst, Morton. I cannot marry you--ever." He whitened to the lips, but asked quietly, "Why?" "Because you have--Oh, I _cannot_ tell you!" "I have a right to know, Vivian. You have made a man of me. I love you with my whole heart. What have I done--that I have not told you?" Then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he would have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy rage rose within her. "You never told me of the state of your health, Morton." It was done. She looked to see him fall at her feet in utter abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. What he did do astonished her beyond measure. He rose to his feet, with clenched fists. "Has that damned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "Because if he has I'll kill him!" "He has not," said Vivian. "Not by the faintest hint, ever. And is _that_ all you think of?-- "Good-bye." She rose to leave him, sick at heart. Then he seemed to realize that she was going; that she meant it. "Surely, surely!" he cried, "you won't throw me over now! Oh, Vivian! I told you I had been wild--that I wasn't fit to touch your little slippers! And I wasn't going to ask you to marry me till I felt sure this was all done with. All the rest of my life was yours, darling--is yours. You have made me over--surely you won't leave me now!" "I must," she said. He looked at her despairingly. If he lost her he lost not only a woman, but the hope of a life. Things he had never thought about before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place in the world, long years of quiet happiness. "I can't lose you!" he said. "I _can't_!" She did not answer, only sat there with a white set face and her hands tight clenched in her lap. "Where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "I believe it's that woman doctor! What does she know!" "Look here, Morton," said Vivian firmly. "It is not a question of who told me. The important thing is that it's--true! And I cannot marry you." "But Vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; "men get over these things. They do, really. It's not so awful as you seem to think. It's very common. And I'm nearly well. I was going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. Vivian! I'd cut my hand off before I'd hurt you!" There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now. "I am sorry--I'm very sorry," she said dully. "But I will not marry you." "You'll throw me over--just for that! Oh, Vivian don't--you can't. I'm no worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just because you're so pure and white. It's only what they call--wild oats, you know. Most men do it." She shook her head. "And will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? I can't live without you, Vivian--I won't!" "It is not a question of punishing you, Morton," she said gently. "Nor myself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!" He felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something he had never found in her before. He looked at her with despairing eyes. Her white grace, her stately little ways, her delicate beauty, had never seemed so desirable. "Good God, Vivian. You can't mean it. Give me time. Wait for me. I'll be straight all the rest of my life--I mean it. I'll be true to you, absolutely. I'll do anything you say--only don't give me up!" She felt old, hundreds of years old, and as remote as far mountains. "It isn't anything you can do--in the rest of your life, my poor boy! It is what you have done--in the first of it!... Oh, Morton! It isn't right to let us grow up without knowing! You never would have done it _if_ you'd known--would you? Can't you--can't we--do something to--stop this awfulness?" Her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered too in her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation she found that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. But she had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolute because it hurt her. Even what he said of possible recovery did not move her--the very thought of marriage had become impossible. "I shall never marry," she added, with a shiver; thinking that he might derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with a bitter derisive little laugh. He did not rise to her appeal to "help the others." So far in life the happiness of Morton Elder had been his one engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of Morton Elder assumed even larger proportions. That bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forward so earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his good resolutions, his "living straight" for the present, were wasted. "You women that are so superior," he said, "that'll turn a man down for things that are over and done with--that he's sorry for and ashamed of--do you know what you drive a man to! What do you think's going to become of me if you throw me over!" He reached out his hands to her in real agony. "Vivian! I love you! I can't live without you! I can't be good without you! And you love me a little--don't you?" She did. She could not deny it. She loved to shut her eyes to the future, to forgive the past, to come to those outstretched arms and bury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase--"I love you!" But she heard again Dr. Bellair's clear low accusing voice--"Will you tell that to your crippled children?" She rose to her feet. "I cannot help it, Morton. I am sorry--you will not believe how sorry I am! But I will never marry you." A look of swift despair swept over his face. It seemed to darken visibly as she watched. An expression of bitter hatred came upon him; of utter recklessness. All that the last few months had seemed to bring of higher better feeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with a flicker of fear of how this might have happened--after marriage. "Oh, well!" he said, rising to his feet. "I wish you could have made up your mind sooner, that's all. I'll take myself off now." She reached out her hands to him. "Morton! Please!--don't go away feeling so hardly! I am--fond of you--I always was.--Won't you let me help you--to bear it--! Can't we be--friends?" Again he laughed that bitter little laugh. "No, Miss Lane," he said. "We distinctly cannot. This is good-bye--You won't change your mind--again?" She shook her head in silence, and he left her. CHAPTER XI. THEREAFTER. If I do right, though heavens fall, And end all light and laughter; Though black the night and ages long, Bitter the cold--the tempest strong-- If I do right, and brave it all-- The sun shall rise thereafter! The inaccessibility of Dr. Hale gave him, in the eye of Mrs. St. Cloud, all the attractiveness of an unscaled peak to the true mountain climber. Here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her, whom she had not even seen. Her pursuance of what Mr. Skee announced to his friends to be "one of these Platonic Friendships," did not falter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic. Mr. Dykeman's precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was more of a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; his firm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achieved content that her restless spirit missed. But Dr. Hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become so heavily fortified, so empanoplied in armor offensive and defensive, that even Mrs. Pettigrew found it difficult to obtain speech with him. That his best friend, so long supporting him in cheerful bachelorhood, should have thus late laid down his arms, was bitterly resented. That Mr. Skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several "stricken fields," should show signs of capitulation, annoyed him further. Whether these feelings derived their intensity from another, which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for the psychologist, and Dr. Hale avoided all psychologic self-examination. With the boys he was always a hero. They admired his quiet strength and the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those about him, whatever his inner feelings. Mr. Peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassioned admiration. "By George, fellows," he said, "you know how nice Doc was last night?" "Never saw him when he wasn't," said Archie. "Don't interrupt Mr. Peters," drawled Percy. "He's on the brink of a scientific discovery. Strange how these secrets of nature can lie unrevealed about us so long--and then suddenly burst upon our ken!" Mr. Peters grinned affably. "That's all right, but I maintain my assertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you'll admit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which we celebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards--he was--as usual--the soul of--of----" "Affability?" suggested Percy. "Precisely!" Peters admitted. "If there is a well-chosen word which perfectly describes the manner of Dr. Richard Hale--it is affable! Thank you, sir, thank you. Well, what I wish to announce, so that you can all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that all last evening he--had a toothache--a bad toothache!" "My word!" said Archie, and remained silent. "Oh, come now," Percy protested, "that's against nature. Have a toothache and not _mention_ it? Not even mention it--without exaggeration! Why Archimedes couldn't do that! Or--Sandalphon--or any of them!" "How'd you learn the facts, my son? Tell us that." "Heard him on the 'phone making an appointment. 'Yes;' 'since noon yesterday,' 'yes, pretty severe.' '11:30? You can't make it earlier? All right.' I'm just mentioning it to convince you fellows that you don't appreciate your opportunities. There was some exceptional Female once--they said 'to know her was a liberal education.' What would you call it to live with Dr. Hale?" And they called it every fine thing they could think of; for these boys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association. His patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense of hope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; his professional associates in the town knew him as a good practitioner and friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in the professional press had an even higher opinion of his powers. Yet none of these knew Richard Hale. None saw him sitting late in his office, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces of the fire. No one was with him on those night tramps that left but an hour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistible from self-enforced fatigue. He had left the associations of his youth and deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the life he chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser. His successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the East, coming from year to year and going from year to year as business called them, could and did give good testimony as to the home side of his character, however. It was not in nature that they should speculate about him. As they fell in love and out again with the facility of so many Romeos, they discoursed among themselves as to his misogyny. "He certainly has a grouch on women," they would admit. "That's the one thing you can't talk to him about--shuts up like a clam. Of course, he'll let you talk about your own feelings and experiences, but you might as well talk to the side of a hill. I wonder what did happen to him?" They made no inquiry, however. It was reported that a minister's wife, a person of determined character, had had the courage of her inquisitiveness, and asked him once, "Why is it that you have never married, Dr. Hale?" And that he had replied, "It is owing to my dislike of the meddlesomeness of women." He lived his own life, unquestioned, now more markedly withdrawn than ever, coming no more to The Cottonwoods. Even when Morton Elder left, suddenly and without warning, to the great grief of his aunt and astonishment of his sister, their medical neighbor still "sulked in his tent"--or at least in his office. Morton's departure had but one explanation; it must be that Vivian had refused him, and she did not deny it. "But why, Vivian, why? He has improved so--it was just getting lovely to see how nice he was getting. And we all thought you were so happy." Thus the perplexed Susie. And Vivian found herself utterly unable to explain to that happy little heart, on the brink of marriage, why she had refused her brother. Miss Orella was even harder to satisfy. "It's not as if you were a foolish changeable young girl, my dear. And you've known Morton all your life--he was no stranger to you. It breaks my heart, Vivian. Can't you reconsider?" The girl shook her head. "I'm awfully sorry, Miss Orella. Please believe that I did it for the best--and that it was very hard for me, too." "But, Vivian! What can be the reason? I don't think you understand what a beautiful influence you have on the boy. He has improved so, since he has been here. And he was going to get a position here in town--he told me so himself--and really settle down. And now he's _gone_. Just off and away, as he used to be--and I never shall feel easy about him again." Miss Orella was frankly crying; and it wrung the girl's heart to know the pain she was causing; not only to Morton, and to herself, but to these others. Susie criticised her with frankness. "I know you think you are right, Vivian, you always do--you and that conscience of yours. But I really think you had gone too far to draw back, Jimmie saw him that night he went away--and he said he looked awfully. And he really was changed so--beginning to be so thoroughly nice. Whatever was the matter? I think you ought to tell me, Vivian, I'm his sister, and--being engaged and all--perhaps I could straighten it out." And she was as nearly angry as her sunny nature allowed, when her friend refused to give any reason, beyond that she thought it right. Her aunt did not criticise, but pleaded. "It's not too late, I'm sure, Vivian. A word from you would bring him back in a moment. Do speak it, Vivian--do! Put your pride in your pocket, child, and don't lose a lifetime's happiness for some foolish quarrel." Miss Orella, like Susie, was at present sure that marriage must mean a lifetime's happiness. And Vivian looked miserably from one to the other of these loving women-folk, and could not defend herself with the truth. Mrs. Pettigrew took up the cudgels for her. She was not going to have her favorite grandchild thus condemned and keep silence. "Anybody'd think Vivian had married the man and then run away with another one!" she said tartly. "Pity if a girl can't change her mind before marrying--she's held down pretty close afterward. An engagement isn't a wedding, Orella Elder." "But you don't consider the poor boy's feelings in the least, Mrs. Pettigrew." "No, I don't," snapped the old lady. "I consider the poor girl's. I'm willing to bet as much as you will that his feelings aren't any worse than hers. If _he'd_ changed his mind and run off and left _her_, I warrant you two wouldn't have been so hard on him." Evading this issue, Miss Orella wiped her eyes, and said: "Heaven knows where he is now. And I'm afraid he won't write--he never did write much, and now he's just heartbroken. I don't know as I'd have seen him at all if I hadn't been awake and heard him rushing downstairs. You've no idea how he suffers." "I don't see as the girl's to blame that he hadn't decency enough to say good-bye to the aunt that's been a mother to him; or to write to her, as he ought to. A person don't need to forget _all_ their duty because they've got the mitten." Vivian shrank away from them all. Her heart ached intolerably. She had not realized how large a part in her life this constant admiration and attention had become. She missed the outward agreeableness, and the soft tide of affection, which had risen more and more warmly about her. From her earliest memories she had wished for affection--affection deep and continuous, tender and with full expression. She had been too reserved to show her feeling, too proud by far to express it, but under that delicate reticence of hers lay always that deep longing to love and to be loved wholly. Susie had been a comfort always, in her kittenish affection and caressing ways, but Susie was doubly lost, both in her new absorption and now in this estrangement. Then, to bring pain to Miss Orella, who had been so kind and sweet to her from earliest childhood, to hurt her so deeply, now, to mingle in her cup of happiness this grief and anxiety, made the girl suffer keenly. Jimmie, of course, was able to comfort Susie. He told her it was no killing matter anyhow, and that Morton would inevitably console himself elsewhere. "He'll never wear the willow for any girl, my dear. Don't you worry about him." Also, Mr. Dykeman comforted Miss Orella, not only with wise words, but with his tender sympathy and hopefulness. But no one could comfort Vivian. Even Dr. Bellair seemed to her present sensitiveness an alien, cruel power. She had come like the angel with the flaming sword to stand between her and what, now that it was gone, began to look like Paradise. She quite forgot that she had always shrunk from Morton when he made love too warmly, that she had been far from wholly pleased with him when he made his appearance there, that their engagement, so far as they had one, was tentative--"sometime, when I am good enough" not having arrived. The unreasoning voice of the woman's nature within her had answered, though but partially, to the deep call of the man's; and now she missed more than she would admit to herself the tenderness that was gone. She had her intervals of sharp withdrawal from the memory of that tenderness, of deep thanksgiving for her escape; but fear of a danger only prophesied, does not obliterate memory of joys experienced. Her grandmother watched her carefully, saying little. She forced no confidence, made no comment, was not obtrusively affectionate, but formed a definite decision and conveyed it clearly to Dr. Bellair. "Look here, Jane Bellair, you've upset Vivian's dish, and quite right; it's a good thing you did, and I don't know as you could have done it easier." "I couldn't have done it harder--that I know of," the doctor answered. "I'd sooner operate on a baby--without an anæsthetic--than tell a thing like that--to a girl like that. But it had to be done; and nobody else would." "You did perfectly right. I'm thankful enough, I promise you; if you hadn't I should have had to--and goodness knows what a mess I'd have made. But look here, the girl's going all to pieces. Now we've got to do something for her, and do it quick." "I know that well enough," answered her friend, "and I set about it even before I made the incision. You've seen that little building going up on the corner of High and Stone Streets?" "That pretty little thing with the grass and flowers round it?" "Yes--they got the flowers growing while the decorators finished inside. It's a first-rate little kindergarten. I've got a list of scholars all arranged for, and am going to pop the girl into it so fast she can't refuse. Not that I think she will." "Who did it?" demanded Mrs. Pettigrew. "That man Skee?" "Mr. Skee has had something to do with it," replied the doctor, guardedly; "but he doesn't want his name mentioned." "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. Vivian made no objection, though she was too listless to take up work with enthusiasm. As a prescription nothing could have worked better. Enough small pupils were collected to pay the rent of the pretty place, and leave a modest income for her. Dr. Bellair gathered together the mothers and aunts for a series of afternoon talks in the convenient building, Vivian assisting, and roused much interest among them. The loving touch of little hands, the pleasure of seeing the gay contentment of her well-ordered charges, began to lighten the girl's heart at last. They grew so fond of her that the mothers were jealous, but she played with and taught them so wisely, and the youngsters were so much improved by it, that no parent withdrew her darling. Further than that, the new interest, the necessary reading and study, above all the study hours of occupation acted most beneficently, slowly, but surely steadying the nerves and comforting the heart. There is a telling Oriental phrase describing sorrow: "And the whole world became strait unto him." The sense of final closing down of life, of a dull, long, narrow path between her and the grave, which had so oppressed the girl's spirit, now changed rapidly. Here was room to love at least, and she radiated a happy and unselfish affection among the little ones. Here was love in return, very sweet and honest, if shallow. Here was work; something to do, something to think about; both in her hours with the children and those spent in study. Her work took her out of the house, too; away from Susie and her aunt, with their happy chatter and endless white needlework, and the gleeful examination of presents. Never before had she known the blessed relief of another place to go to. When she left The Cottonwoods, as early as possible, and placed her key in the door of the little gray house sitting among the roses, she felt a distinct lightening of the heart. This was hers. Not her father's, not Miss Elder's; not anybody's but hers--as long as she could earn the rent. She paid her board, too, in spite of deep and pained remonstrance, forcing Miss Elder to accept it by the ultimatum "would you rather make me go away and board somewhere else?" She could not accept favors where she was condemned. This, too, gave her a feeling hitherto inexperienced, deep and inspiring. She began to hold her graceful head insensibly higher, to walk with a freer step. Life was not ended after all, though Love had gone. She might not be happy, but she might be useful and independent. Then Dr. Bellair, who had by quiet friendliness and wise waiting, regained much of her former place with the girl, asked her to undertake, as a special favor to her, the care of a class of rather delicate children and young girls, in physical culture. "Of course, Johanna Johnson is perfectly reliable and an excellent teacher. I don't know a better; but their mothers will feel easier if there's someone they know on the spot. You keep order and see that they don't overdo. You'll have to go through their little exercises with them, you see. I can't pay you anything for it; but it's only part of two afternoons in the week--and it won't hurt you at any rate." Vivian was more than glad to do something for the doctor, as well as to extend her friendship among older children; also glad of anything to further fill her time. To be alone and idle was to think and suffer. Mrs. Pettigrew came in with Dr. Bellair one afternoon to watch the exercises. "I don't see but what Vivian does the tricks as well as any of them," said her grandmother. "She does beautifully," the doctor answered. "And her influence with the children is just what they needed. You see there's no romping and foolishness, and she sets the pace--starts them off when they're shy. I'm extremely obliged to her." Mrs. Pettigrew watched Vivian's rhythmic movements, her erect carriage and swinging step, her warm color and sparkling eyes, as she led the line of happy youngsters and then turned upon the doctor. "Huh!" she said. At Susie's wedding, her childhood's friend was so far forgiven as to be chief bridesmaid, but seeing the happiness before her opened again the gates of her own pain. When it was all over, and the glad young things were safely despatched upon their ribboned way, when all the guests had gone, when Mrs. St. Cloud felt the need of air and with the ever-gallant Mr. Skee set forth in search of it, when Dr. Bellair had returned to her patients, and Miss Orella to her own parlor, and was there consoled by Mr. Dykeman for the loss of her niece, then Vivian went to her room--all hers now, looking strangely large and empty--and set down among the drifts of white tissue paper and scattered pins--alone. She sank down on the bed, weary and sad at heart, for an hour of full surrender long refused; meaning for once to let her grief have its full way with her. But, just as on the night of her hurried engagement she had been unable to taste to the full the happiness expected, so now, surrender as she might, she could not feel the intensity of expected pain. She was lonely, unquestionably. She faced a lonely life. Six long, heavy months had passed since she had made her decision. "I am nearly twenty-seven now," she thought, resignedly. "I shall never marry," and she felt a little shiver of the horror of last year. But, having got this far in melancholy contemplation, her mind refused to dwell upon it, but filled in spite of her with visions of merry little ones, prancing in wavering circles, and singing their more wavering songs. She was lonely and a single woman--but she had something to do; and far more power to do it, more interest, enthusiasm, and skill, than at the season's beginning. She thought of Morton--of what little they had heard since his hurried departure. He had gone farther West; they had heard of him in San Francisco, they had heard of him, after some months, in the Klondike region, then they had heard no more. He did not write. It seemed hard to so deeply hurt his aunt for what was no fault of hers; but Morton had never considered her feelings very deeply, his bitter anger, his hopelessness, his desperate disappointment, blinding him to any pain but his own. But her thoughts of him failed to rouse any keen distinctive sorrow. They rambled backward and forward, from the boy who had been such a trouble to his aunt, such a continuous disappointment and mortification; to the man whose wooing, looked back upon at this distance, seemed far less attractive to the memory than it had been at the time. Even his honest attempt at improvement gave her but a feeling of pity, and though pity is akin to love it is not always a near relation. From her unresisting descent into wells of pain, which proved unexpectedly shallow, the girl arose presently and quietly set to work arranging the room in its new capacity as hers only. From black and bitter agony to the gray tastelessness of her present life was not an exciting change, but Vivian had more power in quiet endurance than in immediate resistance, and set herself now in earnest to fulfill the tasks before her. This was March. She was planning an extension of her classes, the employment of an assistant. Her work was appreciated, her school increased. Patiently and steadily she faced her task, and found a growing comfort in it. When summer came, Dr. Bellair again begged her to help out in the plan of a girls' camp she was developing. This was new work for Vivian, but her season in Mrs. Johnson's gymnastic class had given her a fresh interest in her own body and the use of it. That stalwart instructress, a large-boned, calm-eyed Swedish woman, was to be the manager of the camp, and Vivian this time, with a small salary attached, was to act as assistant. "It's a wonderful thing the way people take to these camps," said Dr. Bellair. "They are springing up everywhere. Magnificent for children and young people." "It is a wonderful thing to me," observed Mrs. Pettigrew. "You go to a wild place that costs no rent; you run a summer hotel without any accommodations; you get a lot of parents to pay handsomely for letting their children be uncomfortable--and there you are." "They are not uncomfortable!" protested her friend, a little ruffled. "They like it. And besides liking it, it's good for them. It's precisely the roughing it that does them good." It did do them good; the group of young women and girls who went to the high-lying mountain lake where Dr. Bellair had bought a piece of wild, rough country for her own future use, and none of them profited by it more than Vivian. She had been, from time to time, to decorous "shore places," where one could do nothing but swim and lie on the sand; or to the "mountains," those trim, green, modest, pretty-picture mountains, of which New England is so proud; but she had never before been in an untouched wilderness. Often in the earliest dawn she would rise from the springy, odorous bed of balsam boughs and slip out alone for her morning swim. A run through the pines to a little rocky cape, with a small cave she knew, and to glide, naked, into that glass-smooth water, warmer than the sunless air, and swim out softly, silently, making hardly a ripple, turn on her back and lie there--alone with the sky--this brought peace to her heart. She felt so free from every tie to earth, so like a soul in space, floating there with the clean, dark water beneath her, and the clear, bright heaven above her; and when the pale glow in the east brightened to saffron, warmed to rose, burst into a level blaze of gold, the lake laughed in the light, and Vivian laughed, too, in pure joy of being alive and out in all that glittering beauty. She tramped the hills with the girls; picked heaping pails of wild berries, learned to cook in primitive fashion, slept as she had never slept in her life, from dark to dawn, grew brown and hungry and cheerful. After all, twenty-seven was not an old age. She came back at the summer-end, and Dr. Bellair clapped her warmly on the shoulder, declaring, "I'm proud of you, Vivian! Simply proud of you!" Her grandmother, after a judicious embrace, held her at arm's length and examined her critically. "I don't see but what you've stood it first rate," she admitted. "And if you _like_ that color--why, you certainly are looking well." She was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serene spirit. In all this time of slow rebuilding Vivian would not have been left comfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. The young men at The Cottonwoods, now undistracted by Susie's gay presence, concentrated much devotion upon Vivian, as did also the youths across the way. She turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision. Among her most faithful devotees was young Percy Watson, who loved her almost as much as he loved Dr. Hale, and could never understand, in his guileless, boyish heart, why neither of them would talk about the other. They did not forbid his talking, however, and the earnest youth, sitting in the quiet parlor at The Cottonwoods, would free his heart to Vivian about how the doctor worked too hard--sat up all hours to study--didn't give himself any rest--nor any fun. "He'll break down some time--I tell him so. It's not natural for any man to work that way, and I don't see any real need of it. He says he's working on a book--some big medical book, I suppose; but what's the hurry? I wish you'd have him over here oftener, and make him amuse himself a little, Miss Vivian." "Dr. Hale is quite welcome to come at any time--he knows that," said she. Again the candid Percy, sitting on the doctor's shadowy piazza, poured out his devoted admiration for her to his silent host. "She's the finest woman I ever knew!" the boy would say. "She's so beautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. She's _square_--like a man. And she's kind--like a woman, only kinder; a sort of motherliness about her. I don't see how she ever lived so long without being married. I'd marry her in a minute if I was good enough--and if she'd have me." Dr. Hale tousled the ears of Balzac, the big, brown dog whose head was so often on his knee, and said nothing. He had not seen the girl since that night by the arbor. Later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and to admire her more. Susie's baby came with the new year, and brought danger and anxiety. They hardly hoped to save the life of the child. The little mother was long unable to leave her bed. Since her aunt was not there, but gone, as Mrs. Dykeman, on an extended tour--"part business and part honeymoon," her husband told her--and since Mrs. Pettigrew now ruled alone at The Cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability and enjoyment, Vivian promptly installed herself in the Saunders home, as general housekeeper and nurse. She was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting the wretched Jim, keeping up Susie's spirits, and mothering the frail tiny baby with exquisite devotion. Day after day the doctor saw her, sweet and strong and patient, leaving her school to the assistant, regardless of losses, showing the virtues he admired most in women. He made his calls as short as possible; but even so, Vivian could not but note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sick mother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child. When that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, she carried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had so many others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, had none. She missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided them more assiduously than at first. CHAPTER XII. ACHIEVEMENTS. There are some folk born to beauty, And some to plenteous gold, Some who are proud of being young, Some proud of being old. Some who are glad of happy love, Enduring, deep and true, And some who thoroughly enjoy The little things they do. Upon all this Grandma Pettigrew cast an observant eye, and meditated sagely thereupon. Coming to a decision, she first took a course of reading in some of Dr. Bellair's big books, and then developed a series of perplexing symptoms, not of a too poignant or perilous nature, that took her to Dr. Hale's office frequently. "You haven't repudiated Dr. Bellair, have you?" he asked her. "I have never consulted Jane Bellair as a physician," she replied, "though I esteem her much as a friend." The old lady's company was always welcome to him; he liked her penetrating eye, her close-lipped, sharp remarks, and appreciated the real kindness of her heart. If he had known how closely she was peering into the locked recesses of his own, and how much she saw there, he would perhaps have avoided her as he did Vivian, and if he had known further that this ingenious old lady, pursuing long genealogical discussions with him, had finally unearthed a mutual old-time friend, and had forthwith started a correspondence with that friend, based on this common acquaintance in Carston, he might have left that city. The old-time friend, baited by Mrs. Pettigrew's innocent comment on Dr. Hale's persistence in single blessedness, poured forth what she knew of the cause with no more embellishment than time is sure to give. "I know why he won't marry," wrote she. "He had reason good to begin with, but I never dreamed he'd be obstinate enough to keep it up sixteen years. When he was a boy in college here I knew him well--he was a splendid fellow, one of the very finest. But he fell desperately in love with that beautiful Mrs. James--don't you remember about her? She married a St. Cloud later, and he left her, I think. She was as lovely as a cameo--and as hard and flat. That woman was the saintliest thing that ever breathed. She wouldn't live with her husband because he had done something wrong; she wouldn't get a divorce, nor let him, because that was wicked--and she always had a string of boys round her, and talked about the moral influence she had on them. "Young Hale worshipped her--simply worshipped her--and she let him. She let them all. She had that much that was god-like about her--she loved incense. You need not ask for particulars. She was far too 'particular' for that. But one light-headed chap went and drowned himself--that was all hushed up, of course, but some of us felt pretty sure why. He was a half-brother to Dick Hale, and Dick was awfully fond of him. Then he turned hard and hateful all at once--used to talk horrid about women. He kept straight enough--that's easy for a mysogynist, and studying medicine didn't help him any--doctors and ministers know too much about women. So there you are. But I'm astonished to hear he's never gotten over it; he always was obstinate--it's his only fault. They say he swore never to marry--if he did, that accounts. Do give my regards if you see him again." Mrs. Pettigrew considered long and deeply over this information, as she slowly produced a jersey striped with Roman vividness. It was noticeable in this new life in Carston that Mrs. Pettigrew's knitted jackets had grown steadily brighter in hue from month to month. Whereas, in Bainville, purple and brown were the high lights, and black, slate and navy blue the main colors; now her worsteds were as a painter's palette, and the result not only cheered, but bade fair to inebriate. "A pig-headed man," she said to herself, as her needle prodded steadily in and out; "a pig-headed man, with a pig-headedness of sixteen years' standing. His hair must 'a turned gray from the strain of it. And there's Vivian, biddin' fair to be an old maid after all. What on _earth_!" She appeared to have forgotten that marriages are made in heaven, or to disregard that saying. "The Lord helps those that help themselves," was one of her favorite mottoes. "And much more those that help other people!" she used to add. Flitting in and out of Dr. Hale's at all hours, she noted that he had a fondness for music, with a phenomenal incapacity to produce any. He encouraged his boys to play on any and every instrument the town afforded, and to sing, whether they could or not; and seemed never to weary of their attempts, though far from satisfied with the product. "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. Vivian could play, "Well enough to know better," she said, and seldom touched the piano. She had a deep, full, contralto voice, and a fair degree of training. But she would never make music unless she felt like it--and in this busy life, with so many people about her, she had always refused. Grandma meditated. She selected an evening when most of the boarders were out at some entertainment, and selfishly begged Vivian to stay at home with her--said she was feeling badly and wanted company. Grandma so seldom wanted anything that Vivian readily acquiesced; in fact, she was quite worried about her, and asked Dr. Bellair if she thought anything was the matter. "She has seemed more quiet lately," said that astute lady, "and I've noticed her going in to Dr. Hale's during office hours. But perhaps it's only to visit with him." "Are you in any pain, Grandma?" asked the girl, affectionately. "You're not sick, are you?" "O, no--I'm not sick," said the old lady, stoutly. "I'm just--well, I felt sort of lonesome to-night--perhaps I'm homesick." As she had never shown the faintest sign of any feeling for their deserted home, except caustic criticism and unfavorable comparison, Vivian rather questioned this theory, but she began to think there was something in it when her grandmother, sitting by the window in the spring twilight, began to talk of how this time of year always made her think of her girlhood. "Time for the March peepers at home. It's early here, and no peepers anywhere that I've heard. 'Bout this time we'd be going to evening meeting. Seems as if I could hear that little old organ--and the singing!" "Hadn't I better shut that window," asked Vivian. "Won't you get cold?" "No, indeed," said her grandmother, promptly. "I'm plenty warm--I've got this little shawl around me. And it's so soft and pleasant out." It was soft and pleasant, a delicious May-like night in March, full of spring scents and hints of coming flowers. On the dark piazza across the way she could make out a still figure sitting alone, and the thump of Balzac's heel as he struggled with his intimate enemies told her who it was. "Come Ye Disconsolate," she began to hum, most erroneously. "How does that go, Vivian? I was always fond of it, even if I can't sing any more'n a peacock." Vivian hummed it and gave the words in a low voice. "That's good!" said the old lady. "I declare, I'm kinder hungry for some of those old hymns. I wish you'd play me some of 'em, Vivian." So Vivian, glad to please her, woke the yellow keys to softer music than they were accustomed to, and presently her rich, low voice, sure, easy, full of quiet feeling, flowed out on the soft night air. Grandma was not long content with the hymns. "I want some of those old-fashioned songs--you used to know a lot of 'em. Can't you do that 'Kerry Dance' of Molloy's, and 'Twickenham Ferry'--and 'Lauriger Horatius?'" Vivian gave her those, and many another, Scotch ballads, English songs and German Lieder--glad to please her grandmother so easily, and quite unconscious of a dark figure which had crossed the street and come silently to sit on the farthest corner of their piazza. Grandma, meanwhile, watched him, and Vivian as well, and then, with the most unsuspected suddenness, took to her bed. Sciatica, she said. An intermittent pain that came upon her so suddenly she couldn't stand up. She felt much better lying down. And Dr. Hale must attend her unceasingly. This unlooked for overthrow of the phenomenally active old lady was a great blow to Mr. Skee; he showed real concern and begged to be allowed to see her. "Why not?" said Mrs. Pettigrew. "It's nothing catching." She lay, high-pillowed, as stiff and well arranged as a Knight Templar on a tombstone, arrayed for the occasion in a most decorative little dressing sack and ribbony night-cap. "Why, ma'am," said Mr. Skee, "it's highly becomin' to you to be sick. It leads me to hope it's nothin' serious." She regarded him enigmatically. "Is Dr. Hale out there, or Vivian?" she inquired in a low voice. "No, ma'am--they ain't," he replied, after a glance in the next room. Then he bent a penetrating eye upon her. She met it unflinchingly, but as his smile appeared and grew, its limitless widening spread contagion, and her calm front was broken. "Elmer Skee," said she, with sudden fury, "you hold your tongue!" "Ma'am!" he replied, "I have said nothin'--and I don't intend to. But if the throne of Europe was occupied by you, Mrs. Pettigrew, we would have a better managed world." He proved a most agreeable and steady visitor during this period of confinement, and gave her full accounts of all that went on outside, with occasional irrelevant bursts of merriment which no rebuke from Mrs. Pettigrew seemed wholly to check. He regaled her with accounts of his continuous consultations with Mrs. St. Cloud, and the wisdom and good taste with which she invariably advised him. "Don't you admire a Platonic Friendship, Mrs. Pettigrew?" "I do not!" said the old lady, sharply. "And what's more I don't believe you do." "Well, ma'am," he answered, swaying backward and forward on the hind legs of his chair, "there are moments when I confess it looks improbable." Mrs. Pettigrew cocked her head on one side and turned a gimlet eye upon him. "Look here, Elmer Skee," she said suddenly, "how much money have you really got?" He brought down his chair on four legs and regarded her for a few moments, his smile widening slowly. "Well, ma'am, if I live through the necessary expenses involved on my present undertaking, I shall have about two thousand a year--if rents are steady." "Which I judge you do not wish to be known?" "If there's one thing more than another I have always admired in you, ma'am, it is the excellence of your judgment. In it I have absolute confidence." Mrs. St. Cloud had some time since summoned Dr. Hale to her side for a severe headache, but he had merely sent word that his time was fully occupied, and recommended Dr. Bellair. Now, observing Mrs. Pettigrew's tactics, the fair invalid resolved to take the bull by the horns and go herself to his office. She found him easily enough. He lifted his eyes as she entered, rose and stood with folded arms regarding her silently. The tall, heavy figure, the full beard, the glasses, confused even her excellent memory. After all it was many years since they had met, and he had been but one of a multitude. She was all sweetness and gentle apology for forcing herself upon him, but really she had a little prejudice against women doctors--his reputation was so great--he was so temptingly near--she was in such pain--she had such perfect confidence in him-- He sat down quietly and listened, watching her from under his bent brows. Her eyes were dropped, her voice very weak and appealing; her words most perfectly chosen. "I have told you," he said at length, "that I never treat women for their petty ailments, if I can avoid it." She shook her head in grieved acceptance, and lifted large eyes for one of those penetrating sympathetic glances so frequently successful. "How you must have suffered!" she said. "I have," he replied grimly. "I have suffered a long time from having my eyes opened too suddenly to the brainless cruelty of women, Mrs. James." She looked at him again, searchingly, and gave a little cry. "Dick Hale!" she said. "Yes, Dick Hale. Brother to poor little Joe Medway, whose foolish young heart you broke, among others; whose death you are responsible for." She was looking at him with widening wet eyes. "Ah! If you only knew how I, too, have suffered over that!" she said. "I was scarce more than a girl myself, then. I was careless, not heartless. No one knew what pain I was bearing, then. I liked the admiration of those nice boys--I never realized any of them would take it seriously. That has been a heavy shadow on my life, Dr. Hale--the fear that I was the thoughtless cause of that terrible thing. And you have never forgiven me. I do not wonder." He was looking at her in grim silence again, wishing he had not spoken. "So that is why you have never been to The Cottonwoods since I came," she pursued. "And I am responsible for all your loneliness. O, how dreadful!" Again he rose to his feet. "No, madam, you mistake. You were responsible for my brother's death, and for a bitter awakening on my part, but you are in no way responsible for my attitude since. That is wholly due to myself. Allow me again to recommend Dr. Jane Bellair, an excellent physician and even more accessible." He held the door for her, and she went out, not wholly dissatisfied with her visit. She would have been far more displeased could she have followed his thoughts afterward. "What a Consummate Ass I have been all my life!" he was meditating. "Because I met this particular type of sex parasite, to deliberately go sour--and forego all chance of happiness. Like a silly girl. A fool girl who says, 'I will never marry!' just because of some quarrel * * * But the girl never keeps her word. A man must." The days were long to Vivian now, and dragged a little, for all her industry. Mrs. St. Cloud tried to revive their former intimacy, but the girl could not renew it on the same basis. She, too, had sympathized with Mr. Dykeman, and now sympathized somewhat with Mr. Skee. But since that worthy man still volubly discoursed on Platonism, and his fair friend openly agreed in this view, there seemed no real ground for distress. Mrs. Pettigrew remained ailing and rather captious. She had a telephone put at her bedside, and ran her household affairs efficiently, with Vivian as lieutenant, and the ever-faithful Jeanne to uphold the honor of the cuisine. Also she could consult her physician, and demanded his presence at all hours. He openly ignored Mrs. St. Cloud now, who met his rude treatment with secret, uncomplaining patience. Vivian spoke of this. "I do not see why he need be so rude, Grandma. He may hate women, but I don't see why he should treat her so shamefully." "Well, I do," replied the invalid, "and what's more I'm going to show you; I've always disliked that woman, and now I know why. I'd turn her out of the house if it wasn't for Elmer Skee. That man's as good as gold under all his foolishness, and if he can get any satisfaction out of that meringue he's welcome. Dr. Hale doesn't hate women, child, but a woman broke his heart once--and then he made an idiot of himself by vowing never to marry." She showed her friend's letter, and Vivian read it with rising color. "O, Grandma! Why that's worse than I ever thought--even after what Dr. Bellair told us. And it was his brother! No wonder he's so fond of boys. He tries to warn them, I suppose." "Yes, and the worst of it is that he's really got over his grouch; and he's in love--but tied down by that foolish oath, poor man." "Is he, Grandma? How do you know? With whom?" "You dear, blind child!" said the old lady, "with you, of course. Has been ever since we came." The girl sat silent, a strange feeling of joy rising in her heart, as she reviewed the events of the last two years. So that was why he would not stay that night. And that was why. "No wonder he wouldn't come here!" she said at length. "It's on account of that woman. But why did he change?" "Because she went over there to see him. He wouldn't come to her. I heard her 'phone to him one evening." The old lady chuckled. "So she marched herself over there--I saw her, and I guess she got her needin's. She didn't stay long. And his light burned till morning." "Do you think he cares for her, still?" "Cares for her!" The old lady fairly snorted her derision. "He can't bear the sight of her--treats her as if she wasn't there. No, indeed. If he did she'd have him fast enough, now. Well! I suppose he'll repent of that foolishness of his all the days of his life--and stick it out! Poor man." Mrs. Pettigrew sighed, and Vivian echoed the sigh. She began to observe Dr. Hale with new eyes; to study little matters of tone and manner--and could not deny her grandmother's statement. Nor would she admit it--yet. The old lady seemed weaker and more irritable, but positively forbade any word of this being sent to her family. "There's nothing on earth ails me," she said. "Dr. Hale says there's not a thing the matter that he can see--that if I'd only eat more I'd get stronger. I'll be all right soon, my dear. I'll get my appetite and get well, I have faith to believe." She insisted on his coming over in the evening, when not too busy, and staying till she dropped asleep, and he seemed strangely willing to humor her; sitting for hours in the quiet parlor, while Vivian played softly, and sang her low-toned hymns. So sitting, one still evening, when for some time no fretful "not so loud" had come from the next room, he turned suddenly to Vivian and asked, almost roughly--"Do you hold a promise binding?--an oath, a vow--to oneself?" She met his eyes, saw the deep pain there, the long combat, the irrepressible hope and longing. "Did you swear to keep your oath secret?" she asked. "Why, no," he said, "I did not. I will tell you. I did not swear never to tell a woman I loved her. I never dreamed I should love again. Vivian, I was fool enough to love a shallow, cruel woman, once, and nearly broke my heart in consequence. That was long years ago. I have never cared for a woman since--till I met you. And now I must pay double for that boy folly." He came to her and took her hand. "I love you," he said, his tense grip hurting her. "I shall love you as long as I live--day and night--forever! You shall know that at any rate!" She could not raise her eyes. A rich bright color rose to the soft border of her hair. He caught her face in his hands and made her look at him; saw those dark, brilliant eyes softened, tear-filled, asking, and turned sharply away with a muffled cry. "I have taken a solemn oath," he said in a strained, hard voice, "never to ask a woman to marry me." He heard a little gasping laugh, and turned upon her. She stood there smiling, her hands reached out to him. "You don't have to," she said. * * * * * A long time later, upon their happy stillness broke a faint voice from the other room: "Vivian, I think if you'd bring me some bread and butter--and a cup of tea--and some cold beef and a piece of pie--I could eat it." * * * * * Upon the rapid and complete recovery of her grandmother's health, and the announcement of Vivian's engagement, Mr. and Mrs. Lane decided to make a visit to their distant mother and daughter, hoping as well that Mr. Lane's cough might be better for a visit in that altitude. Mr. and Mrs. Dykeman also sent word of their immediate return. Jeanne, using subtle powers of suggestion, caused Mrs. Pettigrew to decide upon giving a dinner, in honor of these events. There was the betrothed couple, there were the honored guests; there were Jimmie and Susie, with or without the baby; there were the Dykemans; there was Dr. Bellair, of course; there was Mr. Skee, an even number. "I'm sorry to spoil that table, but I've got to take in Mrs. St. Cloud," said the old lady. "O, Grandma! Why! It'll spoil it for Dick." "Huh!" said her grandmother. "He's so happy you couldn't spoil it with a mummy. If I don't ask her it'll spoil it for Mr. Skee." So Mrs. St. Cloud made an eleventh at the feast, and neither Mr. Dykeman nor Vivian could find it in their happy hearts to care. Mr. Skee arose, looking unusually tall and shapely in immaculate every-day dress, his well-brushed hair curling vigorously around the little bald spots; his smile wide and benevolent. "Ladies and Gentlemen, both Domestic and Foreign, Friends and Fellowtownsmen and Women--Ladies, God Bless 'em; also Children, if any: I feel friendly enough to-night to include the beasts of the fields--but such would be inappropriate at this convivial board--among these convivial boarders. "This is an occasion of great rejoicing. We have many things to rejoice over, both great _and_ small. We have our healths; all of us, apparently. We are experiencing the joys of reunion--in the matter of visiting parents that is, and long absent daughters. "We have also the Return of the Native, in the shape of my old friend Andy--now become a Benedict--and seeming to enjoy it. About this same Andy I have a piece of news to give you which will cause you astonishment and gratification, but which involves me in a profuse apology--a most sincere and general apology. "You know how a year or more ago it was put about in this town that Andrew Dykeman was a ruined man?" Mrs. St. Cloud darted a swift glance at Mr. Dykeman, but his eyes rested calmly on his wife; then at Mr. Skee--but he was pursuing his remorseful way. "I do not wish to blame my friend Andy for his reticence--but he certainly did exhibit reticence on this occasion--to beat the band! He never contradicted this rumor--not once. _He_ just went about looking kind o' down in the mouth for some reason or other, and when for the sake o' Auld Lang Syne I offered him a job in my office--the cuss took it! I won't call this deceitful, but it sure was reticent to a degree. "Well, Ladies--and Gentlemen--the best of us are liable to mistakes, and I have to admit--I am glad to humble myself and make this public admission--I was entirely in error in this matter. "It wasn't so. There was nothing in it. It was rumor, pure and simple. Andy Dykeman never lost no mine, it appears; or else he had another up his sleeve concealed from his best friends. Anyhow, the facts are these; not only that A. Dykeman as he sits before you is a prosperous and wealthy citizen, but that he has been, for these ten years back, and we were all misled by a mixture of rumor and reticence. If he has concealed these facts from the wife of his bosom I submit that that is carrying reticence too far!" Again Mrs. St. Cloud sent a swift glance at the reticent one, and again caught only his tender apologetic look toward his wife, and her utter amazement. Mr. Dykeman rose to his feet. "I make no apologies for interrupting my friend," he said. "It is necessary at times. He at least can never be accused of reticence. Neither do I make apologies for letting rumor take its course--a course often interesting to observe. But I do apologize--in this heartfelt and public manner, to my wife, for marrying her under false pretenses. But any of you gentlemen who have ever had any experience in the attitude of," he hesitated mercifully, and said, "the World, toward a man with money, may understand what it meant to me, after many years of bachelorhood, to find a heart that not only loved me for myself alone, but absolutely loved me better because I'd lost my money--or she thought I had. I have hated to break the charm. But now my unreticent friend here has stated the facts, and I make my confession. Will you forgive me, Orella?" "Speech! Speech!" cried Mr. Skee. But Mrs. Dykeman could not be persuaded to do anything but blush and smile and squeeze her husband's hand under the table, and Mr. Skee arose once more. "This revelation being accomplished," he continued cheerfully; "and no one any the worse for it, as I see," he was not looking in the direction of Mrs. St. Cloud, whose slippered foot beat softly under the table, though her face wore its usual sweet expression, possibly a trifle strained; "I now proceed to a proclamation of that happy event to celebrate which we are here gathered together. I allude to the Betrothal of Our Esteemed Friend, Dr. Richard Hale, and the Fairest of the Fair! Regarding the Fair, we think he has chosen well. But regarding Dick Hale, his good fortune is so clear, so evidently undeserved, and his pride and enjoyment thereof so ostentatious, as to leave us some leeway to make remarks. "Natural remarks, irresistible remarks, as you might say, and not intended to be acrimonious. Namely, such as these: It's a long lane that has no turning; There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; The worm will turn; The pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last; Better Late than Never. And so on and so forth. Any other gentleman like to make remarks on this topic?" Dr. Hale rose, towering to his feet. "I think I'd better make them," he said. "No one else could so fully, so heartily, with such perfect knowledge point out how many kinds of a fool I've been for all these years. And yet of them all there are only two that I regret--this last two in which if I had been wiser, perhaps I might have found my happiness sooner. As that cannot be proven, however, I will content myself with the general acknowledgment that Bachelors are Misguided Bats, I myself having long been the worst instance; women, in general, are to be loved and honored; and that I am proud and glad to accept your congratulations because the sweetest and noblest woman in the world has honored me with her love." "I never dreamed you could put so many words together, Doc--and really make sense!" said Mr. Skee, genially, as he rose once more. "You certainly show a proper spirit at last, and all is forgiven. But now, my friends; now if your attention is not exhausted, I have yet another Event to confide to you." Mr. and Mrs. Lane wore an aspect of polite interest. Susie and Jim looked at each other with a sad but resigned expression. So did Mrs. Dykeman and her husband. Vivian's hand was in her lover's and she could not look unhappy, but they, too, deprecated this last announcement, only too well anticipated. Only Mrs. St. Cloud, her fair face bowed in gentle confusion, showed anticipating pleasure. Mr. Skee waved his hand toward her with a large and graceful gesture. "You must all of you have noticed the amount of Platonic Friendship which has been going on for some time between my undeserving self and this lovely lady here. Among so many lovely ladies perhaps I'd better specify that I refer to the one on my left. "What she has been to me, in my lonely old age, none of you perhaps realize." He wore an expression as of one long exiled, knowing no one who could speak his language. "She has been my guide, counsellor and friend; she has assisted me with advice most wise and judicious; she has not interfered with my habits, but has allowed me to enjoy life in my own way, with the added attraction of her companionship. "Now, I dare say, there may have been some of you who have questioned my assertion that this friendship was purely Platonic. Perhaps even the lady herself, knowing the heart of man, may have doubted if my feeling toward her was really friendship." Mr. Skee turned his head a little to one side and regarded her with a tender inquiring smile. To this she responded sweetly: "Why no, Mr. Skee, of course, I believed what you said." "There, now," said he, admiringly. "What is so noble as the soul of woman? It is to this noble soul in particular, and to all my friends here in general, that I now confide the crowning glory of a long and checkered career, namely, and to wit, that I am engaged to be married to that Peerless Lady, Mrs. Servilla Pettigrew, of whose remarkable capacities and achievements I can never sufficiently express my admiration." A silence fell upon the table. Mr. Skee sat down smiling, evidently in cheerful expectation of congratulations. Mrs. Pettigrew wore an alert expression, as of a skilled fencer preparing to turn any offered thrusts. Mrs. St. Cloud seemed to be struggling with some emotion, which shook her usual sweet serenity. The others, too, were visibly affected, and not quick to respond. Then did Mr. Saunders arise with real good nature and ever-ready wit; and pour forth good-humored nonsense with congratulations all around, till a pleasant atmosphere was established, in which Mrs. St. Cloud could so far recover as to say many proper and pretty things; sadly adding that she regretted her imminent return to the East would end so many pleasant friendships. * * * * * BOOKS BY Charlotte Perkins Gilman Moving the Mountain. A Utopia at short range. How we might change this country in thirty years, if we changed our minds first. Mrs. Gilman's latest book, like her earliest verse, is a protest against the parrot cry that "you can't alter human nature." By mail of Charlton Co., $1.10 What Diantha Did. A Novel. "What she did was to solve the domestic service problem for both mistress and maid in a southern California town." "_The Survey._" "A sensible book, it gives a new and deserved comprehension of the importance and complexity of housekeeping." "_The Independent._" "Mrs. Perkins Gilman is as full of ideas as ever, and her Diantha is a model for all young women." "_The Englishwoman._" By mail of Charlton Co., $1.10 The Man-Made World. "We defy any thoughtful person to read this book of Mrs. Gilman, and not be moved to or towards conviction, whether he acknowledges it or not." "_San Francisco Star._" "Mrs. Gilman has presented in this work the results of her thought, study, and observation of the much debated question of the relation of man to woman and of woman to man. The subject is developed with much wise argument and wholesome sense of humor." "_The Craftsman._" "Mrs. Gilman has applied her theory with much cleverness, consistency and logical thinking." "_Chicago Evening Post._" By mail of Charlton Co., $1.10 "IN THIS OUR WORLD" There is a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in Mrs. Gilman's verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of California. --_Washington Times._ The freshness, charm and geniality of her satire temporarily convert us to her most advanced views. --_Boston Journal._ The poet of women and for women, a new and prophetic voice in the world. Montaigne would have rejoiced in her. --_Mexican Herald._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$1.25=. "THE HOME" Indeed, Mrs. Gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind. --_The Critic, New York._ Whatever Mrs. Gilman writes, people read--approving or protesting, still they read. --_Republican, Springfield, Mass._ Full of thought and of new and striking suggestions. Tells what the average woman has and ought not keep, what she is and ought not be. --_Literature World._ But it is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever before taken shape and that the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing. --_Congregationalist, Boston._ The name of this author is a guarantee of logical reasoning, sound economical principles and progressive thought. --_The Craftsman, Syracuse._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$1.00=. "The Home" has been translated into Swedish. "WOMEN AND ECONOMICS" Since John Stuart Mill's essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition. --_London Chronicle._ The most significant utterance on the subject since Mill's "Subjection of Women." --_The Nation._ It is the strongest book on the woman question that has yet been published. --_Minneapolis Journal._ A remarkable book. A work on economics that has not a dull page,--the work of a woman about women that has not a flippant word. --_Boston Transcript._ This book unites in a remarkable degree the charm of a brilliantly written essay with the inevitable logic of a proposition of Euclid. Nothing that we have read for many a long day can approach in clearness of conception, in power of arrangement, and in lucidity of expression the argument developed in the first seven chapters of this remarkable book. --_Westminster Gazette, London._ Will be widely read and discussed as the cleverest, fairest, most forcible presentation of the view of the rapidly increasing group who look with favor on the extension of industrial employment to women. --_Political Science Quarterly._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$1.50=. "Women and Economics" has been translated into German, Dutch, Italian, Hungarian, Russian and Japanese. "CONCERNING CHILDREN" WANTED:--A philanthropist, to give a copy to every English-speaking parent. --_The Times, New York._ Should be read by every mother in the land. --_The Press, New York._ Wholesomely disturbing book that deserves to be read for its own sake. --_Chicago Dial._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$1.25=. "Concerning Children" has been translated into German, Dutch and Yiddish. "THE YELLOW WALLPAPER" Worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of Hawthorne and Poe. --_Literature._ As a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in America. --_Chicago News._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$0.50=. "HUMAN WORK" Charlotte Perkins Gilman has added a third to her great trilogy of books on economic subjects as they affect our daily life, particularly in the home. Mrs. Gilman is by far the most brilliant woman writer of our day, and this new volume, which she calls "Human Work," is a glorification of labor. --_New Orleans Picayune._ Charlotte Perkins Gilman has been writing a new book, entitled "Human Work." It is the best thing that Mrs. Gilman has done, and it is meant to focus all of her previous work, so to speak. --_Tribune, Chicago._ In her latest volume, "Human Work," Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics. --_San Francisco Star._ It is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as Mrs. Gilman has outlined it. --_Public Opinion._ By mail of Charlton Co., =$1.00=. CHARLTON COMPANY, 67 Wall St., New York THE FORERUNNER A monthly magazine, written, edited, owned and published by CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN 67 Wall Street, New York City U. S. A. SUBSCRIPTION PER YEAR Domestic $1.00 Canadian 1.12 Foreign 1.25 Bound Volumes, each year $1.40 post paid This magazine carries Mrs. Gilman's best and newest work, her social philosophy, verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor and opinion. It stands for Humanness in Women and Men; for better methods in Child Culture; for the New Ethics, the better Economics--the New World we are to make, are making. The breadth of Mrs. Gilman's thought and her power of expressing it have made her well-known in America and Europe as a leader along lines of human improvement and a champion of woman. THE FORERUNNER voices her thought and its messages are not only many, but strong, true and vital. * * * * * Transcription Notes: Text in bold has been marked with equal signs (=text=). Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been retained. Minor punctuation . , ; " ' changes have been made without annotation. Other changes to the original text are listed as follows: Page 2 Man-made/Man-Made: The Man-Made World Page 45 evclaimed/exclaimed: exclaimed his wife Page 110 Removed repeated word a: were a real Page 115 who/why: why his hair's Page 134 though/thought: I thought as much Page 164 Mr./My: My dear Miss Page 169 Removed repeated word and: her own and set it Page 174 Removed redundant word a: he had not had Page 194 though/thought: I thought I heard Page 197 litle/little: a little dampened Page 240 weedings/weddings: wooings and weddings Page 260 irrestible/irresistible: sleep irresistible from Page 261 Cottonwood/Cottonwoods: to The Cottonwoods Page 285 busband/husband: live with her husband Page 317 massages/messages: its messages are not only 
54660	----	generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (https://books.google.com) Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Google Books Library Project. See https://books.google.com/books?id=X-hEAQAAMAAJ&hl=en +------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |The book, "Ships That Pass in the Night", | |by Beatrice Harraden, mentioned in the forenote, | |is available at http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12476 | | | +------------------------------------------------------+ THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN. A Social Mystery. by JULIAN STARR. "Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still." --_Fletcher._ [Illustration: Logo] New York: Copyright, 1895, by G. W. Dillingham, Publisher, Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. MDCCCXCV. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. Chapter Page I. A Social Mystery 7 II. The Mystery Deepens 13 III. Prof. Poppendorf 19 IV. Prof. Poppendorf's Lecture 29 V. A Conversation with the Disagreeable Woman 41 VI. Count Penelli 50 VII. Macy's 61 VIII. The Professor in Love 71 IX. An Evening at the Boarding-House 82 X. A Rustic Admirer 93 XI. A Poor Patient 104 XII. The Disagreeable Woman in a New Light 112 XIII. Mrs. Wyman's Curiosity 117 XIV. The Quality of Mercy 122 XV. The Professor's Courtship 128 XVI. Sits the Wind in that Quarter? 139 XVII. My Rich Patient 150 XVIII. The Professor's Book 156 XIX. A Speech from the Throne 162 XX. A Startling Discovery 169 XXI. After Three Months 174 XXII. I Appeal to the Disagreeable Woman 181 XXIII. At Last 185 XXIV. The Light of Hope 189 TO MY READERS. In reading Miss Harraden's charming idyl "Ships That Pass in the Night," it occurred to me that if there were Disagreeable Men there are also Disagreeable Women. Hence this story. THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN. CHAPTER I. A SOCIAL MYSTERY. "If I live till next July, I shall be twenty-nine years old," simpered the young widow, and she looked around the table, as if to note the effect of such an incredible statement. "You look much older," said the Disagreeable Woman, looking up from her tea and buttered toast. There was a general silence, and the boarders noted with curiosity the effect of this somewhat unceremonious remark. Mrs. Wyman, the young widow, flushed and directed an angry and scornful look at the last speaker. "I am sure I am very much obliged to you," she said. "You are quite welcome," said the Disagreeable Woman, calmly. "You look older than I do," said the widow, sharply. "Very possibly," said the Disagreeable Woman, not at all excited. "Do you mind telling us how old you are?" "Not at all! I have reached the age--" All bent forward to listen. Why is it that we take so much interest in the ages of our acquaintances? There was evidently a strong desire to learn the age of the Disagreeable Woman. But she disappointed the general expectation. "I have reached the age of discretion," she continued, finishing the sentence. "Who is that woman?" I asked my next neighbor, for I was a new comer at Mrs. Gray's table. "Wait till after breakfast and I will tell you," he answered. Mrs. Gray kept a large boarding-house on Waverley Place. Some fifteen boarders were gathered about the large table. I may have occasion to refer to some of them later. But first I will speak of myself. I was a young medical practitioner, who after practising for a year in a Jersey village had come to New York in quest of a metropolitan practise and reputation. I was not quite penniless, having five hundred dollars left over from the legacy of an old aunt, the rest of which had been used to defray the expenses of my education. I had not yet come to realize how small a sum this was for a professional start in the city. I had hired an office, provided with a cabinet bedstead, and thus saved room rent. For table board I had been referred to Mrs. Gray's boarding-house, on Waverley Place. "I boarded there once," said the friend who recommended me, "and found not only a fair table but a very social and entertaining family of boarders. They were of all classes," he continued, "from literateurs to dry goods clerks, school-teachers, actors, and broken-down professionals." This description piqued my curiosity, and I enrolled myself as one of Mrs. Gray's boarders, finding her terms not beyond my modest means. But in his list of boarders he forgot--the Disagreeable Woman, who must have come after his departure. She was tall, inclined to be slender, with a keen face and singular eyes. She never seemed to be excited, but was always calm and self-possessed. She seemed to have keen insight into character, and as may already be inferred, of remarkable and even perhaps rude plainness of speech. Yet though she said sharp things she never seemed actuated by malice or ill-nature. She did not converse much, but was always ready to rebuke pretension and humbug as in the case of the young widow. What she said of her was quite correct. I judged from her appearance that Mrs. Wyman must be at least thirty-five years old, and possibly more. She evidently did not intend to remain a widow longer than was absolutely necessary. She paid attention to every male boarder at the table, neglecting none. She even made overtures to Prof. Poppendorf, a learned German, with a deep bass voice and a German accent, whose green goggles and shaggy hair, somewhat grizzled, made him a picturesque personality. We all enjoyed the rebuff which Mrs. Wyman received from the Disagreeable Woman, though it made us slightly afraid of her lest our turns might come next. But I am keeping my readers from my friend's promised account of the lady who had excited my curiosity. CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS. "The first time I met the Disagreeable Woman," said my neighbor, who was a commercial traveler, "was on my return from a business trip. Looking about the table to see what changes had occurred in the family, I saw sitting opposite to me a woman of somewhat unusual appearance, whose caustic speech made her feared by the rest of the boarders. This was three months since." "What is her name?" I asked. "Upon my word," he answered reflectively, "I am so accustomed to hear her spoken of as the Disagreeable Woman that I hardly remember. Let me see--yes, it is Blagden." "And the first name?" "Jane." "Is it Miss or Mrs. Blagden?" "I don't know." "She has been here three months and you do not know," I said, in surprise. "Precisely." "Did it never occur to any one to ask her?" "Yes, Mrs. Wyman asked her one day." "And what did she reply?" "Whichever you please--it is quite immaterial." "Do you think she has any reason to maintain secrecy on this point?" "I think not. She probably takes the ground that it is nobody's business but her own." "How soon did she obtain her designation of the 'Disagreeable Woman?'" "Almost immediately I judge. When I first met her she had been a member of Mrs. Gray's household for a week, and already this was the way she was spoken of." "I suppose she does not live in the house?" "No." "Where then?" "No one knows. She comes to her meals punctually, turning into Waverley Place from Broadway." "Has no one ever thought of following her home?" "Yes. A young broker's clerk, on a wager, attempted to track her to her lodging place. She was sharp enough to detect his purpose. When they reached Broadway she turned suddenly and confronted him. 'Are you going up or down Broadway?' she asked. 'Up Broadway,' he answered with some hesitation, 'Then good evening! I go in the opposite direction.' Of course there was nothing for him to do but to accept the hint, which was certainly pointed enough." "She must be a woman with a history," I said, thoughtfully. "Most women have histories." "But not out of the common." "True. What now do you conjecture as to Miss Blagden's history?" "I am utterly at a loss." "Do you think she has had a disappointment?" "She does not look impressionable. One cannot conceive of her as having an affair of the heart." "I don't know. One cannot always judge by the exterior." "Do you think she has any employment?" "If so, no one has been able to conjecture what it is." "To me she seems like an advocate of Woman's Rights, perhaps a lecturer on that subject." "Possibly, but I know of nothing to throw light on her business or her views." "Do you think she is a woman of means?" "Ah," said my friend, smiling, "you are really beginning to show interest in her. I believe you are unmarried?" The suggestion was grotesque and I could not help smiling. "I should pity the man who married the 'Disagreeable Woman,'" I made answer. "I don't know. She is not beautiful, certainly, nor attractive, but I don't think she is as ill-natured as she appears." "Is this conjecture on your part?" "Not wholly. Did you notice the young woman who sat on her left?" "Yes." "We know her as the young woman from Macy's. Well, a month since she was sick for a week, and unable to pay her board. She occupies a hall bed-room on the upper floor. Miss Blagden guessed her trouble, and as she left the table on Saturday night put into her hands an envelope without a word. When it was opened it proved to contain ten dollars, sufficient to pay two weeks' board." "Come, there seems to be something human about the Disagreeable Woman." "Just so. To us it was a revelation. But she would not allow herself to be thanked." "That last piece of information interests me. My office practise at present is very limited, and I find my small capital going fast. I may need the good office of Miss Blagden." "I hope not, but I must leave you. My employers have sent me an orchestra ticket to Palmer's theatre." "I hope you will enjoy yourself." So we parted company. I went to my office, and spent a part of the evening in searching among my medical books for some light on a case that had baffled me. But from time to time my attention was distracted by thoughts of the Disagreeable Woman. CHAPTER III. PROF. POPPENDORF. Dinner was nearly over. The dessert had been succeeded by a dish of withered russet apples, when Mrs. Gray, leaning forward a little, said: "If the boarders will kindly remain a short time, Prof. Poppendorf has an interesting communication to make." The learned professor cleared his throat, removed his goggles for an instant, and after wiping them carefully with a red silk handkerchief, replaced them on a nose of large proportions. "My friends," he said, "on Thursday next I am to deliver a lecture at Schiller Hall, on Second Avenue, and I hope I may have the honor of seeing you all present. The tickets are fifty cents." "May I ask the subject of your lecture, Professor?" asked Mrs. Wyman, with an appearance of interest. "I shall lecture on 'The Material and the Immaterial,'" answered the Professor, in a deep bass voice. The boarders looked puzzled. The announcement of the subject did not seem to excite interest. "Shall you treat the subject in a popular manner, Prof. Poppendorf?" asked the Disagreeable Woman, in a tone that did not necessarily suggest sarcasm. Prof. Poppendorf seemed puzzled. "I do not know!" he answered, "if it will be popular--I hope it will be instructive." "Will there be any jokes in it, Professor?" asked Sam Lindsay, a vocalist from an uptown Dime Museum. "Jokes!" repeated the Professor, evidently scandalized. "It would not be appropriate. The subject is metaphysical. If you want jokes you must go to the variety theatre." "True," said Lindsay, "or to the Dime Museums. We've got a man at our place who will make you split your sides laughing." "I have here some tickets," continued the Professor, "some tickets which I shall be glad to dispose of in advance," and he drew out a package of perhaps twenty-five. "Miss Blagden, I hope you will patronize me." "You may give me two," said the Disagreeable Woman, drawing a dollar bill from her pocket, and passing it to the Professor. "You take two tickets?" said Mrs. Wyman, with a knowing smile. "I suppose there is a gentleman in the case." "You are mistaken," said the Disagreeable Woman, quietly. "You don't want both tickets for yourself, surely?" "No, I shall use neither of them." "You will give them away, then?" "I do not think so." "Why, then--" "Why then do I buy them? Out of compliment to our friend, Prof. Poppendorf, who, I hope, will win a success." "I thank you," said the Professor, "but I should be glad to have you honor my lecture with your presence." "I feel no particular interest in 'The Material and the Immaterial,'" said Mrs. Blagden. "Besides I am not sure whether I should get any clearer ideas respecting them from attending your lecture." "You do not flatter the Professor," said Mrs. Wyman, appearing shocked. "No, I never flatter any one. Why should I?" returned the Disagreeable Woman. "I like to be flattered," said the widow, simpering. "I like to be told that I am young and charming." "Even if you are not." Mrs. Wyman colored, and looked annoyed. She evidently did not care to continue her conversation with the Disagreeable Woman. "Professor Poppendorf," she said, "will you allow me to suggest something which will enable you to sell a good many tickets?" "I should be very glad to hear," said the Professor, eagerly. "Get Chauncey M. Depew to preside, and introduce you to the audience." "I did ask him, but he could not come. He is engaged to preside at a dinner given to the Yale Football Team." "Does Mr. Depew kick football?" asked the young woman from Macy's. "I think not," I ventured to say. "Gentlemen over forty seldom indulge in athletics." "I am so sorry you can't get Mr. Depew," said Mrs. Wyman. "I should so like to hear him." "You will hear _me_," said Prof. Poppendorf, with dignity, "if you will kindly buy a ticket." Mrs. Wyman looked embarrassed. She had a fair income, but carried economy to a fine point. "Perhaps," she said, with a hesitating glance at the person of whom she spoke, "Miss Blagden will give me one of her tickets, as she does not intend to use either." "That wouldn't help the Professor," said Miss Blagden, quietly. "You had better buy one of him." The Professor evidently approved this suggestion. Mrs. Wyman reluctantly drew from her pocket forty-five cents in change, and tendered it to the Professor. "I will owe you a nickel," she said. "You can pay it any time, my dear lady," said the Professor, politely, as he passed a ticket to the widow. Nearly all at the table took tickets, but the young woman from Macy's was not of the number. The price was small, but she needed gloves, and could not spare even fifty cents. "Prof. Poppendorf," said a young man, who was attached as a reporter to one of the great morning dailies, "did I not hear you say once that you knew Bismarck?" "Ah! yes," said the Professor, "I was at the University with Bismarck." "How nice!" said Mrs. Wyman, with girlish enthusiasm. "It must have been a great privilege." "I don't know," said Prof. Poppendorf, deliberately. "Bismarck was not a great student. He would not study. Bismarck was wild." "Did he drink beer?" asked the widow. "Of course," answered the Professor, surprised; "why should he not? I drank beer myself." "Is it possible? I would not have believed it. Fie, Professor!" "Beer is a very good thing," said the Professor, gravely. "There were not many of the students who could drink as much as Bismarck." "And did Bismarck care for young ladies?" "I should think so. I had a duel with Bismarck myself about a young _mädchen_." More than one of the boarders smiled. It was so difficult to associate the gray old Professor with anything that savored of gallantry. "Oh, yes," he continued, "Bismarck was the devil among the girls." "Oh, Professor, I am shocked! You should not use such a word as devil at the table." "What, then, do you call him?" asked Prof. Poppendorf. "He is not mentioned in polite society. But tell us about the duel--were you wounded?" "You see that scar," said the Professor, pointing to a slight disfigurement of his left cheek. "That was given me by Bismarck." "Oh, how interesting! It is almost like seeing Bismarck himself." "Prof. Poppendorf," said the Disagreeable Woman, "why do you not lecture on Bismarck, instead of the dry subject you have announced?" "You admire Bismarck, then, my dear lady?" "Not at all." "But I don't understand." "The people are interested in him. They don't care for the 'Material and the Immaterial.'" "That is a good suggestion, Professor," said the widow. "I would much rather hear about Bismarck. _I_ admire him. Why do you not, Miss Blagden?" "Because he was a second-hand autocrat," said the Disagreeable Woman. "Again I do not understand," said the Professor. "He was the servant of the Emperor. His authority did not come from the people." There was some further conversation, and Prof. Poppendorf promised that his next lecture should be upon Bismarck. CHAPTER IV. PROF. POPPENDORF'S LECTURE. We all sat at supper on Thursday evening. There was a general air of expectation. It was on this evening that Prof. Poppendorf was to give his lecture. We all gazed at him with more than ordinary interest. The old Professor, gray and grim-visaged, sat more than usually erect, and his manner and bearing were marked by unusual dignity. He felt himself to be the hero of the hour. I have neglected to say that Mrs. Wyman had been transferred to the seat adjoining mine. As she could not do without masculine attention I suspect that this arrangement was prompted by herself. Henceforth I was favored with the greater part of her conversation. "I am quite looking forward to Prof. Poppendorf's lecture!" she said. "You are going, are you not?" "I think so, but I can't say I am looking forward to it. I fancy it will be dry and difficult to understand." "You think he is a learned man, do you not?" "Very probably--in certain directions." "Dr. Fenwick, I am going to ask a favor of you." "I hope it isn't money," thought I, "for I was beginning to have some anxiety about my steadily dwindling bank account." "Name it, Mrs. Wyman," I said, somewhat nervously. "I am almost ashamed to say it, but I don't like to go to the lecture alone. Would you mind giving me your escort?" "With pleasure," I answered. My answer was not quite truthful, for I had intended to ask the young woman from Macy's to accompany me. She was not intellectual, but she had a fresh, country face and complexion; she came from Pomfret, Connecticut, and was at least ten years younger than Mrs. Wyman. But what could I say? I had not the moral courage to refuse a lady. "Thank you very much. Now I shall look forward to the evening with pleasure." "You are complimentary. Do you expect to understand the lecture?" "I don't know. I never gave much thought to the 'Material and Immaterial.'" "Possibly we may understand as much about the subject as the Professor himself." "Oh, how severe you are! Now I have great faith in the Professor's learning." "He ought to be learned. He certainly has no physical beauty." Mrs. Wyman laughed. "I suppose few learned men are handsome," she said. "Then perhaps I may console myself for having so little learning. Do you think the same rule holds good with ladies?" "To a certain extent. I am sure the principal of the seminary I attended was frightfully plain; but I am sure she was learned. Prof. Poppendorf, have you sold many lecture tickets?" "Quite a few!" answered the Professor, vaguely. "Are you going to attend the lecture, Miss Blagden?" asked the widow. "Miss Canby and I have agreed to go together." Miss Canby was the young woman from Macy's. The Disagreeable Woman finding that she wished to attend the lecture, offered her a ticket and her company, both being thankfully accepted. So that after all my escort was not needed by the young woman, and I lost nothing by my attention to the widow. We did not rise from the table till seven o'clock. Mrs. Wyman excused herself for a short time. She wished to dress for the lecture. The gentlemen withdrew to the reception room, a small and very narrow room on one side of the hall, and waited for the ladies to appear. Among those who seated themselves there was the Disagreeable Woman. She waited for the appearance of the young woman from Macy's, whom she was to accompany to the lecture. Somehow she did not seem out of place in the assemblage of men. "You did not at first propose to hear Prof. Poppendorf?" I remarked. "No; I shall not enjoy it. But I found Miss Canby wished to attend." "We shall probably know a good deal more about the Material and the Immaterial when we return." "Possibly we shall know as much as the Professor himself," she answered, quietly. "I am afraid you are no hero worshiper, Miss Blagden." "Do you refer to the Professor as a hero?" "He is the hero of this evening." "Perhaps so. We will see." Prof. Poppendorf looked into the reception room previous to leaving the house. He wore a long coat, or surtout, as it used to be called--tightly buttoned around his spare figure. There was a rose in his buttonhole. I had never seen one there before, but then this was a special occasion. He seemed in good spirits, as one on the eve of a triumph. He was content with one comprehensive glance. Then he opened the front door, and went out. Just then Mrs. Wyman tripped into the room, closely followed by Ruth Canby. The widow was quite radiant. I can't undertake to itemize her splendor. She looked like a social butterfly. Quite in contrast with her was the young woman from Macy's, whose garb was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity. Mrs. Wyman surveyed her with a contemptuous glance, and no doubt mentally contrasted her plainness with her own showy apparel. But the Disagreeable Woman's eye seemed to rest approvingly on her young companion. They started out ahead of the rest of us. "What a very plain person Miss Canby is!" said the widow, as we emerged into the street, her arm resting lightly in mine. "Do you refer to her dress or her face and figure?" "Well, to both." "She dresses plainly; but I suspect that is dictated by economy. She has a pleasant face." "It is the face of a peasant." "I didn't know there were any peasants in America." "Well, you understand what I mean. She looks like a country girl." "Perhaps so, but is that an objection?" "Few country girls are stylish." "I don't myself care so much for style as for good health and a good heart." "Really, Dr. Fenwick, your ideas are very old-fashioned. In that respect you resemble my dear, departed husband." "Is it permitted to ask whether your husband has long been dead?" "I have been a widow six years," said Mrs. Wyman, with an ostentatious sigh. "I was quite a girl when my dear husband died." According to her own chronology, she was twenty-three. In all probability she became a widow at twenty-nine or thirty. But of course I could not insinuate any doubt of a lady's word. "And you have never been tempted to marry again?" I essayed with great lack of prudence. "Oh, Dr. Fenwick, do you think it would be right?" said the widow, leaning more heavily on my arm. "If you should meet one who was congenial to you. I don't know why not." "I have always thought that if I ever married again I would select a professional gentleman," murmured the widow. I began to understand my danger and tried a diversion. "I don't know if you would consider Prof. Poppendorf a 'professional gentleman'," I said. "Oh, how horrid! Who would marry such an old fossil?" "It is well that the Professor does not hear you." Perhaps this conversation is hardly worth recording, but it throws some light on the character of the widow. Moreover it satisfied me that should I desire to marry her there would be no violent opposition on her part. But, truth to tell, I would have preferred the young woman from Macy's, despite the criticism of Mrs. Wyman. One was artificial, the other was natural. We reached Schiller Hall, after a long walk. It was a small hall, looking something like a college recitation room. Prof. Poppendorf took his place behind a desk on the platform and looked about him. There were scarcely a hundred persons, all told, in the audience. The men, as a general thing, were shabbily dressed, and elderly. There were perhaps twenty women, with whom dress was a secondary consideration. "Did you ever see such frights, Doctor?" whispered the widow. "You are the only stylishly dressed woman in the hall." Mrs. Wyman looked gratified. The Professor commenced a long and rather incomprehensible talk, in which the words material and immaterial occurred at frequent intervals. There may have been some in the audience who understood him, but I was not one of them. "Do you understand him?" I asked the widow. "Not wholly," she answered, guardedly. I was forced to smile, for she looked quite bewildered. The Professor closed thus: "Thus you will see, my friends, that much that we call material is immaterial, while _per contra_, that which is usually called immaterial is material." "A very satisfactory conclusion," I remarked, turning to the widow. "Quite so," she answered, vaguely. "I thank you for your attention, my friends," said the Professor, with a bow. There was faint applause, in which I assisted. The Professor looked gratified, and we all rose and quietly left the hall. I walked out behind Miss Canby and the Disagreeable Woman. "How did you like the lecture, Miss Blagden?" I inquired. "Probably as much as you did," she answered, dryly. "What do you think of the Professor, now?" "He seems to know a good deal that isn't worth knowing." CHAPTER V. A CONVERSATION WITH THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN. One afternoon between five and six o'clock I was passing the Star Theatre, when I overtook the Disagreeable Woman. I had only exchanged a few remarks with her at the table, and scarcely felt acquainted. I greeted her, however, and waited with some curiosity to see what she would have to say to me. "Dr. Fenwick, I believe?" she said. "Yes; are you on your way to supper?" "I am. Have you had a busy day?" As she said this she looked at me sharply. "I have had two patients, Miss Blagden. I am a young physician, and not well known yet. I advance slowly." "You have practised in the country?" "Yes." "Pardon me, but would it not have been better to remain there, where you were known, than to come to a large city where you are as one of the sands of the sea?" "I sometimes ask myself that question, but as yet I am unprepared with an answer. I am ambitious, and the city offers a much larger field." "With a plenty of laborers already here." "Yes." "I suppose you have confidence in yourself?" Again she eyed me sharply. "Yes and no. I have a fair professional training, and this gives me some confidence. But sometimes, it would be greater if I had an extensive practise, I feel baffled, and shrink from the responsibility that a physician always assumes." "I am glad to hear you say so," she remarked, approvingly. "Modesty is becoming in any profession. Do you feel encouraged by your success thus far?" "I am gaining, but my progress seems slow. I have not yet reached the point when I am self-supporting." She looked at me thoughtfully. "Of course you would not have established yourself here if you had not a reserve fund to fall back upon? But perhaps I am showing too much curiosity." "No, I do not regard it as curiosity, only as a kind interest in my welfare." "You judge me right." "I brought with me a few hundred dollars, Miss Blagden--what was left to me from the legacy of a good aunt--but I have already used a quarter of it, and every month it grows less." "I feel an interest in young men--I am free to say this without any fear of being misunderstood, being an old woman--" "An old woman?" "Well, I am more than twenty-nine." We both smiled, for this was the age that Mrs. Wyman owned up to. "At any rate," she resumed, "I am considerably older than you. I will admit, Dr. Fenwick, that I am not a blind believer in the medical profession. There are some, even of those who have achieved a certain measure of success, whom I look upon as solemn pretenders." "Yet if you were quite ill you would call in a physician?" "Yes. I am not quite foolish enough to undertake to doctor myself in a serious illness. But I would repose unquestioning faith in no one, however eminent." "I don't think we shall disagree on that point. A physician understands his own limitations better than any outsider." "Come, I think you will do," she said, pleasantly. "If I am ill at any time I shall probably call you in." "Thank you." "And I should criticise your treatment. If you gave me any bread pills, I should probably detect the imposture." "I should prefer, as a patient, bread pills to many that are prescribed." "You seem to be a sensible man, Dr. Fenwick. I shall hope to have other opportunities of conversing with you. Let me know from time to time how you are succeeding." "Thank you. I am glad you are sufficiently interested in me to make the request." By this time we had reached the boarding-house. We could see Mrs. Wyman at the window of the reception room. She was evidently surprised and amused to see us together. I was sure that I should hear more of it, and I was not mistaken. "Oh, Dr. Fenwick," she said playfully, as she took a seat beside me at the table. "I caught you that time." "I don't understand you," I said, innocently. "Oh, yes, you do. Didn't I see you and Miss Blagden coming in together?" "Yes." "I thought you would confess. Did you have a pleasant walk?" "It was only from the Star Theatre." "I see you are beginning to apologize. You could say a good deal between Waverley Place and the Star Theatre." "We did." "So I thought. I suppose you were discussing your fellow boarders, including poor me." "Not at all." "Then my name was not mentioned?" "Yes, I believe you were referred to." "What did she say about me?" inquired the widow, eagerly. "Only that she was older than you." "Mercy, I should think she was. Why, she's forty if she's a day. Don't you think so?" "I am no judge of ladies' ages." "I am glad you are not. Not that I am sensitive about my own. I am perfectly willing to own that I am twenty seven." "I thought you said twenty-nine, the other evening?" "True, I am twenty-nine, but I said twenty-seven to see if you would remember. I suppose gentlemen are never sensitive about their ages." "I don't know. I am twenty-six, and wish I were thirty-six." "Mercy, what a strange wish! How can you possibly wish that you were older." "Because I could make a larger income. It is all very well to be a young minister, but a young doctor does not inspire confidence." "I am sure I would rather call in a young doctor unless I were _very_ sick." "There it is! Unless you were very sick." "But even then," said the widow, coquettishly, "I am sure I should feel confidence in you, Dr. Fenwick. You wouldn't prescribe very nasty pills, would you?" "I would order bread pills, if I thought they would answer the purpose." "That would be nice. But you haven't answered my question. What were you and Miss Blagden talking about?" "About doctors; she hasn't much faith in men of my profession." "Or of any other, I fancy. What do you think of her?" "That is a leading question, Mrs. Wyman; I haven't thought very much about her so far, I have thought more of you." "Oh, you naughty flatterer!" said the widow, graciously. "Not that I believe you. Men are such deceivers." "Do ladies never deceive?" "You ought to have been a lawyer, you ask such pointed questions. Really, Dr. Fenwick, I am quite afraid of you." "There's no occasion. I am quite harmless, I do assure you. The time to be afraid of me is when you call me in as a physician." "Excuse me, doctor, but Mrs. Gray is about to make an announcement." We both turned our glances upon the landlady. CHAPTER VI. COUNT PENELLI. Mrs. Gray was a lady of the old school. She was the widow of a merchant supposed to be rich, and in the days of her magnificence had lived in a large mansion on Fourteenth Street, and kept her carriage. When her husband died suddenly of apoplexy his fortune melted away, and she found herself possessed of expensive tastes, and a pittance of _two_ thousand dollars. She was practical, however, and with a part of her money bought an old established boarding-house on Waverley Place. This she had conducted for ten years, and it yielded her a good income. Her two thousand dollars had become ten, and her future was secure. Mrs. Gray did not class herself among boarding-house keepers. Her boarders she regarded as her family, and she felt a personal interest in each and all. When they became too deeply in arrears, they received a quiet hint, and dropped out of the pleasant home circle. But this did not happen very often. From time to time when she had anything which she thought would interest her "family," she made what might be called a "speech from the throne." Usually we could tell when this was going to take place. She moved about a little restlessly, and pushed back her chair slightly from the table. Then all became silent and expectant. This morning Mrs. Wyman augured rightly. Mrs. Gray was about to make an announcement. She cleared her throat, and said: "My friends, I have a gratifying announcement to make. We are about to have an accession to our pleasant circle." "Who is it?" asked the widow, eagerly. Mrs. Gray turned upon her a look of silent reproof. "It is a gentleman of high family. Count Antonio Penelli, of Italy." There was a buzz of excitement. We had never before had a titled fellow boarder, and democratic as we were we were pleased to learn that we should sit at the same board with a nobleman. Probably no one was more pleasantly excited than Mrs. Wyman. Every male boarder she looked upon as her constituent, if I may use this word, and she always directed her earliest efforts to captivate any new masculine arrival. "What does he look like, Mrs. Gray?" she asked, breathless. "He looks like an Italian," answered the landlady, in a practical tone. "He has dark hair and a dark complexion. He has also a black moustache, but no side whiskers." "Is he good looking?" "You will have to decide for yourselves when you see him." "When shall we see him?" "He is to be here to-night at supper." "The day will seem very long," murmured the widow. "You seem to regard him already as your special property." This of course came from the lips of the Disagreeable Woman. "I presume you are as anxious to see him as I am," snapped Mrs. Wyman. "I once knew an Italian Count," said Miss Blagden reflectively. "Did you? How nice!" "I do not know about that. He turned out to be a barber." "Horrible! Then he was not a count." "I think he was, but he was poor and chose to earn a living in the only way open to him. I respected him the more on that account." Mrs. Wyman was evidently shocked. It seemed to dissipate the halo of romance which she had woven around the coming boarder. "Count Penelli did not appear to be in any business?" she asked, anxiously, of the landlady. "He said he was a tourist, and wished to spend a few months in America." The widow brightened up. This seemed to indicate that he was a man of means. Prof. Poppendorf did not seem to share in the interest felt in the Count. "I do not like Italians," he said. "They are light, frivolous; they are not solid like the Germans." "The Professor is solid enough," said Mrs. Wyman, with a titter. This could not be gainsaid, for the learned German certainly tipped the scales at over two hundred pounds. There was a strong suspicion that he imbibed copious potations of the liquid so dear to his countrymen, though he never drank it at table. "The poor man is jealous," continued Mrs. Wyman, making the remark in a low tone for my private hearing. "He thinks we won't notice him after the Count comes." This might be true, for Prof. Poppendorf was our star boarder. He was not supposed to be rich, but his title of Professor and his ancient intimacy with Bismarck, gave him a prestige among us all. When he first came Mrs. Wyman tried her blandishments upon him, but with indifferent success. Not that the grizzled veteran was too old for the tender passion, as we were soon to learn, but because he did not appreciate the coquettish ways of the widow, whom he considered of too light calibre for his taste. "Don't you think the Professor very homely?" asked Mrs. Wyman, in a confidential whisper. "He certainly is not handsome," I answered. "Neither is Bismarck." "True, but he is a great man." "We should respect him on account of his learning--probably much more so than the Count whom we are expecting." "That may be. We don't expect noblemen to be learned," said the widow, disdainfully. Immediately after breakfast she began to sound Mrs. Gray about the Count. "When did he apply for board?" she asked. "Yesterday afternoon about four o'clock." "Had he heard of you? What led him here?" "I think he saw the sign I had out." "I should have supposed he would prefer a hotel." "He's staying at a hotel now." "Did he say at what hotel? Was it the Fifth Avenue?" "He did not say. He will move here early this afternoon." "And what room will he have?" "The back room on the third floor--the one Mr. Bates had." "I should hardly think that room would satisfy a nobleman." "Why not? Is it not clean and neat?" "Undoubtedly, dear Mrs. Gray, but you must admit that it is not stylish, and it is small." "It is of the same size as the Professor's." "Ah, the Professor! He is not a man of elegant tastes. I once looked into his room. It smells so strong of tobacco, I could not stay in there ten minutes without feeling sick." "I think the Count smokes." "Perhaps he does, but he wouldn't smoke a dirty clay pipe. I can imagine him with a dainty cigarette between his closed lips. But, Mrs. Gray, I am going to ask you a great favor." "What is it?" "Let me sit beside the Count. I wish to make his acquaintance. He will be reserved and silent with most of the boarders. I will try to make him feel at home." "I thought you wished to sit beside Dr. Fenwick." "So I did, but he and I are friends, and he won't mind my changing my seat." When I came to supper that evening I was not wholly surprised to find myself removed to the opposite side of the table, but this I did not regret when I found that I was now next neighbor to the Disagreeable Woman. In my old seat there was a slender young man of middle height, with dark eyes and hair. Mrs. Wyman had already established herself in confidential relations with him, and was conversing with him in a low tone. "I suppose that is the Count," I remarked. "At any rate he calls himself so. He has deprived you of your seat." "Not only that but Mrs. Wyman has transferred her attentions to him." "Doubtless to your regret?" "Well, I don't know." "She is scarcely off with the old love before she is on with the new," quoted Miss Blagden, with an approach to a smile. "Perhaps you will console me," I ventured to suggest. "I can't compete with Mrs. Wyman in her special line." "I quite believe that," I said, smiling. After supper the widow fluttered up to me. "The Count is charming," she said, with enthusiasm. "He has a large estate in the South of Italy. He has come here to see the country and get acquainted with the people, and he may write a book." "He doesn't seem overstocked with brains," observed the Disagreeable Woman. But Mrs. Wyman had fluttered away and did not hear her. CHAPTER VII. MACY'S. One day I dropped in at Macy's. I wished to make some trifling purchase. Possibly I could have bought to equal advantage elsewhere, but I was curious to see this great emporium. Years before, I had heard of it in my country home, and even then I knew just where it was located, at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue. Curious as I had been about the place, I had actually spent three months in New York and had not visited it. It was something of a shock to me when I first learned there was no Macy, that the original proprietor had vanished from the stage and left his famous shop in charge of men of alien race and name. Macy had become _nominis umbra_--the shadow of a name. Yet the name had been wisely retained. Under no other name could the great store have retained its ancient and well-earned popularity. I made my purchase--it was trifling and did not materially swell the day's receipts--and began to walk slowly about the store, taking a leisurely survey of the infinite variety of goods which it offered to the prospective purchaser. As I was making my leisurely round, all at once I heard my name called in a low but distinct tone. "Dr. Fenwick!" I turned quickly, and behind the handkerchief counter I saw the young woman from Macy's, whose pleasant face I had seen so often at our table. She nodded and smiled, and I instantly went up to the counter. I was sensible that I must not take up the time of one of the salesladies--I believe that the genteel designation of this class--without some pretense of business, so, after greeting Ruth Canby, I said: "You may show me some of your handkerchiefs, please." "Do you wish something nice?" she asked. "I wish something cheap," I answered. "It doesn't matter much what a forlorn bachelor uses." "You may not always be a bachelor," said Ruth, with a suggestive smile. "I must get better established in my profession before I assume new responsibilities." "These handkerchiefs are ten cents, Dr. Fenwick," said Ruth, showing a fair article. "I think I can go a little higher." "And these are fifteen. They are nearly all linen." "I will buy a couple to try," I said, by way of excusing my small purchase. The young lady called "Cash," and soon a small girl was carrying the handkerchiefs and a fifty cent piece to the cashier. This left me five minutes for conversation, as no other customer was at hand. "So you are in the handkerchief department?" I remarked, by way of starting a conversation. "Yes." "Do you like it?" "I should prefer the book department. That is up-stairs, on the second floor. My tastes are _litery_." I am sure this was the word Ruth used. I was not disposed to criticise, however, only I wondered mildly how it happened that a young woman of literary tastes should make such a mistake. "I suppose you are fond of reading?" "Oh, yes, I have read considerable." "What, for instance?" "I have read one of Cooper's novels, I disremember the name, and the Gunmaker of Moscow, by Sylvanus Cobb, and _Poe's_ Tales, but I didn't like them much, they are so queer, and--and ever so many others." "I see you are quite a reader." "I should read more and find out more about books if I was in the book department. A friend of mine--Mary Ann Toner--is up there, and she knows a lot about books and authors." "Do any authors ever come in here, or rather to the book department?" "Yes; Mary Ann told me that there was a lady with long ringlets who wrote for the story papers who came in often. She had had two books published, and always inquired how they sold." "Do you remember her name?" "No, I disremember." I should like to have given her a hint that this word is hardly accounted correct, but I suspected that if I undertook to correct Miss Canby's English I should have my hands full. "Do you think you stand a chance to get into the book department?" "Mary Ann has agreed to speak for me when there is a vacancy. Do you often come into Macy's, Dr. Fenwick?" "This is my first visit." "You don't mean it? I thought everybody came to Macy's at least once a month." "Truly it looks like it," said I, looking about and noting the crowds of customers. "I hope you'll come again soon," said Ruth, as she turned to wait upon a lady. "I certainly will, Miss Canby. And it won't be altogether to buy goods." Ruth looked gratified and smiled her appreciation of the compliment. Certainly she looked comely and attractive with her rather high-colored country face, and I should have been excusable, being a bachelor, in letting my eyes rest complacently upon her rustic charms. But I was heart-proof so far as Ruth was concerned, I could not think of seeking a _litery_ wife. No, she was meant for some honest but uncultured young man, whose tastes and education were commensurate with hers. And yet, as I afterwards found, Ruth had made an impression in a quarter quite unexpected. I was not in search of a wife. It would have been the height of imprudence for me, with my small income and precarious prospects, to think of setting up a home and a family in this great, expensive city. Yet, had it been otherwise, perhaps Ruth would have made me a better wife than some graduate of a fashionable young ladies' seminary with her smattering of French, and superficial knowledge of the various ologies taught in high-class schools. The young woman from Macy's, though she probably knew nothing of political economy, was doubtless skilled in household economy and able to cook a dinner, as in all probability my wife would find it necessary to do. As we entered the room at supper, Miss Canby smiled upon me pleasantly. "I hope you are pleased with your handkerchiefs, Dr. Fenwick." "I have not had occasion to use them as yet, thank you." "Aha, what is that?" asked Prof. Poppendorf, who was just behind us. "Dr. Fenwick called to see me at Macy's," answered Ruth. Prof. Poppendorf frowned a little, as if not approving the visit. "Do you have gentlemen call upon you at Macy's, Mees Ruth?" he asked. "Only when they wish to buy articles," said Ruth, smiling and blushing. "What do you sell, Mees Ruth?" "Handkerchiefs, Professor." "Do you have any like this?" and he pulled out a large red silk handkerchief. "No, I have only white linen handkerchiefs." "I haf never use any but red ones, but I might come in and see what you have." "I shall be glad to show you what I have, Professor." Prof. Poppendorf was soon engaged in the discussion of dinner. He had a good German appetite which never failed. He seldom talked much during a meal, as it would interfere with more important business. Now that I had changed my place at the table, I sat on one side of the Disagreeable Woman, and Ruth Canby on the other. Next to Ruth sat the Professor, but for the reason already stated, he was not a social companion. Just opposite sat Mrs. Wyman and Count Penelli. So far as I could judge, he was a quiet young man, and had very little to say for himself. Mrs. Wyman, however, kept plying him with questions and remarks, and did her best to appear on terms of intimate acquaintance with him. Some fragments of her conversation floated across the table. "You have no idea, Count, how I long to visit Italy, your dear country." "It is ver' nice," he said, vaguely. "Nice? It must be lovely. Have you ever seen the Bay of Naples?" "Oh, _si_, signora, many times." "It is charming, is it not?" "_Si_, signora, it is beautiful." "And the Italian ladies, I have heard so much of them." "I like ze American ladies better." "Do you, indeed, Count? How gratifying! When do you expect to return to Italy?" "I do not know--some time." "I hope it will not be for a long time. We should miss you so much." "The signora is very kind." This will do for a sample of the conversation between the Count and the widow. Though several years his senior, it looked as if she was bent on making a conquest of the young nobleman. CHAPTER VIII. THE PROFESSOR IN LOVE. I was sitting in my office one morning waiting for patients, much of my time was passed in this way, very often I waited in vain. The modest sign which I was allowed to put on the outside of the house, DR. JAMES FENWICK didn't seem to attract attention. Of the little practise I had, at least a third was gratuitous. Yet I was expected to pay my bills, and when my little stock of money was exhausted there seemed a doubt as to whether the bills would be paid at all. One day I was summoned to a house where a child of three was struggling with croup. It was a serious case, and I gave up my time to the case. After several hours I succeeded in bringing the child round and pronouncing her out of danger. When I sent in my bill, the mother said: "Dr. Fenwick, Mary is but three years old." "Indeed!" I returned. I failed to understand why I should be informed of this fact. "And," continued the mother, "I don't think any charge ought to be made for a child so young." I was fairly struck dumb with amazement at first. Then I said, "The age of the patient has nothing to do with a physician's charges. Where did you get such an extraordinary idea?" "I don't have to pay for her on the horse-cars." "Madam," I said, provoked, "I will not argue with you. You ought to know that no physician treats children free. If you were very poor, and lived in a tenement house, I might make some discount, or leave off the charge altogether." "But I don't live in a tenement house," objected the lady, angrily. "No; you have the appearance of being very well to do. I must distinctly decline abating my charge." "Then, Dr. Fenwick," said the mother, stiffly, "I shall not employ you again." "That is as you please, madam." This seemed to me exceptionally mean, but doctors see a good deal of the mean side of human nature. Rich men with large incomes keep them out of their pay for a long time, sometimes where their lives depended on the physician's skill and fidelity. Oftentimes I have been so disgusted with the meanness of my patients, that I have regretted not choosing a different profession. Of course there is a different side to the picture, and gratitude and appreciation are to be found, as well as the opposite qualities. I had been waiting a long time without a patient, when a shuffling sound was heard on the stairs, and a heavy step approaching the door. Next came a knock. Instead of calling out, "Come in!" I was so pleased at the prospect of a patient, that I rose from my seat and opened the door, myself. I started back in surprise. For in the heavy, lumbering figure of the new arrival I recognized Prof. Poppendorf. "Prof. Poppendorf!" I exclaimed. "_Ja_, doctor, it is I. May I come in?" "Certainly." Supposing that he had come to consult me on the subject of his health, I began to wonder from what disease he was suffering. Remembering his achievements at the table I fancied it might be dyspepsia. The Professor entered the room, and sank into an armchair, which he quite filled from side to side. "I suppose you are surprised to see me, Herr Doctor," began the Professor. "Oh, no. I am never surprised to see anybody. I had not supposed you were sick." "Sick! Oh, no, I'm all right. I eat well and I sleep well. What should be the matter with me?" "I am glad to hear such good reports of you." Was I quite sincere? I am afraid it was a disappointment to learn that my supposed patient was in no need of advice. "_Ja_, I am well. I was never better, thank God!" "Then I am to consider this a social call," I said with affected cheerfulness. "You are very kind to call upon me, Prof. Poppendorf. I appreciate it as a friendly attention." "No, it is not quite dat." "Is there anything I can do for you?" "I come on a little peezness." I was puzzled. I could not understand what business there could be between the Professor and myself. "I shall be glad to hear what it is." "You see, I thought I would ask you if you were courting Mees Ruth Canby, if you mean to make her your wife?" I dropped into the nearest chair--I had been standing--in sheer amazement. To be asked my intentions in regard to the young woman from Macy's was most astonishing, and by Prof. Poppendorf, too! "Did Miss Canby send you here to speak to me?" I asked, considerably annoyed. "Oh, no! she knows nothing about it." "I can't understand what you have to do in the matter, Prof. Poppendorf. You are neither her father nor her brother." "Oh, _ja_, you are quite right." "Then why do you come to me with such a question?" "I thought I would like to know myself." "I deny your right to speak to me on the subject," I said, stiffly. "If now you had a good reason." "But I have a reason," protested the Professor, earnestly. "What is it?" "I lofe her myself. I wish to make her my frau." This was most astonishing. "You love her yourself?" "_Ja_, Herr Doctor." "And you want to marry her?" "_Ja._" "But you are an old man." "Not so old," said he, jealously; "I am only a little over sixty." "And I think she cannot be over twenty-one." "But I am a good man. I am strong. I am well. Look here!" and he struck his massive chest a sturdy blow, as if to show how sound he was. "Yes, you seem to be well." "You have not told me, Herr Doctor, if you lofe Mees Ruth," he said, uneasily. "No, I don't love her." "But you called to see her--at Macy's." "I called to buy some socks and handkerchiefs." "Was that all?" he asked, with an air of relief. "It was all." "Then you do not wish to marry Mees Ruth?" "I do not wish to marry any one. I am not rich enough. Are you?" "I have just engage to teach philosophy at Mees Smith's school on Madison Avenue. Then I have my private pupils. Ah, _ja_, I will make quite an income," he said, complacently. "Besides, Mees Ruth, she is a good housekeeper." "I do not know." "She will not wish to spend money," he said, anxiously. "I think she was brought up economically." "_Ja_, dat is good. All the German frauleins are good housekeepers. Dey can cook and keep house on a little money." "Were you ever married, Professor?" "_Ja_, long ago, but my frau she not live very long. It is many years ago." "If you married Miss Canby would you still board here?" "No, it would cost too much money. I would hire an apartment--what you call a flat, and Mees Ruth would keep the house--she would wash, she would cook, and--" "Take care of the babies," I added, jocularly. "Dat is as God wills." "Have you spoken to Miss Ruth on the subject?" "No, not yet. I wish to speak to you first--I thought you might want to marry her yourself." "You need have no anxiety on that subject; I never thought of such a thing." "Dat is good. I feel better." "Have you any idea that Miss Canby will agree to marry you?" "I do not know. I am a Herr Professor," he said, proudly. In Germany there is a high respect felt for titles of every kind, and the Professor evidently thought that his official dignity would impress the young woman from Macy's. "Still, you are so much older than she, that she may not at first like the idea." "You think she refuse me--that she gives me the mitten?" he said, uneasily. "If you propose too quick. Will you take my advice?" "_Ja, ja!_" "Then don't propose at once. Let her get accustomed to your attentions." "What shall I do first?" he asked, anxiously. "Suppose you invite her to go to the theatre with you?" "_Ja_, dat is good!" "Perhaps you could take her to hear Patti?" "No, no. It cost too much!" said he, shaking his head. "Then you might invite her to the Star Theatre to see Crane." "So I will." He rose and shuffled out of the office in a very pleasant humor. He felt that there was no obstacle to his suit, now that I had disclaimed all intention of marrying the young woman from Macy's. CHAPTER IX. AN EVENING AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE. The confidence which Prof. Poppendorf had reposed in me, naturally led me to observe his behavior at table to the young woman from Macy's. There was a difficulty as I had to look round the "Disagreeable Woman," who sat next to me. Then I could not very well watch the Professor's expression, as his large, green goggles concealed so large a part of his face. He still continued to devote the chief part of his time to the business of the hour, and his eyes were for the most part fixed upon his plate. Yet now and then I observed he offered her the salt or the pepper, a piece of attention quite new to him. I had some thought of suggesting to Miss Canby that she had awakened an interest in the heart of the gray old Professor, but it occurred to me that this would be hardly fair to the elderly suitor. It was only right to leave him a fair field, and let him win if Fate ordained it. On Wednesday evenings it was generally understood that the boarders, such at any rate as had no other engagements, would remain after supper and gather in the little reception-room, till the dining-room was cleared, spending the evening socially. On such occasions Mrs. Wyman would generally volunteer a song, accompanying herself if there was no one else to play. She had a thin, strident voice, such as one would not willingly hear a second time, but out of courtesy we listened, and applauded. The widow had one who fully appreciated her vocal efforts, and this was herself. She always looked pleased and complacent when her work was done. It was on the first Wednesday after the Count's arrival that she induced him to remain. "Don't you sing, Count?" she asked. "Very little, madam," he said. "But you are an Italian, and all Italians are musical." He uttered a faint disclaimer, but she insisted. "Do me a favor--a great favor," she said, persuasively, "and sing some sweet Italian air, such as you must know." "No, I don't sing Italian airs," he said. "What then?" "I can sing 'Sweet Marie.'" "I am sure we shall all be glad to hear it. I sometimes sing a little myself--just a tiny bit." "I shall like much to hear you, signora." "I shall feel very bashful about singing to an Italian gentleman. You will laugh at me." "No, no, I would not be so rude." "Then perhaps I may. Our friends always insist upon hearing me." So at an early period in the evening she sang one of her routine songs. I watched the Count's face while she was singing. I was amused. At first his expression was one of surprise. Then of pain, and it seemed to me of annoyance. When Mrs. Wyman had completed the song she turned to him a look of complacent inquiry. She was looking for a compliment. "Didn't I do horribly?" she asked. "Oh, no, no," answered the Count, vaguely. "It must have seemed very bad to you." "No, no--" "Do you think it was passable?" "Oh, signora, I never heard anything like it." "Oh, you naughty flatterer," she said, smiling with delight. "I am sure you don't mean it." "Indeed I do." I was sitting next the Disagreeable Woman. "The Count has more brains than I thought," she said. "I quite agree with him." "That you never heard anything like it?" I queried, smiling. "Yes." "Miss Ruth," I said to the young woman from Macy's, "do you never sing?" "I used to sing a little in my country home," she admitted. "What, for instance?" "I can sing 'Annie Laurie'." "Nothing could be better. It is a general favorite. Won't you sing it to-night?" "But I cannot sing without an accompaniment," she said, shyly. "I am not much of a musician, but I can play that." With a little more persuasion I induced her to sing. She had a pleasant voice, and while I cannot claim for her anything out of the common on the score of musical talent, she rendered the song fairly well. All seemed to enjoy it, except Mrs. Wyman, who said, in a sneering tone: "That song is old as the hills." "It may be so," I retorted, "but the best songs are old." "It was very good," said the Count, who really seemed pleased. This seemed to annoy the widow. "You are very good-natured, Count, to compliment such a rustic performance," she said. "But, signora, I mean it." "Well, let it pass! She did her best, poor thing!" "She is a nice girl." "Oh, Count, she is only a young woman from Macy's. She was born in the country, and raised among cabbages and turnips." He seemed puzzled, but evidently regarded Ruth with favor. Meanwhile, Prof. Poppendorf had listened attentively to the song of the maiden on whom he had fixed his choice. "Mees Ruth, you sing beautiful!" he said. Ruth Canby smiled. "You are very kind, Prof. Poppendorf," she said, gratefully. "I like your singing much better than Mrs. Wyman's." "No. You mustn't say that. She sings airs from the opera." "I like better your leetle song." By this time Mrs. Wyman had succeeded in extracting a promise from the Count to sing. "Dr. Fenwick," she said, "can't you play the accompaniment for the Count?" "What is the song?" "'Sweet Marie'." "I will do my best. I am not professional." So I played and the Count sang. He had a pleasant, sympathetic voice, and we were pleased with his singing. "Oh, how charming, Count!" said Mrs. Wyman; "I shall never dare to sing before you again." "Why not, signora." "Because you are such a musical artist." "Oh, no, no, signora!" he said, deprecatingly. He was persuaded to sing again, and again he pleased his small audience. "Miss Blagden, won't you favor us with a song?" asked Mrs. Wyman, in a tone of mockery. "Thank you," said the Disagreeable Woman, dryly. "There is so much musical talent here, that I won't undertake to compete with those who possess it." "Prof. Poppendorf, don't you ever sing?" asked the widow, audaciously. "I used to sing when I was young," answered the Professor, unexpectedly. "Then _do_ favor us!" He seated himself at the piano, and sang a German drinking song, such as in days gone by he had sung with Bismarck and his old comrades at the university. There was a rough vigor in his performance that was not unpleasant. No one was more surprised than Mrs. Wyman at the outcome of what she had meant as a joke. "Really, Professor," said the Disagreeable Woman, "you are more accomplished than I supposed. I like your song better than I did your lecture." Prof. Poppendorf removed his glasses, and we saw in his eyes a suspicious moisture. "Ah," he said, not appearing to hear the compliment, if it was a compliment, "it brings back the old days. I have not sing that song since I was at the university with Bismarck. There were twenty of us, young students, who sang it together, and now they are almost all gone." This ended the musical performances of the evening. After this, there was conversation, and later Mrs. Gray provided ice-cream and cake. It was Horton's ice-cream, and the plates were small, but we enjoyed it. Before we parted, the Professor found himself sitting next to Ruth Canby. "Do you ever go to the theatre, fraulein?" he asked. "Not often, Professor. I cannot go alone, and there is no one to take me." "I will take you, Mees Ruth." The young woman from Macy's looked amazed. She had not dreamed of such an invitation from him. Yet she was very fond of the stage, and she saw no reason why she should not accept. "You are very kind, Professor," she said. "I did not think you cared for the theatre." "I would like to go--with you," he said, gallantly. "Then I will go." "It will be like going with my grandfather," she thought. CHAPTER X. A RUSTIC ADMIRER. Sunday was always a lonely day to me. In the country village, where I knew everybody, I always looked forward to it as the pleasantest day of the week. Here in the crowded city, I felt isolated from human sympathy. I accustomed myself to attending church in the forenoon. In the afternoon I took a walk or an excursion. At the boarding-house even it was dull and less social than usual. Such of the boarders as had friends near the city were able to absent themselves after breakfast. Among the faces that I missed was that of the Disagreeable Woman. Sometimes she appeared at breakfast; but never at dinner or tea. Though she never indulged in conversation to any extent, I think we all missed her. One Sunday afternoon, soon after the gathering described in the last chapter, I walked up Fifth Avenue to Central Park. It was a pleasant day and many were out. Through the magnificent avenue I walked in a leisurely way, and wondered idly how it would seem to own a residence in this aristocratic street. I could not repress a feeling of envy when I thought of the favored class who dwelt in the long line of palaces that line the avenue. Their lives seemed far removed from that of a struggling physician, who was in daily doubt how long he could maintain his modest style of living in the crowded metropolis. Arrived at Fifty-ninth street I sauntered toward the menagerie. This is the favorite resort of children, and of young persons from the country. Perhaps I, myself, might be classed among the latter. I did not care so much, however, to observe the animals as the visitors. I had a hope that I might see some one whom I knew. At first I could see no familiar face. But presently I started, as my glance fell on the short and somewhat plump figure of the young woman from Macy's. She was not alone. With her walked a tall, sun-burned young man, who was evidently from the country. She leaned confidingly upon his arm, and her face was radiant. He was evidently an old friend, perhaps a lover. He, too, looked contented and happy. Were they lovers? It looked like it. If so, the matrimonial plans of Prof. Poppendorf were doomed to disappointment. Delicacy dictated my silent withdrawal, but I confess that my curiosity was aroused, and I resolved to gratify it. Accordingly I pressed forward and overtook the young woman from Macy's and her escort. She looked up casually, and a little flush overspread her face when she recognized me. "Dr. Fenwick!" she said, impulsively. I turned and lifted my hat. "I am glad to meet you, Miss Canby!" I said. At the same time I looked inquiringly at her escort. "Stephen," she said, "this is Dr. Fenwick from our boarding-house." "Proud to know you, sir," said the young man, offering his hand. I shook it heartily. "You have not mentioned your friend's name, Miss Canby," I said. "Excuse me! I am very neglectful. This is Stephen Higgins from our town. I used to go to school with him." "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Higgins." "Same to you, sir." "I suppose you are on a visit to the city, Mr. Higgins." "Yes, sir. I came here to spend Sunday, and see Ruth." "I presume you have been in the city before?" "Not for five years. It's a pretty smart place. I'm so turned round that I hardly know which way to turn." "You will have a good guide in Miss Canby." "In Ruth, yes." "I wish I could go round with him all the time he is here, Dr. Fenwick, but to-morrow I shall have to go back to my work at Macy's." She gave a little sigh as she spoke. "Do you intend to stay long, Mr. Higgins?" "Only a day or two. It's pretty expensive stayin' in York." "I want him to stay over till Tuesday, Dr. Fenwick. He can't see much if he goes home to-morrow." "If you could be with me, Ruth--" "But I can't, so it's no use talking about it." "Wouldn't Mr. Macy give you a day off?" "If I could find him perhaps he would," she said, laughing. "Why can't you find him? Isn't he at the store every day?" "Mr. Macy is dead, Stephen." "Then how can he keep store?" asked Stephen, bewildered. "Somebody else runs it in his name?" "Don't let me interfere with your plans," I said, feeling that perhaps I might be in the way. They both urged me to stay, and so I did. By this time all the attractions of the menagerie had been seen, and I proposed to walk to the lake. "How would you like to live in the city, Mr. Higgins?" I asked. "First rate, if I could find anything to do." "What is your business at home?" "I work on father's farm. Next year, as father's gettin' feeble, I may take it on shares." "That will be better, perhaps, than seeking a situation in the city." "I should like to be here on account of Ruth," he said, wistfully. She smiled and shook her head. "There's nothing for me to do in the country," she said. "I might find something for you to do," he said, eagerly. Then I saw how it was, and felt inclined to help him. "Do you like Macy's so well, then?" I asked. "I don't know," she answered, thoughtfully, "I like to feel that I am earning my living." "You wouldn't need," commenced Stephen, but she checked him by a look. "You might not like to part with the Professor," said I, mischievously. Stephen took instant alarm. "What Professor?" he asked. "Professor Poppendorf. He is a German, a very learned man." "And what have you got to do with the Professor, Ruth?" he asked, jealously. "Oh, you foolish boy!" she said. "You ought to see him." "I don't want to see him." "He is an old gentleman, most seventy, and wears green glasses." Stephen looked relieved. "By the way, did you have a pleasant evening with the Professor at the theatre the other evening, Miss Canby?" It was very reprehensible of me, I know, but I felt a little mischievous. "Did you go to the theatre with him, Ruth?" asked Stephen, reproachfully. "Yes, I am so fond of the theatre, you know, I could not resist the temptation." "What did you see?" "I went to see Crane in the Senator. Where do you think we sat?" and she laughed. "I don't know." "In the upper gallery. The idea of asking a lady to sit in the top of the house!" "The Professor is a German, and all Germans are frugal. I presume he thought you would be perfectly satisfied. Did the Professor appear to enjoy the play?" "Very much. He did not always understand it, and asked me to explain it to him. Now and then he burst into such a loud laugh that I felt quite ashamed. Then I was glad that we were in the top gallery." "When the play was over did he invite you to take an ice-cream at Delmonico's or Maillard's?" "No, but he invited me into a saloon to take a glass of lager." Here she laughed again. "Evidently the Professor is not a ladies' man. Did you accept the beer?" "As if I would!" "Poor man! you deprived him of a pleasure." "No, I did not. He left me on the sidewalk while he went in and took his beer." "I hope you won't go to the theatre with him again," said Stephen, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "You can rest quite easy, Stephen, I won't." "What made him ask you to go?" "You will have to ask him, Stephen. If you will come round to supper this evening, I will introduce you to him. There will be plenty of room, as some of our boarders are always away on Sunday." Stephen felt a little bashful at first, but finally yielded to persuasion and took his place at the table in the seat of the Disagreeable Woman. After seeing the Professor he got over his jealousy. The old German scholar hardly suggested a young Lothario, and his appearance was not calculated to excite jealousy. Prof. Poppendorf removed his goggles the better to observe Ruth's friend, but did not appear to be disturbed. That Ruth should prefer this young rustic to a man of his position and attainments, would have seemed to him quite out of the range of probability. CHAPTER XI. A POOR PATIENT. I was accustomed to remain in my office till about four o'clock in the afternoon waiting for possible patients. It was a long and weary wait, and oftentimes not a caller rewarded me. I suppose it is the usual fortune of young medical practitioners who are comparatively unknown. When four o'clock came I went out for a walk. Generally my steps tended to Sixth Avenue where there was some life and bustle. I was compelled to practise the most rigid economy, but I could not deny myself the luxury of an evening paper. I would buy either the _Sun_ or _World_, each of which cost but a penny. One little newsboy came to know me, and generally lay in wait for me as I emerged from a side street. He was a bright, attractive little boy of ten, whose name I found to be Frank Mills. His clothing was well-worn but clean, and his whole appearance was neat, so that I judged he had a good mother. Usually Frank's manner was cheerful, but on the day succeeding my visit to the Park I found he looked sober and his eyes looked red as if he had been crying. "What is the matter, Frank?" I asked. "My sister is sick," he said, sadly. "Is it an older sister?" "Yes; she works at O'Neil's dry goods store. She has been sick two days." "What is the matter?" "Mother thinks it is a fever." "Have you called a doctor?" "N--no," answered Frank. "Why not?" "We haven't any money to pay a doctor. We are very poor, and now that sister isn't working I don't know how we shall get along. There is no one to earn money except me, and I don't make more than thirty cents a day." "If I were rich, Frank, I would help you." "I am sure you would, sir, for you look like a kind gentleman." This simple tribute went to my heart. The boy felt that I was a friend, and I determined that I would be one so far as I was able. "Still I can do something for you. I am a doctor, and if you will take me round to your house I will look at your sister and see if I can do anything for her." The boy's eyes lighted up with joy. "Will you be so kind, sir? I will go with you now." "Yes, Frank, the sooner the better." I followed him for perhaps a quarter of a mile to a poor house situated on one of the side streets leading down to the North River. The street was shabby enough, and the crowd of young children playing about showed that it was tenanted by poor families, rich in children if nothing else. Frank stopped at one of these houses and opened the door into a dirty hall. "We live on the top floor," he said, "if you won't mind going up." "I shall mind it no more than you, Frank," I said. "I am still a young man." We climbed three staircases, and stood on the upper landing. "I'll go in and tell mother I have brought a doctor," said Frank. "Just wait here a minute." He opened a door and entered. He came out again almost immediately. He was followed by a woman of perhaps forty, with a pleasant face, but looking very sad. "Welcome, doctor," she said. "Frank tells me you were kind enough to offer us your services." "Yes, I am glad to do what I can for you." "This is my daughter. I feel very much worried about her." The daughter lay on a bed in an inner room (there were but two). She was pale and looked ill-nourished, but in spite of the delicacy of her appearance, she was pretty. "Alice, this is the doctor," said her mother. Alice opened her eyes languidly, and tried to smile. "Let me feel your pulse," I said. The pulsations were slow and feeble. The mother fixed her eyes upon me anxiously, and awaited my verdict. "Your daughter is quite run down," I said. "She has very little strength, but I do not find any positive indications of disease." "You are right, no doubt, doctor," said the mother with a sigh. "She is a delicate girl, and I am sure she was overworked." "She is employed in a dry goods store, Frank tells me." "Yes, she is at O'Neil's. They are very considerate there, but it is hard to be standing all day." "It would be hard for any one. I am a man and strong, but I don't think I could endure it. She ought to have two weeks' rest, at least, before returning to work." "I am sure you are right, doctor," said Mrs. Mills, "but how can it be managed? We have but two breadwinners, Frank and Alice. Frank, poor boy, brings in all he can, but Alice earns six dollars a week. It is upon that that we depend for our living. It is a hard thing to be poor, doctor." "Indeed it is," I answered. "You speak as if you know something about it." "I do. I am a young physician, with very little money, and few patients. Life with me is a struggle, as it is with you." I was well dressed--that is a necessity with a professional man, who must keep up appearances--and this perhaps made it difficult for Mrs. Mills to believe that I was really poor. "What do you prescribe, doctor?" "No medicines are needed. What your daughter needs most is strengthening food--to begin with a little beef tea." Mrs. Mills looked embarrassed. I understood her embarrassment. What I ordered was simple enough; but where was the money to come from, to supply the sick girl's needs? "I can make some beef tea," she said, after a pause, "and some bread." "It is just the thing," I said, cheerfully. "Then you don't think she needs any medicine?" "No." There was still that anxious look on the mother's face. Alice was the breadwinner, and she was sick. How were they to live? An idea came to me. "I will call again to-morrow morning," I said, cheerfully. "You are very kind, doctor. I should like to pay you, but we are so miserably poor." "Don't let that trouble you for a moment. I can give you some of my time, for of that I have plenty." CHAPTER XII. THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN IN A NEW LIGHT. I have said that I had an idea. The destitute condition of this poor family weighed upon me, and excited my sympathy. With my scanty means I could give them only advice, but could I not secure help from others. Mrs. Gray, my landlady, would perhaps furnish a supply of food, but though a good woman in the main she was not inclined to be charitable. She was inclined to be suspicious of those who applied to her for help, and I did not want to subject Mrs. Mills to any new sorrow or mortification. Among my fellow boarders, I could not think of one to whom I could apply, except--well, yes, except the Disagreeable Woman. Under her cynical exterior I suspected there was a sympathetic heart, though I believe that I alone gave her credit for it. I resolved to speak to her about my poor patient. As the reader already knows, I sat next to Miss Blagden at the table. Toward the close of supper I said in a low voice: "If you will allow me, Miss Blagden, I will walk with you a short distance after supper. I have something to say to you." She looked surprised, but answered promptly, "I shall be glad of your company." This was the most agreeable speech I had heard from her since our acquaintance commenced. Nothing more was said till I found myself walking by her side toward Broadway. "Now?" she said, expectantly. "I am going to take a liberty," I said. "I am going to try to interest you in a poor family. I of course know nothing of your means, but my own are so limited that in spite of my profound sympathy I can only give my medical services, while more is needed." "Go on, doctor," she said, and there was unwonted kindness in her tone. I told her the story in brief words, and she seemed interested. "Your young patient has no organic disease?" she inquired. "None whatever. She is ill-nourished, and works too hard. That is the whole story." "They are very poor." "You can judge. Their income cannot be more than seven dollars and a half, and of this the girl earns six dollars. Her sickness will entail some outlay, and there is only the boy to earn money now." "It is very sad, doctor. How little we whose wants are provided for know of the sufferings of the poor! But fortunately," she added, and a rare smile lighted up her features and made her positively attractive, in spite of her name, "fortunately there is a remedy. When do you see this poor family again?" "I shall call to-morrow morning after breakfast." "And in the meantime do you think they will suffer for the lack of food?" "It may be so. I don't think they have much money in the house?" "Do you think you could make it convenient to call there this evening?" "Yes, I am sure I could. Their poor home is less than half a mile distant from our boarding-house." "Then, doctor, be kind enough to hand them this." She drew out her purse and handed me a five dollar bill. I suppose I showed the joy I felt. "Miss Blagden," I said, "you could not give me a more agreeable commission." "I believe it, doctor." There was an unwonted softness in her tone, and her smile was positively attractive. How could we call her the "Disagreeable Woman?" CHAPTER XIII. MRS. WYMAN'S CURIOSITY. I was passing our boarding-house on my return from the walk with Miss Blagden when Mrs. Wyman tapped on the window, and opened it. "I saw you!" she said, in a bantering tone. "At supper?" "No, I saw you walking away with Miss Blagden. So you are smitten at last!" I smiled. "I assure you," I said, "there is nothing between us." "You seem uncommonly attentive," and I thought there was something of pique in her tone. "What can I do?" I answered. "You have forsaken me, and devote yourself to the Count." "As if I could forget you!" she said, in a sentimental tone. If she had known how utterly indifferent I was to her favor or disfavor she would hardly have been complimented. She had transferred her attentions to Count Penelli, but she still wished to retain her hold upon me. "By the way," she said, suddenly, "are you going to hear Patti during her present engagement?" "Do you take me for a millionaire?" "Her prices are frightful!" she said, thoughtfully. "Of course I cannot go without an escort." "If you will secure two tickets, I will accompany you." "Thank you, but I am so poor. Still I dote on music, and I would buy my own ticket." I shrugged my shoulders, and declined to take the hint. "Very probably the Count will wish to go. He is an Italian, you know, and would have the advantage of understanding the language." "True." "As a nobleman he is doubtless above money considerations." "You are mistaken. He is the heir to great estates, but he is out of favor with his father, and has to live on a very small allowance. It is a pity, isn't it?" "He might work at some business, and replenish his purse." "But you must remember he is a nobleman. His rank debars him from many positions that would be open to a common man." "I am glad that I am not a nobleman, then." "Ah, he might not object to being a doctor if he were trained to that profession. I wish there were any way of getting a ticket to Patti, without such a monstrous outlay. Can't you think of any way?" "Mr. Blake is connected with a morning paper. Perhaps he may be entitled to a Press ticket." "Thank you, Dr. Fenwick. That is an excellent suggestion. I will speak to him to-morrow morning. Where are you walking, if I may ask?" "To see a poor patient. Will you accompany me?" "No, no, I should be afraid of catching some horrid fever or something." "The family is poor, and stands very much in need of assistance." "How will they pay you, then?" "They won't pay me. I shall not ask any compensation." "I think you are foolish to waste your time on such people. They can't benefit you." "I can help them." "You will never get rich in that way." "I do not expect to. I shall be satisfied if I can make a living. If you feel inclined to be charitable, I can recommend Mrs. Mills as deserving all the help you are inclined to bestow." "I positively haven't a cent to spare. Besides it would make it all the more difficult to hear Patti." Mrs. Wyman closed the window. The conversation had taken a turn which she did not relish. CHAPTER XIV. THE QUALITY OF MERCY. When I knocked again at the door of Mrs. Mills, she opened it and regarded me in some surprise. "Did you think Alice would be worse?" she asked. "No, but I am commissioned by a charitable lady, one of my fellow boarders, to give you this." She took the bill which I offered her, and her face lighted up with joy. "It is a godsend," she said. "I was feeling very anxious. We had but twenty-five cents in the house." "This will help along." "Indeed it will. How kind you are, doctor," and her eyes filled with grateful tears. "I would like to be kind, but my ability is limited." "And who is this lady to whom I am indebted?" "We call her the Disagreeable Woman." She looked very much surprised. "Surely you are jesting, doctor." "No; she is a social mystery. She is very blunt and says many sharp things." "But she sends me this money. She must have a good heart." "I begin to think so. It would surprise all at the table if they knew she had done this." "I shall think of her as the Agreeable Woman." "Now, Mrs. Mills, I am going to give you some advice. What your daughter needs is nourishing food. Use this money to provide it not only for her but for yourself." "I will--but when this is gone," she hesitated. "We will appeal to the Disagreeable Woman. What has your daughter taken?" "I have given her some beef tea." "That is good as far as it goes. Do you think she could eat a bit of steak?" "I will ask her." Alice seemed so pleased at the suggestion that Frank was dispatched to the butcher's for a pound of sirloin steak, and a few potatoes. Soon the rich and appetizing flavor of broiled steak pervaded the apartment, and a smile of contentment lighted up the face of the sick girl. "Now mind that you and Frank eat some too," I said. "I will see you to-morrow morning." I made a report to Miss Blagden at breakfast. "If you had seen how much pleasure your gift gave, you would feel amply repaid," I said to her. "Doctor," she said, earnestly, "I thank you for mentioning this case to me. We are so apt to live for ourselves." "I also mentioned the case to Mrs. Wyman," I added. "Well?" she asked, curiously. "She said she was very poor, and wanted to buy a ticket to Patti's concert." Miss Blagden smiled. "I am not surprised to hear it," she said. "Did you ever hear Patti, Dr. Fenwick?" "No, Miss Blagden. I am new to the city, and I am cut off from expensive amusements by my limited means." "Do you like music?" "Very much. When Patti gives a concert at fifty cents, I may venture to go." At supper Miss Blagden placed something in my hand. I looked at it, and found that it was a ticket to Patti's concert on the following evening. It would give me admission to the most expensive part of the house. "You are very kind, Miss Blagden," I said, in grateful surprise. "Don't mention where you got it. You may consider it in the light of a fee for attendance upon your poor patient. By the way, how is she? Have you been there to-day?" "Yes; she is doing well, but is in a great hurry to get well. The rent comes due next week, and--" "How much is it?" asked Miss Blagden, interrupting me. "Seven dollars." She drew a ten dollar bill from her pocket-book and extended it to me. "Give that to Mrs. Mills," she said. "You make me very happy as well as her; I am beginning to find how kind and charitable you are." "No, no," she said gravely. "There are few of us of whom that may be said. How soon do you think your patient will be able to resume work?" "Next Monday, I hope. She is gaining rapidly." "How thick you are with the Disagreeable Woman!" said Mrs. Wyman, when she next met me. "Don't fail to invite me to the wedding." "On one condition." "What is that?" "That you invite me to your wedding with the Count." She smiled complacently and called me a naughty man. I wonder if she aspires to become a Countess. CHAPTER XV. THE PROFESSOR'S COURTSHIP. "What a guy!" The busy day at Macy's was over. Troops of young women passed through the doors, in street costume, and laughing and chatting, made their way up or down Sixth Avenue, or turned into Twenty-third street. Among them was Ruth Canby, and it was to her that her friend Maria Stevenson addressed the above exclamation. Ruth turned to observe the figure indicated by her friend, and was almost speechless with surprise. At the corner leaning against the lamppost was a figure she knew well. The rusty overcoat with its amplitude of cape, the brown crushed hat, the weather-beaten face, and the green goggles were unmistakable. It was Prof. Poppendorf. He was peering in his short-sighted way at the young women emerging from the great store with an inquiring gaze. Suddenly his eyes brightened. He had found the object of his search. "Mees Ruth!" he exclaimed, stepping forward briskly, "I haf come to walk home with you." Ruth looked confused and almost distressed. She would gladly have found some excuse to avoid the walk but could think of none. "Maria!" she said, hurriedly, "it is an old friend of the family. I shall have to leave you." Her friend looked at the rusty figure in amazement. "Oh, well, Ruth," she said, "we will meet to-morrow. So long!" This was not perhaps the way in which a Fifth Avenue maiden would have parted from her friend, but Maria Stevenson was a free and easy young woman, of excellent heart and various good qualities, but lacking the social veneering to be met with in a different class of society. "How provoking!" thought Ruth, as she reluctantly took her place beside the Professor, who, unlike herself, seemed in the best of spirits. "I haf waited here a quarter of an hour to meet you, Mees Ruth," he said. "I wish you hadn't," thought Ruth, but she only said, "I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble." "It was no trouble, I assure you, Mees Ruth," said her elderly companion in as genial a tone as his bass voice could assume. "Let us cross the street," suggested Ruth. She wished as soon as possible to get out of sight of her shop companions, who were sure to tease her the next day. "With all my heart," said the Professor. "I should wish to be more alone." They crossed Sixth Avenue, and walked down on the west side. Ruth was wondering all the while what on earth could have induced the Professor to take such pains to offer her his escort. She did not have long to wait. "I haf something very particular to say to you, Mees Ruth," said the Professor, gazing fondly at her through his green goggles. "Indeed!" returned Ruth, in great surprise. "Yes, Mees Ruth, I haf been feeling very lonely. I am tired of living at a boarding-house. I wish to have a home of my own. Will you marry me? Will you be my frau--I mean my wife?" Ruth Canby stopped short. She was "like to drop," as she afterwards expressed it. "Marry you!" she repeated, in a dazed way. "Yes, Mees Ruth, dear Mees Ruth, I want you to be my wife." "But, Professor, I could never think of marrying a man so----" old she was about to add, but she feared it would hurt the Professor's feelings. "I know what you would say, Mees Ruth. You think I am too old. But I am strong. See here!" and he smote his large breast vigorously. "I am sound, and I shall live many years. My father lived till eighty-five, and I am only sixty-five." "I am only twenty." "True! you are much younger, but no young man would love you so fondly." "I don't know," said Ruth. "Perhaps you think I am poor, but it is not so. I haf a good income, and I haf just been appointed to gif lectures on philosophy in Miss Green's school on Madison Avenue. We will take a nice flat. I will furnish it well, and we will haf a happy home." "Thank you very much, Prof. Poppendorf," said Ruth, hurriedly. "Indeed I feel complimented that such a learned man and great scholar should wish to marry me, but I am only a simple girl--I have not much education--and I should not make a suitable wife for you." "Do not think of that, Mees Ruth. I will teach you myself. I will teach you Latin and Greek, and Sanscrit, if you please. I will read my lectures on philosophy to you, and I will make you '_une femme savante_,' so that you can talk with my brother Professors who will come to see me. You can cook, can you not, Mees Ruth?" "Yes, I know how to cook, but--" "Ah, that is well," said the Professor, in a tone of satisfaction. "All the German ladies can cook. Frau von Bismarck, the wife of my old friend, is an excellent cook. I haf dined at Bismarck's house." "But," said Ruth, firmly, "I can not think of becoming your wife, Prof. Poppendorf." "Ach, so!" said the Professor, in a tone of disappointment. "Do not make such a mistake, my dear Mees Ruth. Is it nothing to become Mrs. Professor Poppendorf. You will take a good place in society. For I assure you that I am well known among scholars. I am now busy on a great work on philosophy, which will extend my fame. I will make you proud of your husband." "Indeed, Prof. Poppendorf, I do not doubt your learning or your fame, but I can not marry a man old enough to be my grandfather." "So, I am not so sure about that. I am old enough to be your father, but--" "Never mind! We will not argue the point. I hope you will say no more. I can not marry you." "Ah! is there another? Haf I a rival?" demanded the Professor, frowning fiercely. "It is that Dr. Fenwick?" "No, it is not." "I do not think he would care to marry you." "And I don't want to marry him, though I think him a very nice young gentleman." "Who is it, then?" "If you must know," said Ruth, pettishly, "it is that young man who took supper with us not long ago." "The young man from the country?" "Yes." "But what do you see in him, Mees Ruth. He is a _yokel_." "A what?" "He is a very worthy young man, I do not doubt, but what does he know? He is a farmer, is he not, with no ideas beyond his paternal acres?" "Prof. Poppendorf, I will not have you speak so of my Stephen," said Ruth, while a wave of anger passed over her face. "Ah, that is his name. Stephen. Pardon, Mees Ruth! I do not wish to say anything against this rural young man, but he will never give you the position which I offer you." "Perhaps not, but I like him better." "Ach, so. Then is my dream at an end; I did hope to have you for my frau, and haf a happy home and a loving companion in my declining years." His tone seemed so mournful that Ruth was touched with pity and remorse. "Prof. Poppendorf," she said, gently, "you must not be too much disappointed. There are many who would appreciate the honor of marrying you. Why do you not ask Mrs. Wyman?" "She is a butterfly--a flirt. I would not marry her if there were no other woman living." The young woman from Macy's quite agreed with the Professor, and it was not without satisfaction that she heard him express himself in this manner. "Well," she continued, "then there is Miss Blagden. She is of a more suitable age." "The Disagreeable Woman. What do you take me for, Mees Ruth? She is too strong-minded." "Perhaps so, but I am sure she has a kind heart." "I should never be happy with her--never!" said the Professor, decidedly. "Were you ever married, Professor?" asked Ruth with sudden curiosity. "Yes, I was married when I was thirty--but my Gretchen only lived two years. I haf mourned for her more than thirty years." "You have waited a long time, Professor." "Yes; till I saw you, Mees Ruth, I never haf seen the woman I wanted to marry. Perhaps," he added with sudden hope, "this young man, Stephen, does not wish to marry you." "He will be only too glad," said Ruth, tossing her head. "He offered himself to me a year ago." "Then there is no hope for me?" "None at all, Professor." They had reached Waverley Place, and so there was no time for further conversation. As they came up the stoop Mrs. Wyman saw them through the window. She was in waiting in the hall. "Have you had a nice walk _together_?" she purred. "How I hate that woman!" said Ruth to herself. She ran up stairs and prepared for supper. CHAPTER XVI. SITS THE WIND IN THAT QUARTER. Of course I attended the Patti concert. The seat given me was in the best part of the house, and I felt somewhat bashful when I found that all my neighbors wore dress suits. My own suit--the best I had--was beginning to show the marks of wear, but I did not dare go to the expense of another. My next neighbor was an elderly gentleman, bordering upon sixty. In the twenty minutes that elapsed before the rise of the curtain we fell into a pleasant conversation. It was pleasant to find that he was becoming interested in me. "You enjoy Patti?" he said. "But then I hardly need ask that. Your presence here is sufficient evidence." "I have no doubt I shall enjoy Patti," I answered. "I have never heard her." "Indeed? How does that happen?" "Because I have been only three months in New York. I came here from the country, and of course I had no chance to hear her there." "Excuse my curiosity, but you do not look like a business man." "I am not. I am a practising physician." "Indeed!" he replied, with interest. "I wish you could cure my rheumatism." "I should like a chance to try." This was a little audacious, as probably he had his own family physician, but it came naturally upon his remark. "You shall try," he said, impulsively. "My family physician has failed to benefit me." "It may be so with me." "At any rate I will try you. Can you call at my house to-morrow at eleven o'clock?" "I will do so with pleasure." He gave me his card. I found that his name was Gregory Vincent, and that he lived in one of the finest parts of Madison Avenue. It occurred to me that he was perhaps imprudent in trusting an unknown young physician, but I was not foolish enough to tell him so. "I will call," I said with professional gravity, and I entered the name and engagement in my medical note-book. Here the curtain rose, and our thoughts were soon occupied by the stage. When the concert was over, my new friend as he shook my hand, said, "I can rely upon your calling to-morrow, Dr. Fenwick?" "I will not fail you." "I don't know how it is," he said, "but though we are strangers I have a prophetic instinct that you can help me." "I will do my best, Mr. Vincent." Congratulating myself on my new and promising patient, I made my way into the lobby. There presently I met Mrs. Wyman and Count Penelli. I learned later that she had purchased two cheap seats and invited the Count to accompany her. They had not distinguished me in the audience, I was so far away from them. "Dr. Fenwick!" exclaimed Mrs. Wyman, in surprise. "I thought you said you were not coming." "I changed my mind," I answered, smiling. "Of course, you enjoyed the concert?" "Did I not? But where were you sitting?" "In the orchestra." "What! Among the millionaires?" "I don't know if they were millionaires. I was ashamed of my appearance. All wore dress suits except myself and the ladies." "It seems to me, doctor, you were extravagant." "It does seem so." I did not propose to enlighten Mrs. Wyman as to the small expense I was at for a ticket. I could see with secret amusement that her respect for me was increased by my supposed liberal outlay. In this respect I showed to advantage beside her escort who had availed himself of a ticket purchased by her. She had represented that the tickets were sent her by the management. "The Count had an advantage over us," said the widow. "He could understand the language." "_Si_, Signora," said the Count, with a smile. "It wasn't the words I cared for," said I. "I should enjoy Patti if she sang in Arabic." "Well, perhaps so. Were you ever in Italy, doctor?" "No, the only foreign country I ever visited was New Jersey." "Is New Jersey then a foreign country?" asked the Count, puzzled. "It is only a joke, Count," said the widow. "And a poor one, I admit." "The Count had been telling me of his ancestral home, of the vine-clad hills, and the olive trees, and the orange groves. Oh, I am wild to visit that charming Italy." "Perhaps you may do so some day, my dear Mrs. Wyman," said the Count, in a soft tone. The widow cast down her eyes. "It would be too lovely," she said. When we reached the boarding-house, the Count asked, "May I come up to your room, Dr. Fenwick?" "Certainly. I shall be glad to have you do so." My room was a small one. I should have had to pay a higher price for a larger one. However, I gave the Count my only chair, and sat on the bed. "Is it permitted?" he asked, as he lighted a cigarette. "Oh, yes," I replied, but I only said so out of politeness. It was decidedly disagreeable to have any one smoke in my chamber in the evening. I could, however, open the window afterwards and give it an airing. "Mrs. Wyman is a very fine woman," said the Count, after a pause. "Very," I responded, briefly. "And she is rich, is she not?" he asked, in some anxiety. "Sits the wind in that quarter?" I thought. "Well, I won't stand in the way." "She seems independent." "Ah! you mean--" "That she has enough to live upon. She never seemed to have any money troubles. I suppose it is the same with you, you no doubt draw a revenue from your estates in Italy?" "No, no, you make a mistake. They belong to my father, and he is displease with me. He will send me no money." "Are you the oldest son?" "_Si_, signor!" but he answered hesitatingly. "Then you will be all right some day." "True, doctor, some day, but just now I am what you call short. You could do me a great favor." "What is it?" "If you could lend me fifty dollar?" "My dear Count, it would be quite impossible. Do you think I am rich?" "You pay five--six dollar for your ticket to hear Patti." "It was imprudent, but I wished to hear her; now I must be careful." "I would pay you when I get my next remittance from Italy." "It will not be possible," I answered, firmly. "Have you asked Prof. Poppendorf?" "No! Has he got money?" "I think he has more than I." "I have a special use for the money," said the Count, but I did not ask what it was. Presently the Count rose and left me. It took twenty minutes to clear the room of the vile smell of cigarette smoke. "After all," thought I, "there is a chance for Mrs. Wyman to become a Countess, that is if he is a real Count." Upon this point I did not feel certain. "Well, did you enjoy Patti?" asked Miss Blagden at the breakfast table. "Immensely. Why did you not go?" "Because I have very little taste for music," answered the Disagreeable Woman. "Mrs. Wyman was there." "She sings," said Miss Blagden, with a slight smile. "Yes, the Count was with her." "Humph! where did they sit?" "In the upper part of the house somewhere. I felt myself out of place among the Four Hundred. But it brought me luck." "How is that?" "I secured a patient, a Mr. Gregory Vincent of Madison Avenue." "Was Gregory Vincent there? How did you make his acquaintance?" "He was my next neighbor. He seemed to take a liking to me, confided to me that he was a victim of rheumatism, and I am to assume charge of his case." "I am very glad," said Miss Blagden, heartily. "Do your best to cure him." "I will." "And don't be afraid to send him in a good bill." "I am sure he will pay me liberally." "It may be your stepping stone to success." "Thank you for your kind interest." "And how is your poor patient--Alice Mills?" "Quite well now, but I wish she were not obliged to spend so many hours in a crowded store." "When do you call there again?" "I may call this morning." "I will go with you. I have a plan for them." Miss Blagden accompanied me to the poor house. She was so kind and gentle that I did not understand how any one could call her the Disagreeable Woman. In a few days, thanks to her, Mrs. Mills was installed as housekeeper to a wealthy widower in Fifty-seventh street. Alice was made governess to two young children, and Frank was provided with a home in return for some slight services. CHAPTER XVII. MY RICH PATIENT. When I was admitted to the house of Gregory Vincent, I was surprised by its magnificence. It has been said that there are few palaces in Europe that compare in comfort and luxury with a first class New York mansion. I have never been in a palace, and Mr. Vincent's house was the only aristocratic house which I had had an opportunity to view. But I am prepared to indorse the remark. I handed my card to the liveried servant who opened the door. "Dr. Fenwick," he repeated. "Yes, sir; you are expected." He led me upstairs into an elegant library, or sitting-room and library combined. Here sat my acquaintance of the evening before, with his foot swathed in bandages and resting on a chair, while he was seated in a cosy arm-chair. "Good-morning, doctor," he said. "I am glad to see you. You see that I am in the grasp of my old enemy." "We will try to rout him," I said, cheerfully. "That sounds well, and encourages me. Do you know, Dr. Fenwick, that without any special reason I feel great confidence in you. You are a young man, probably not more than half as old as my regular physician, but he has not been able to do me any good." "And I hope to be able to do so." "I suppose you have had experience in such cases?" "Yes, I have an old aunt who had suffered untold tortures from rheumatism. She put herself under my charge, and for her sake I made an extensive study of rheumatic cases and remedies." "Well?" he asked, eagerly. "I finally cured her. It is now three years since she has had a twinge." "Good! My instinct was correct. That gives me hopes of success under your charge. Don't be afraid to lose your patient by effecting a speedy cure. I will make you a promise. When you have so far cured me that I am free from rheumatic pains for three months, I will hand you a check for a thousand dollars." "A thousand dollars!" I repeated with sparkling eyes. "That will indeed be an inducement." "Of course I shall pay you your regular fees besides." I could hardly credit my good fortune. I was like one who had just received intelligence that I had drawn a large sum in the lottery. I determined to win the promised check if there was any chance. I began to question Mr. Vincent as to his trouble. I found that it was a case of rheumatic gout. A difficult case, but very similar to that of my aunt. I resolved to try the same treatment with him. I wished to ask some questions, but he forestalled them. "I have no wife," he said. "I was left a widower many years ago. My niece and myself constitute our whole family." "Don't you feel lonely at times?" I asked. "Yes. My niece has her friends, suited to one of her age, but little company for me. If I had a nephew now--like yourself--it would cheer me up and give me a new interest in life." "I wish you were my uncle," I said to myself. "I am an old man, but I have great interest in young company. I think it was that that drew me toward you at Patti's concert. When I learned that you were a physician I saw that I could make it worth your while to call on an old man. I hope you are not a very busy man." "Not yet," I answered, guardedly. I felt that it would be unwise to let him know how far from a busy man I was. "Then you will be able to call upon me every day." "I will do so gladly, but it will not be necessary--from a medical point of view." "No matter! I shall be glad to have you come, and of course I pay for your time. It will be an advantage, no doubt, to have your patient under constant observation." "That is true." "Now I won't put you to the trouble of keeping an account of your visits. I will agree to pay you twenty-five dollars a week if that will be satisfactory." Twenty-five dollars a week! Why I scarcely made that sum in fees in a month. "It is more than I should think of charging," I said, frankly. "Then it _is_ satisfactory. Your money will be paid you at the end of every week." When I left the house I felt as if I had suddenly come into a fortune. Now I could see my way clear. The little stock of money which still remained to me would suffer no further diminution. On the contrary, I should be able to add to it. It is said that there comes to every man once in his life a chance to succeed. Apparently mine had come to me, and this chance had come to me through the Disagreeable Woman. CHAPTER XVIII. THE PROFESSOR'S BOOK. For some weeks matters went on quietly at our boarding-house. Prof. Poppendorf, in spite of the failure of his matrimonial schemes, ate, smoked, and drank as tranquilly as ever. Ruth was grateful to him that he had accepted her refusal as final, and disturbed her no more. They still sat near each other at the table, but there was never anything in his manner to indicate that there had been any romantic passages between them. The Disagreeable Woman remained as great a mystery as ever. Sometimes she was absent for three or four days together. Then she would suddenly reappear. No one ever asked where she had been. It would have taken rare courage to do that. Nor did she ever volunteer any explanation. Whether she possessed large means or not no one could conjecture. She always paid her board bill, and with unfailing regularity, at the end of every week. Her dress was always plain, but oftentimes of costly material. She seldom indulged in conversation, though she was always ready with an answer when spoken to. Perhaps I may mention as exceptions to her general rule of reticence the young woman from Macy's and myself. She seemed to feel more kindly toward us than toward any of the others. There had been various attempts to find out where she lived. None had succeeded. One day Mrs. Wyman asked the question directly. "Where do you live, Miss Blagden, if you will allow me to ask?" "I will allow you to ask," returned the Disagreeable Woman, coolly. "Do you propose to call on me?" "If you will permit me." "It is hardly necessary. We meet at the table every day. I am a hermit," she added after a pause, "I do not care to receive visitors." "I once heard of a hermit who lived in one of the cottages on the rocks near Central Park," said the widow, rather impertinently. "I don't live there!" said the Disagreeable Woman, composedly. "Of course not. I did not suppose you did." "Thank you. You are right as usual." If Miss Blagden meant to be sarcastic, nothing in her tone revealed it. She had warded off the attack dictated by curiosity. Whether Miss Blagden was rich or not, she was always ready to contribute to any public or private cause. When Prof. Poppendorf announced that he was about to publish a book, enlarged from his lecture on "The Material and The Immaterial." Miss Blagden subscribed for two copies. "One is for you, Dr. Fenwick!" she said, in a low tone. "Thank you, Miss Blagden. You are very kind. Am I expected to read it?" "If you can," she responded with a grim smile. The other boarders were asked, but each had some excuse. "I have just bought a new hat," said Mrs. Wyman. "I no understand English," said the Count. "Do you think I ought to subscribe, Miss Blagden?" asked Ruth. "No, child. Why should you? You have a use for your money. Besides, you would not understand it. If you wish, I will buy one for you?" "No, thank you, Miss Blagden. It would be of no use to me, but I thought the Professor would think it friendly." She could not explain that she wished to make amends for refusing his suit, for she had with rare delicacy abstained from mentioning the learned German's uncouth courtship. Perhaps Miss Blagden, who was very observing, penetrated her motive, for she said: "There is something in that. Subscribe, and I will pay for the book." Upon this Ruth gently told the Professor that she would take a copy. He was surprised and delighted. "By all means Mees Ruth, but perhaps I should give you one." "No, no, Prof. Poppendorf. I want to show my interest in you--and your book." "You are so good. I will give you the first copy." "Thank you," said Ruth, shyly. "What do you want of the old fossil's book?" asked Mrs. Wyman later, when the Professor was out of hearing. "I suspect that you are in love with the Professor." "No, you don't suspect that," said Ruth, composedly. "At any rate he seems struck with you." "I suppose I am either material or immaterial," returned Ruth, laughing. "You went to walk with him one evening." "I am afraid you are jealous, Mrs. Wyman." The widow laughed and the conversation ended. CHAPTER XIX. A SPEECH FROM THE THRONE. It was some time since Mrs. Gray had made any communication to the boarders. But one evening she seemed laboring under suppressed excitement. "Something is up," said Mr. Blake, the young reporter who sat on my left, the Disagreeable Woman being on my right. "We shall have it after supper," I answered. Mrs. Gray always waited till the last boarder had finished his meal. It was one of the unwritten laws of the boarding-house. The last boarder on this occasion was Professor Poppendorf. He was the heartiest eater, and we usually had to wait for him. When he had taken the last sip of beer, for in consideration of his national tastes he was always supplied with a schooner of that liquid which is dear to the Teutonic heart, Mrs. Gray opened her mouth. "My friends," she said, "I have a letter to read to you." She opened a perfumed billet, adjusted her spectacles, and read. "It is from Mrs. Wyman," she said, "and it is at her request that I read it." We had already noticed that neither Mrs. Wyman nor the Count was present. Mrs. Gray began: "MY DEAR MRS. GRAY:--For three years I have been an inmate of your happy home. I have come to feel an interest in it and in all whose acquaintance I have made here. I had no thought of leaving you, but circumstances make it necessary. Let me say at once that I have consented to marry Count di Penelli. You who are familiar with his fine traits and aristocratic bearing will hardly be surprised that I have been unable to resist his ardent entreaties. I had indeed intended never to marry again, but it was because I never expected to find one who could take the place of my dear departed first husband. The Count and I leave by an early train for Philadelphia where the ceremony will be performed. We may remain there for a few days. Beyond that our plans are not arranged. We would have had a public wedding and invited our friends, but as the Count's family are in Italy and cannot be present, we thought it best to have a simple private ceremony. When we go to Italy next summer there may be another ceremony at the Penelli Castle in Southern Italy. "I cannot tell when I shall return to New York. Probably I shall never again be an inmate of your happy home. The Count and I may take a flat up-town--a whole house would be too large for us. But I shall--we shall certainly call on our old friends, and I trust that the ties that bind us together in friendship may never weaken. "I shall soon be the Countess di Penelli. But once more and for the last time, I subscribe myself "Your faithful and devoted "LETITIA WYMAN." We listened to the reading of the letter in silent excitement. Then there was a chorus of exclamations. "Did you ever?" ejaculated the young woman from Macy's. "I am not surprised," said the Disagreeable woman, calmly. "Mrs. Wyman has been courting the Count ever since he came here." "You mean that he has been paying his attentions to her," suggested Mr. Blake, the reporter. "No, I mean what I say." "She says she had no thought of marrying again." "Mr. Blake, you are a young man. You don't understand women, and particularly widows. Probably there is not a gentleman at the table whom Mrs. Wyman has not thought of as a matrimonial subject, yourself not excepted." Mr. Blake was a very young man, and he blushed. "She would not have married me," growled the Professor. Most of us smiled. "Are you pledged to celibacy, Professor?" asked the landlady. "No, madam. If a certain young lady would marry me I would marry to-morrow." Ruth Canby blushed furiously, and was indignant with herself for doing so, especially as it drew all glances to her. "Let us hope you may be successful in your suit, Professor," said Mrs. Gray. "Thank you, my dear lady; time will show." Miss Blagden turned her searching glance upon the flaming cheeks of Ruth and smiled kindly. If there was any one at the table whom she liked it was the young woman from Macy's. "I suppose there is no doubt about his being a Count," suggested Mr. Blake. "I should say there was a good deal of doubt," answered the Disagreeable Woman. "Do you really think so?" "It is my conjecture." "Oh, I think there is no doubt about it," said the landlady, who prided herself on having had so aristocratic a boarder. "I am a loser by this marriage," said Mrs. Gray. "I have two rooms suddenly vacated." "A friend of mine will take one of them," said Mr. Blake, the reporter. "He has been wishing to get in here for a month." "I shall be glad to receive him," said Mrs. Gray, graciously. The other room was also taken within a week. CHAPTER XX. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. Usually I secured a morning paper, and ran over the contents at my office while waiting for patients. It was perhaps a week later that I selected the _Herald_--I did not confine myself exclusively to one paper--and casually my eye fell upon the arrivals at the hotels. I started in surprise as I read among the guests at the Brevoort House the name of Count di Penelli. "What!" I exclaimed, "are our friends back again? Why is not the Countess mentioned? Perhaps, however, the Count has left his wife in Philadelphia, and come on here on business." It chanced that I had occasion to pass the Brevoort an hour later. I was prompted to call and inquire for the Count. "Yes, he is in. Will you send up your card?" I hastily inscribed my name on a card and sent it up to his room. The bell-boy soon returned. "The Count will be glad to see you, sir," he said. "Will you follow me?" "He is getting ceremonious," I reflected. "I thought he would come down to see me." I followed the bell-boy to a room on the second floor. "Dr. Fenwick?" he said, as the door was opened. I saw facing me a tall, slender, dark-complexioned man of about forty-five, a perfect stranger to me. "I wished to see Count di Penelli," I stammered, in some confusion. "I am the Count," he answered, courteously. "But the Count I know is a young man." "There is no other Count di Penelli." "Pardon me!" I said, "but a young man calling himself by that name was for two months a fellow boarder of mine." "Describe him, if you please," said the Count, eagerly. I did so. "Ah," said the Count, when I concluded, "it is doubtless my valet, who has been masquerading under my title. He ran away from me at the West, nearly three months since, carrying with him three hundred dollars. I set detectives upon his track, but they could find no clue. Is the fellow still at your boarding-house?" "No, Count, he eloped a week since with a widow, another of our boarders. I believe they are in Philadelphia." "Then he has deceived the poor woman. Has she got money?" "A little. I don't think she has much." "That is what he married her for. Doubtless he supposed her wealthy. He had probably spent all the money he took from me." "I hope, Count, for the sake of his wife, you will not have him arrested." Count di Penelli shrugged his shoulders. "I will let him go at your request, poor devil," he said. "Why did she marry him?" "For his title." "Then the heart is not concerned?" "I never discovered that Mrs. Wyman had a heart." "Probably both will be heartily sick of the marriage, perhaps are so already." "Thank you for your information, Count." "And I thank you for yours. Good-morning!" I said nothing at the boarding-house of the discovery I had made. Why should I? So far as the rest of the boarders knew Mrs. Wyman was a veritable Countess. CHAPTER XXI. AFTER THREE MONTHS. The curtain falls and rises again after an interval of three months. There have been some changes in our boarding-house. Prof. Poppendorf still occupies his accustomed place, and so does Miss Blagden. The young reporter still sits at my left, and entertains me with interesting gossip and information about public affairs and public men with whom he has come in contact. But the young woman from Macy's has left us. She has returned to her country home and is now the wife of her rustic admirer, Stephen Higgins. I think she has done wisely. Life in the great stores is a species of slavery, and she could save nothing from her salary. When Prof. Poppendorf heard of her marriage, he looked depressed, but I noticed that his appetite was not affected. A true Teuton seldom allows anything to interfere with that. Mrs. Gray has received two or three notes from the Countess di Penelli. They treated of business matters solely. Whether she has discovered that her husband's title is spurious I cannot tell. I hear, however, from a drummer who is with us at intervals, that she is keeping a boarding-house on Spring Garden street, and that her title has been the magnet that has drawn to her house many persons who are glad in this way to obtain a titled acquaintance. As for myself I am on the high road to a comfortable income. I was fortunate enough to give my rich patient so much relief that I have received the large check he promised me, and have been recommended by him to several of his friends. I have thought seriously of removing to a more fashionable neighborhood, but have refrained--will it be believed?--from my reluctance to leave the Disagreeable Woman. I am beginning to understand her better. Under a brusque exterior she certainly possesses a kind heart, and consideration for others. Upon everything in the shape of humbug or pretension she is severe, but she can appreciate worth and true nobility. In more than one instance I have applied to her in behalf of a poor patient, and never in vain. Yet I am as much in the dark as ever as to her circumstances and residence. Upon these subjects I have ceased, not perhaps to feel, but to show any curiosity. The time was coming, however, when I should learn more of her. One day a young girl came to my office. Her mother kept a modest lodging house on West Eleventh street, and she had been my patient. "Any one sick at home, Sarah?" I asked. "No, doctor, but we have a lodger who is very low with a fever. I think he is very poor. I am afraid he cannot pay a doctor, but mother thought you would be willing to call." "To be sure," I said, cheerfully, "I will be at your house in an hour." An hour found me ringing at the door of Mrs. Graham's plain lodging house. "I thought you would come, Dr. Fenwick," said the good woman, who personally answered the bell. "You come in good time, for poor Mr. Douglas is very sick." "I will follow you to his room." He occupied a small room on the third floor. It was furnished in plain fashion. The patient, a man who was apparently nearing fifty, was tossing restlessly on his bed. Poorly situated as he was, I could see that in health he must have been a man of distinguished bearing. Poverty and he seemed ill-mated. "Mr. Douglas," said the landlady, "this is Dr. Fenwick. I took the liberty of calling him, as you are so ill." The sick man turned upon me a glance from a pair of full, black eyes. "Dr. Fenwick," he said, sadly, "I thank you for coming, but I am almost a pauper, and I fear I cannot pay you for your services." "That matters little," I replied. "You need me, that is enough. Let me feel your pulse." I found that he was in a high fever. His symptoms were serious. He looked like a man with a constitution originally strong, but it had been severely tried. "Well?" he asked. "You are seriously ill. I am not prepared just now with my diagnosis, but I can tell better in a day or two." "Shall I be long ill?" he asked. "It will take time to recover." "Shall I recover?" he asked, pointedly. "We will hope for the best." "I understand. Don't think I am alarmed. Life has few charms for me. My chief trouble is that I shall be a burden to you and Mrs. Graham." "Don't think of me, I have a fair practise, but I have time for you." "Thank you, doctor. You are very kind." "Let me put down your name," I said, taking down my tablets. "My name is Philip Douglas." I noted the name, and shortly left him. I felt that in his critical condition he ought to have a nurse, but where was the money to come from to pay one? "He is no common man," I reflected. "He has been rich. His personal surroundings do not fit him." Somehow I had already come to feel an interest in my patient. There was something in his appearance that set me wondering what his past could have been. "It must have been his misfortune, not his fault," I decided, for he bore no marks of dissipation. Under favorable circumstances I felt that I could pull him through, but without careful attendance and generous living there was great doubt. What should I do? I decided to speak of his case to the Disagreeable Woman. CHAPTER XXII. I APPEAL TO THE DISAGREEABLE WOMAN. "Miss Blagden," I said when the opportunity came, "I want to interest you in a patient of mine--a gentleman to whom I was called this morning." "Speak freely, doctor. Is there anything I can do for him?" "Much, for he requires much. He is lying in a poor lodging-house grievously ill with a fever. He has little or no money, yet he must once have been in affluent circumstances. Without a trained nurse, and the comforts that only money can buy, I fear he will not live." "It is a sad case. I am willing to cooperate with you. What is your patient's name?" "Philip Douglas." "Philip Douglas!" she exclaimed, in evident excitement. "Tell me quickly, what is his appearance?" "He is a large man, of striking appearance, with full, dark eyes, who must in earlier days have been strikingly handsome." "And he is poor, and ill?" she said, breathless. "Very poor and very ill." Her breath came quick. She seemed deeply agitated. "And where is he living?" "In No. -- West Eleventh Street." "Take me there at once." I looked at her in amazement. "Dr. Fenwick," she said, "you wonder at my excitement. I will explain it. This man, Philip Douglas, and I were once engaged to be married. The engagement was broken through my fault and my folly. I have regretted it many times. I have much to answer for. I fear that I wrecked his life, and it may be too late to atone. But I will try. Lead me to him." I bowed gravely, and we set out. Arrived at the lodging-house I thought it prudent to go up alone. I feared that excitement might be bad for my patient. He was awake and resting more comfortably. "How do you feel?" I asked. "Better, doctor. Thanks to you." "Have you no relatives whom you would wish to see--or friends?" "I have no relatives in New York," he said. "Or friends?" He paused and looked thoughtful. "I don't know," he answered, slowly. "There is one--I have not seen her for many years--but it is impossible, yet I would give my life to see Jane Blagden." "Why not send for her?" "She would not come. We were friends once--very dear friends--I hoped to marry her. Now I am poor and broken in health, I must give up the thought." "Could you bear to see her? Would it not make you ill?" "What do you mean, doctor?" he asked, quickly. "I mean that Miss Blagden is below. She wishes to see you." "Can it be? Are you a magician? How could you know of her?" "Never mind that. Shall I bring her up?" "Yes." CHAPTER XXIII. AT LAST. Jane Blagden paused a moment at the entrance to the room, as if to gather strength for the interview. I had never seen her so moved. Then she opened the door and entered with a firm step. He lay on the bed with his eyes fixed eagerly on the door. As she entered he tried to raise his head. "Jane!" he exclaimed, eagerly. She placed her hand for a moment on her heart, as if to still its throbbing. Then she walked quickly to the bed. "Philip!" she said. "At last!" he cried, in a low voice. "Can you forgive me, Philip, dear Philip?" "If there is anything to forgive." "There is--much. I am afraid you have suffered." "I have." "And so have I. Since we parted I have been lonely--desolate. I let my pride and my obstinacy come between us--but I have been punished." She had drawn a chair to the bed-side, and sitting down took his hand in hers. It was hot, feverish. "You are very ill, I fear." "I shall be better now," he murmured. "It is worth much to have you beside me." I looked at the face of the Disagreeable Woman. I saw upon it an expression I had never seen before--an expression that made her look ten years younger. I could not have believed in the tenderness, the heart-warmth which it showed. "Philip," she said, "you must get well for my sake." "And if I do?" he asked, eagerly. "It shall be as you wish." He closed his eyes, and a look of happiness and content lighted up his features. But soon there was a change. It was evident that the excitement had been too much for him. "Miss Blagden," I said, "I think you must go. Our patient is too weak to stand any more excitement or agitation." "Can I not stay here as his nurse?" she pleaded. "It will be better to have a trained nurse--one who will not agitate him." "As you think best, doctor," she said, meekly, "but I will stay in the house. How soon can you send a nurse?" "Within an hour." "Do so, and I will stay here till then. If he wakes I will leave the room." Within an hour a trained nurse was installed in the sick chamber. Miss Blagden made an arrangement with Mrs. Graham to occupy a room which had fortunately been vacated the day previous. It was small and uncomfortable, but she cared little for this. CHAPTER XXIV. THE LIGHT OF HOPE. Then commenced the struggle with disease. Philip Douglas was very ill. I had not exaggerated the danger. He was unconscious most of the time, but in spite of that he seemed to have a dim consciousness that there was some good in store for him. While he was unconscious Miss Blagden felt at liberty to spend a part of her time in the room. She assisted the nurse, and waited patiently for the patient's amendment. For three days it was a matter of doubt whether he would live or die. I gave up all other patients for him. I had become almost as anxious as Miss Blagden. I watched Philip Douglas narrowly to note any change either for the better or worse. It was a long and wearisome vigil. I was waiting for the crisis. At length it came. He began to breathe more freely, though still unconscious. I noticed a change for the better in his pulse. Her eyes as well as mine were fixed upon the sick man. Finally her eyes sought my face with eager questioning. "Is there a change?" she asked. "Yes, he will live." "Thank God!" she breathed, fervently, and a look of grateful joy lighted up the face of the Disagreeable Woman. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. 
33353	----	PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER BY HERBERT JENKINS HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED 3 YORK STREET, LONDON S.W.1 1918 A HERBERT JENKINS' BOOK _Fifteenth printing completing 153,658 copies_ MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PATRICIA'S INDISCRETION II. THE BONSOR-TRIGGS' MENAGE III. THE ADVENTURE AT THE QUADRANT GRILL-ROOM IV. THE MADNESS OF LORD PETER BOWEN V. PATRICIA'S REVENGE VI. THE INTERVENTION OF AUNT ADELAIDE VII. LORD PETER PROMISES A SOLUTION VIII. LORD PETER'S S.O.S. IX. LADY TANAGRA TAKES A HAND X. MISS BRENT'S STRATEGY XI. THE DEFECTION OF MR. TRIGGS XII. A BOMBSHELL XIII. A TACTICAL BLUNDER XIV. GALVIN HOUSE MEETS A LORD XV. MR. TRIGGS TAKES TEA IN KENSINGTON GARDENS XVI. PATRICIA'S INCONSTANCY XVII. LADY PEGGY MAKES A FRIEND XVIII. THE AIR RAID XIX. GALVIN HOUSE AFTER THE RAID XX. A RACE WITH SPINSTERHOOD XXI. THE GREATEST INDISCRETION WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT Patricia Brent is a "paying guest" at the Galvin House Residential Hotel. One day she overhears two of her fellow "guests" pitying her because she "never has a nice young man to take her out." In a thoughtless moment of anger she announced that on the following night she is dining at the Quadrant with her fiancé. When in due course she enters the grill-room, she finds some of Galvin Houseites there to watch her. Rendered reckless by the thought of the humiliation of being found out, she goes up to a young staff-officer, and asks him to help her by "playing up." This is how she meets Lt.-Col. Lord Peter Bowen, D.S.O. The story is a comedy concerned with the complications that ensue from Patricia's thoughtless act. PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER CHAPTER I PATRICIA'S INDISCRETION "She never has anyone to take her out, and goes nowhere, and yet she can't be more than twenty-seven, and really she's not bad-looking." "It's not looks that attract men," there was a note of finality in the voice; "it's something else." The speaker snapped off her words in a tone that marked extreme disapproval. "What else?" enquired the other voice. "Oh, it's--well, it's something not quite nice," replied the other voice darkly, "the French call it being _très femme_. However, she hasn't got it." "Well, I feel very sorry for her and her loneliness. I am sure she would be much happier if she had a nice young man of her own class to take her about." Patricia Brent listened with flaming cheeks. She felt as if someone had struck her. She recognised herself as the object of the speakers' comments. She could not laugh at the words, because they were true. She _was_ lonely, she had no men friends to take her about, and yet, and yet---- "Twenty-seven," she muttered indignantly, "and I was only twenty-four last November." She identified the two speakers as Miss Elizabeth Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Miss Wangle was the great-niece of a bishop, and to have a bishop in heaven is a great social asset on earth. This ecclesiastical distinction seemed to give her the right of leadership at the Galvin House Residential Hotel. Whenever a new boarder arrived, the unfortunate bishop was disinterred and brandished before his eyes. One facetious young man in the "commercial line" had dubbed her "the body-snatcher," and, being inordinately proud of his _jeu d'esprit_, he had worn it threadbare, and Miss Wangle had got to know of it. The result was the sudden departure of the wit. Miss Wangle had intimated to Mrs. Craske-Morton, the proprietress, that if he remained she would go. Mrs. Craske-Morton considered that Miss Wangle gave tone to Galvin House. Miss Wangle was acid of speech and barren of pity. Scandal and "the dear bishop" were her chief preoccupations. She regularly read _The Morning Post_, which she bought, and _The Times_, which she borrowed. In her attitude towards royalty she was a Jacobite, and of the aristocracy she knew no wrong. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was Miss Wangle's toady; but she wrapped her venom in Christian charity, thus making herself the more dangerous of the two. At Galvin House none dare gainsay these two in their pronouncements. They were disliked; but more feared than hated. During the Zeppelin scare Mr. Bolton, who was the humorist of Galvin House, had fixed a notice to the drawing-room door, which read: "Zeppelin commanders are requested to confine their attentions to rooms 8 and 18." Rooms 8 and 18 were those occupied by Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. There had been a great fuss about this harmless and rather feeble joke; but fortunately for Mr. Bolton, he had taken care to pin his jest on the door when no one was looking, and he took the additional precaution of being foremost in his denunciation of the bad taste shown by the person responsible for the jest. Patricia Brent was coming downstairs in response to the dinner-gong, when, through the partly open door of the lounge, she overheard the amiable remarks concerning herself. She passed quietly into the dining-room and took her seat at the table in silence, mechanically acknowledging the greetings of her fellow-guests. At Galvin House the word "guest" was insisted upon. Mrs. Craske-Morton, in announcing the advent of a new arrival, reached the pinnacle of refinement. "We have another guest coming," she would say, "a most interesting man," or "a very cultured woman," as the case might be. When the man arrived without his interest, or the woman without her culture, no one was disappointed; for no one had expected anything. The conventions had been observed and that was all that mattered. Dinner at Galvin House was rather a dismal affair. The separate tables heresy, advocated by a progressive-minded guest, had been once and for all discouraged by Miss Wangle, who announced that if separate tables were introduced she, for one, would not stay. "I remember the dear bishop once saying to me," she remarked, "'My dear, if people can't say what they have to say at a large table and in the hearing of others, then let it for ever remain unsaid.'" "But if someone's dress is awry, or their hair is not on straight, would you announce the fact to the whole table?" Patricia had questioned with an innocence that was a little overdone. Miss Wangle had glared; for she wore the most obvious auburn wig, which failed to convince anyone, and served only to enhance the pallor of her sharp features. In consequence of the table arrangements, conversation during meal-times was general--and dull. Mr. Bolton joked, Miss Wangle poured vinegar on oily waters, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe "dripped with the oil of forbearance." Mr. Cordal ate noisily, Miss Sikkum simpered and Mrs. Craske-Morton strove to appear a real hostess entertaining real guests without the damning prefix "paying." The remaining guests, there were usually round about twenty-five, looked as they felt they ought to look, and never failed to show a befitting reverence for Miss Wangle's ecclesiastical relic; for it was Miss Wangle who issued the social birth certificates at Galvin House. That evening Patricia was silent. Mr. Bolton endeavoured to draw her out, but failed. As a rule she was the first to laugh at his jokes in order "to encourage the poor little man," as she expressed it; "for a man who is fat and bald and a bachelor and thinks he's a humorist wants all the pity that the world can lavish upon him." Patricia glanced round the table, from Miss Wangle, lean as a winter wolf, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, fair, chubby and faded, and on to Mr. Cordal, lantern-jawed and ravenous. "Were they not all lonely--the left of God?" Patricia asked herself; and yet two of these solitary souls had dared to pity her, Patricia Brent. At least she had something they did not possess--youth. The more she thought of the words that had drifted to her through the half-closed door of the lounge, the more humiliating they appeared. Her day had been particularly trying and she was tired. She was in a mood to see a cyclone in a zephyr, and in a ripple a gigantic wave. She looked about her once more. What a fate to be cast among such people! The table appointments seemed more than usually irritating that evening. The base metal that peeped slyly through the silver of the forks and spoons, the tapering knives, victims of much cleaning, with their yellow handles, the salt-cellars, the mustard, browning with three days' age (mustard was replenished on Sundays only), the anæmic ferns in "artistic" pots, every defect seemed emphasized. How she hated it; but most of all the many-shaped and multi-coloured napkin-rings, at Galvin House known as "serviette-rings." Variety was necessary to ensure each guest's personal interest in one particular napkin. Did they ever get mixed? Patricia shuddered at the thought. At the end of the week, a "serviette" had become a sort of gastronomic diary. By Saturday evening (new "serviettes" were served out on Sunday at luncheon) the square of grey-white fabric had many things recorded upon it; but above all, like a monarch dominating his subjects, was the ineradicable aroma of Monday's kipper. On this particular evening Galvin House seemed more than ever grey and depressing. Patricia found herself wondering if God had really made all these people in His own image. They seemed so petty, so ungodlike. The way they regarded their food, as it was handed to them, suggested that they were for ever engaged in a comparison of what they paid with what they received. Did God make people in His own image and then leave the rest to them? Was that where free will came in? "----lonely!" The word seemed to crash in upon her thoughts with explosive force. Someone had used it--whom she did not know, or in what relation. It brought her back to earth and Galvin House. "Lonely," that was at the root of her depression. She was an object of pity among her fellow-boarders. It was intolerable! She understood why girls "did things" to escape from such surroundings and such fox-pity. Had she been a domestic servant she could have hired a soldier, that is before the war. Had she been a typist or a shop-girl--well, there were the park and tubes and things where gallant youth approached fair maiden. No, she was just a girl who could not do these things, and in consequence became the pitied of the Miss Wangles and the Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythes of Bayswater. She was quite content to be manless, she did not like men, at least not the sort she had encountered. There were Boltons and Cordals in plenty. There were the "Haven't-we-met-before?" kind too, the hunters who seemed cheerfully to get out at the wrong station, or pay twopence on a bus for a penny fare in order to pursue some face that had attracted their roving eye. She sighed involuntarily at the ugliness of it all, this cheapening of the things worthy of reverence and respect. She looked across at Miss Sikkum, whose short skirts and floppy hats had involved her in many unconventional adventures that one glance at her face had corrected as if by magic. A back view of Miss Sikkum was deceptive. Suddenly Patricia made a resolve. Had she paused to think she would have seen the danger; but she was by nature impulsive, and the conversation she had overheard had angered and humiliated her. Her resolve synchronised with the arrival of the sweet stage. Turning to Mrs. Craske-Morton she remarked casually, "I shall not be in to dinner to-morrow night, Mrs. Morton." Mrs. Craske-Morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were not likely to be in to dinner. "It saves the servants laying an extra cover," she would explain. As a matter of fact it saved Mrs. Craske-Morton preparing for an extra mouth. If Patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining-table, she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple remark that she was not dining at Galvin House on the morrow. Everybody stopped eating to stare at her. Miss Sikkum missed her aim with a trifle of apple charlotte, and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse, which in Brixton is known as "a Paris model." It was Miss Wangle who broke the silence. "How interesting," she said. "We shall quite miss you, Miss Brent. I suppose you are working late." The whole table waited for Patricia's response with breathless expectancy. "No!" she replied nonchalantly. "I know," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her even tones, and wagging an admonitory finger at her. "You're going to a revue, or a music-hall." "Or to sow her wild oats," added Mr. Bolton. Then some devil took possession of Patricia. She would give them something to talk about for the next month. They should have a shock. "No," she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of the whole table by her deliberation. "No, I'm not going to a revue, a music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. As a matter of fact," she paused. They literally hung upon her words. "As a matter of fact I am dining with my fiancé." The effect was electrical. Miss Sikkum stopped dabbing the front of her Brixton "Paris model." Miss Wangle dropped her pince-nez on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordal, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually exclaimed, "What?" Almost without exception the others repeated his exclamation. "Your fiancé?" stuttered Miss Wangle. "But, dear Miss Brent," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, "you never told us that you were engaged." "Didn't I?" enquired Patricia indifferently. "And you don't wear a ring," interposed Miss Sikkum eagerly. "I hate badges of servitude," remarked Patricia with a laugh. "But an engagement ring," insinuated Miss Sikkum with a self-conscious giggle. "One is freer without a ring," replied Patricia. Miss Wangle's jaw dropped. "Marriages are----" she began. "Made in heaven. I know," broke in Patricia, "but you try wearing Turkish slippers in London, Miss Wangle, and you'll soon want to go back to the English boots. It's silly to make things in one place to be worn in another; they never fit." Mrs. Craske-Morton coughed portentously. "Really, Miss Brent," she exclaimed. Whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she foresaw a storm threatening, Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Really, Mr. So-and-so" invariably guided it back into a safe channel. "But do they?" persisted Patricia. "Can you, Mrs. Morton, seriously regard marriage in this country as a success? It's all because marriages are made in heaven without taking into consideration our climatic conditions." Miss Wangle had lost the power of speech. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was staring at Patricia as if she had been something strange and unclean upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. In the eyes of little Mrs. Hamilton, a delightfully French type of old lady, there was a gleam of amusement. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was the first to recover the power of speech. "Is your fiancé in the army?" "Yes," replied Patricia desperately. She had long since thrown over all caution. "Oh, tell us his name," giggled Miss Sikkum. "Brown," said Patricia. "Is his knapsack number 99?" enquired Mr. Bolton. "He doesn't wear one," said Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself. "Oh, he's an officer, then," this from Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. "Is he a first or a second lieutenant?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton. "Major," responded Patricia laconically. "What's he in?" was the next question. "West Loamshires." "What battalion?" enquired Miss Wangle, who had now regained the power of speech. "I have a cousin in the Fifth." "I am sure I can't remember," said Patricia, "I never could remember numbers." "Not remember the number of the battalion in which your fiancé is?" There was incredulous disapproval in Miss Wangle's voice. "No! I'm awfully sorry," replied Patricia, "I suppose it's very horrid of me; but I'll go upstairs and look it up if you like." "Oh please don't trouble," said Miss Wangle icily. "I remember the dear bishop once saying----" "And I suppose after dinner you'll go to a theatre," interrupted Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, for the first time in the memory of the oldest guest indifferent to the bishop and what he had said, thought, or done. "Oh, no, it's war time," said Patricia, "we shall just dine quietly at the Quadrant Grill-room." A meaning glance passed between Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe and Miss Wangle. Why she had fixed upon the Quadrant Grill-room Patricia could not have said. "And now," said Patricia, "I must run upstairs and see that my best bib and tucker are in proper condition to be worn before my fiancé. I'll tell him what you say about the ring. Good night, everybody, if we don't meet again." "Patricia Brent," admonished Patricia to her reflection in the looking-glass, as she brushed her hair that night, "you're a most unmitigated little liar. You've told those people the wickedest of wicked lies. You've engaged yourself to an unknown major in the British Army. You're going to dine with him to-morrow night, and heaven knows what will be the result of it all. A single lie leads to so many. Oh, Patricia, Patricia!" she nodded her head admonishingly at the reflection in the glass. "You're really a very wicked young woman." Then she burst out laughing. "At least, I have given them something to talk about, any old how. By now they've probably come to the conclusion that I'm a most awful rip." Patricia never confessed it to herself, but she was extremely lonely. Instinctively shy of strangers, she endeavoured to cover up her self-consciousness by assuming an attitude of nonchalance, and the result was that people saw only the artificiality. She had been brought up in the school of "men are beasts," and she took no trouble to disguise her indifference to them. With women she was more popular. If anyone were ill at Galvin House, it was always Patricia Brent who ministered to them, sat and read to them, and cheered them through convalescence back to health. Her acquaintance with men had been almost entirely limited to those she had found in the various boarding-houses, glorified in the name of residential hotels, at which she had stayed. Five years previously, on the death of her father, a lawyer in a small country town, she had come to London and obtained a post as secretary to a blossoming politician. There she had made herself invaluable, and there she had stayed, performing the same tasks day after day, seldom going out, since the war never at all, and living a life calculated to make an acid spinster of a Venus or a Juno. "Oh, bother to-morrow!" said Patricia as she got into bed that night; "it's a long way off and perhaps something will happen before then," and with that she switched off the light. CHAPTER II THE BONSOR-TRIGGS' MENAGE The next morning Patricia awakened with a feeling that something had occurred in her life. For a time she lay pondering as to what it could be. Suddenly memory came with a flash, and she smiled. That night she was dining out! As suddenly as it had come the smile faded from her lips and eyes, and she mentally apostrophised herself as a little idiot for what she had done. Then, remembering Miss Wangle's remark and the expression on Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's face, the lines of her mouth hardened, and there was a determined air about the tilt of her chin. She smiled again. "Patricia Brent! No, that won't do," she broke off. Then springing out of bed she went over to the mirror, adjusted the dainty boudoir cap upon her head and, bowing elaborately to her reflection, said, "Patricia Brent, I invite you to dine with me this evening at the Quadrant Grill-room. I hope you'll be able to come. How delightful. We shall have a most charming time." Then she sat on the edge of the bed and pondered. Of course she would have to come back radiantly happy, girls who have been out with their fiancé's always return radiantly happy. "That will mean two _crèmes de menthes_ instead of one, that's another shilling, perhaps two," she murmured. Then she must have a good dinner or else the _crème de menthe_ would get into her head, that would mean about seven shillings more. "Oh! Patricia, Patricia," she wailed, "you have let yourself in for an expense of at least ten shillings, the point being is a major in the British Army worth an expenditure of ten shillings? We shall----" She was interrupted by the maid knocking at the door to inform her that it was her turn for the bath-room. As Patricia walked across the Park that morning on her way to Eaton Square, where the politician lived who employed her as private secretary whilst he was in the process of rising, she pondered over her last night's announcement. She was convinced that she had acted foolishly, and in a way that would probably involve her in not only expense, but some trouble and inconvenience. At the breakfast-table the conversation had been entirely devoted to herself, her fiancé, and the coming dinner together. Miss Wangle, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, and Miss Sikkum, supported by Mrs. Craske-Morton, had returned to the charge time after time. Patricia had taken refuge in her habitual breakfast silence and, finding that they could draw nothing from her her fellow-guests had proceeded to discuss the matter among themselves. It was with a feeling of relief that Patricia rose from the table. There was an east wind blowing, and Patricia had always felt that an east wind made her a materialist. This morning she was depressed; there was in her heart a feeling that fate had not been altogether kind to her. Her childhood had been spent in a small town on the East Coast under the care of her father's sister who, when Mrs. Brent died, had come to keep house for Mr. John Brent and take care of his five-year-old daughter. In her aunt Patricia found a woman soured by life. What it was that had soured her Patricia could never gather; but Aunt Adelaide was for ever emphasizing the fact that men were beasts. Later Patricia saw in her aunt a disappointed woman. She could remember as a child examining with great care her aunt's hard features and angular body, and wondering if she had ever been pretty, and if anyone had kissed her because they wanted to and not because it was expected of them. The lack of sympathy between aunt and niece had driven Patricia more and more to seek her father's companionship. He was a silent man, little given to emotion or demonstration of affection. He loved Patricia, but lacked the faculty of conveying to her the knowledge of his love. As she walked across the Park Patricia came to the conclusion that, for some reason or other, love, or the outward visible signs of love, had been denied her. Warm-hearted, impetuous, spontaneous, she had been chilled by the self-repression of her father, and the lack of affection of her aunt. She had been schooled to regard God as the God of punishment rather than the God of love. One of her most terrifying recollections was that of the Sundays spent under the paternal roof. To her father, religion counted for nothing; but to her aunt it counted for everything in the world; the hereafter was to be the compensation for renunciation in this world. Miss Brent's attitude towards prayer was that of one who regards it as a means by which she is able to convey to the Almighty what she expects of Him in the next world as a reward for what she has done, or rather not done, in this. Patricia had once asked, in a childish moment of speculation, "But, Aunt Adelaide, suppose God doesn't make us happy in the next world, what shall we do then?" "Oh! yes He will," was her aunt's reply, uttered with such grimness that Patricia, though only six years of age, had been satisfied that not even God would dare to disappoint Aunt Adelaide. Patricia had been a lonely child. She had come to distrust spontaneity and, in consequence, became shy and self-conscious, with the inevitable result that other children, the few who were in Aunt Adelaide's opinion fit for her to associate with, made it obvious that she was one by herself. Patricia had fallen back on her father's library, where she had read many books that would have caused her aunt agonies of stormy anguish, had she known. Patricia early learnt the necessity for dissimulation. She always carefully selected two books, one that she could ostensibly be reading if her aunt happened to come into the library, and the other that she herself wanted to read, and of which she knew her aunt would strongly disapprove. Miss Brent regarded boarding-schools as "hotbeds of vice," and in consequence Patricia was educated at home, educated in a way that she would never have been at any school; for Miss Brent was thorough in everything she undertook. The one thing for which Patricia had to be grateful to her aunt was her general knowledge, and the sane methods adopted with her education. But for this she would not have been in the position to accept a secretaryship to a politician. When Patricia was twenty-one her father had died, and she inherited from her mother an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. Her aunt had suggested that they should live together; but Patricia had announced her intention of working, and with the money that she realised from the sale of her father's effects, particularly his library, she came to London and underwent a course of training in shorthand, typewriting, and general secretarial work. This was in March, 1914. Before she was ready to undertake a post, the war broke out upon Europe like a cataclysm, and a few months later Patricia had obtained a post as private secretary to Mr. Arthur Bonsor, M.P. Mr. Bonsor was the victim of marriage. Destiny had ordained that he should spend his life in golf and gardening, or in breeding earless rabbits and stingless bees. He was bucolic and passive. Mrs. Bonsor, however, after a slight altercation with Destiny, had decided that Mr. Bonsor was to become a rising politician. Thus it came about that, pushed on from behind by Mrs. Bonsor and led by Patricia, whose general knowledge was of the greatest possible assistance to him, Mr. Bonsor was in the elaborate process of rising at the time when Patricia determined to have a fiancé. Mr. Bonsor was a small, fair-haired man, prematurely bald, an indifferent speaker; but excellent in committee. Instinctively he was gentle and kind. Mrs. Bonsor disliked Patricia and Patricia was indifferent to Mrs. Bonsor. Mrs. Bonsor, however, recognised that in Patricia her husband had a remarkably good secretary, one whom it would be difficult to replace. Mrs. Bonsor's attitude to everyone who was not in a superior position to herself was one of patronage. Patricia she looked upon as an upper servant, although she never dare show it. Patricia, on the other hand, showed very clearly that she had no intention of being treated other than as an equal by Mrs. Bonsor, and the result was a sort of armed neutrality. They seldom met; when by chance they encountered each other in the house Mrs. Bonsor would say, "Good morning, Miss Brent; I hope you walked across the Park." Patricia would reply, "Yes, most enjoyable; I invariably walk across the Park when I have time"; and with a forced smile Mrs. Bonsor would say, "That is very wise of you." Never did Mrs. Bonsor speak to Patricia without enquiring if she had walked across the Park. One day Patricia anticipated Mrs. Bonsor's inevitable question by announcing, "I walked across the Park this morning, Mrs. Bonsor, it was most delightful," and Mrs. Bonsor had glared at her, but, remembering Patricia's value to her husband, had made a non-committal reply and passed on. Henceforth, Mrs. Bonsor dropped all reference to the Park. On the first day of Patricia's entry into the Bonsor household, Mrs. Bonsor had remarked, "Of course you will stay to lunch," and Patricia had thanked her and said she would. But when she found that her luncheon was served on a tray in the library, where Mr. Bonsor did his work, she had decided that henceforth exercise in the middle of the day was necessary for her, and she lunched out. Mr. Bonsor had married beneath him. His father, a land-poor squire in the north of England, had impressed upon all his sons that money was essential as a matrimonial asset, and Mr. Bonsor, not having sufficient individuality to starve for love, had determined to follow the parental decree. How he met Miss Triggs, the daughter of the prosperous Streatham builder and contractor, Samuel Triggs, nobody knew, but his father had congratulated him very cordially about having contrived to marry her. Miss Triggs's friends to a woman were of the firm conviction that it was Miss Triggs who had married Mr. Bonsor. "'Ettie's so ambitious." remarked her father soon after the wedding, "that it's almost a relief to get 'er married." Mr. Bonsor was scarcely back from his honeymoon before he was in full possession of the fact that Mrs. Bonsor had determined that he should become famous. She had read how helpful many great men's wives had been in their career, and she determined to be the power behind the indeterminate Arthur Bonsor. Poor Mr. Bonsor, who desired nothing better than a peaceable life and had looked forward to a future of ease and prosperity when he married Miss Triggs, discovered when too late that he had married not so much Miss Triggs, as an abstract sense of ambition. Domestic peace was to be purchased only by an attitude of entire submission to Mrs. Bonsor's schemes. He was not without brains, but he lacked that impetus necessary to "getting on." Mrs. Bonsor, who was not lacking in shrewdness, observed this and determined that she herself would be the impetus. Mr. Bonsor came to dread meal-times, that is meal-times _tête-à-tête_. During these symposiums he was subjected to an elaborate cross-examination as to what he was doing to achieve greatness. Mrs. Bonsor insisted upon his being present at every important function to which he could gain admittance, particularly the funerals of the illustrious great. Egged on by her he became an inveterate writer of letters to the newspapers, particularly _The Times_. Sometimes his letters appeared, which caused Mrs. Bonsor intense gratification: but editors soon became shy of a man who bombarded them with letters upon every conceivable subject, from the submarine menace to the question of "should women wear last year's frocks?" Mr. Triggs had once described his daughter very happily: "'Ettie's one of them that ain't content with pressing a bell, but she must keep 'er thumb on the bell-push." That was Mrs. Bonsor all over; she lacked restraint, both physical and artistic, and she conceived that if you only make noise enough people will, sooner or later, begin to take notice. Within three years of his marriage, Mr. Bonsor entered the House of Commons. He had first of all fought in a Radical constituency and been badly beaten; but the second time he had, by some curious juggling of chance, been successful in an almost equally strong Radical division, much to the delight of Mrs. Bonsor. The success had been largely due to her idea of flooding the constituency with pretty girl-canvassers; but she had been very careful to keep a watchful eye on Mr. Bonsor. One of her reasons for engaging Patricia, for really Mrs. Bonsor was responsible for the engagement, had been that she had decided that Patricia was indifferent to men, and she decided that Mr. Bonsor might safely be trusted with Patricia Brent for long periods of secretarial communion. Mr. Bonsor, although not lacking in susceptibility, was entirely devoid of that courage which subjugates the feminine heart. Once he had permitted his hand to rest upon Patricia's; but he never forgot the look she gave him and, for weeks after, he felt a most awful dog, and wondered if Patricia would tell Mrs. Bonsor. When she married, Mrs. Bonsor saw that it would be necessary to drop her family, that is as far as practicable. It could not be done entirely, because her father was responsible for the allowance which made it possible for the Bonsors to live in Eaton Square. The old man was not lacking in shrewdness, and he had no intention of being thrown overboard by his ambitious daughter. It occasionally happened that Mr. Triggs would descend upon the Bonsor household and, although Mrs. Bonsor did her best to suppress him, that is without in any way showing she was ashamed of her parent, he managed to make Patricia's acquaintance and, from that time, made a practice of enquiring for and having a chat with her. Mrs. Bonsor was grateful to providence for having removed her mother previous to her marriage. Mrs. Triggs had been a homely soul, with a marked inclination to be "friendly." She overflowed with good-humour, and was a woman who would always talk in an omnibus, or join a wedding crowd and compare notes with those about her. She addressed Mr. Triggs as "Pa," which caused her daughter a mental anguish of which Mrs. Triggs was entirely unaware. It was not until Miss Triggs was almost out of her teens that her mother was persuaded to cease calling her "Girlie." In Mrs. Bonsor the reforming spirit was deeply ingrained; but she had long since despaired of being able to influence her father's taste in dress. She groaned in spirit each time she saw him, for his sartorial ideas were not those of Mayfair. He leaned towards checks, rather loud checks, trousers that were tight about the calf, and a coat that was a sporting conception of the morning coat, with a large flapped pocket on either side. He invariably wore a red tie and an enormous watch-chain across his prosperous-looking figure. His hat was a high felt, an affair that seemed to have set out in life with the ambition of being a top hat, but losing heart had compromised. If Mrs. Bonsor dreaded her father's visits, Patricia welcomed them. She was genuinely fond of the old man. Mr. Triggs radiated happiness from the top of his shiny bald head, with its fringe of sandy-grey hair, to his square-toed boots that invariably emitted little squeaks of joy. He wore a fringe of whiskers round his chubby face, otherwise he was clean-shaven, holding that beards were "messy" things. He had what Patricia called "crinkly" eyes, that is to say each time he smiled there seemed to radiate from them hundreds of little lines. He always addressed Patricia as "me dear," and not infrequently brought her a box of chocolates, to the scandal of Mrs. Bonsor, who had once expostulated with him that that was not the way to treat her husband's secretary. "Tut, tut, 'Ettie," had been Mr. Triggs's response. "She's a fine gal. If I was a bit younger I shouldn't be surprised if there was a second Mrs. Triggs." "Father!" Mrs. Bonsor had expostulated in horror. "Remember that she is Arthur's secretary." Mr. Triggs had almost choked with laughter; mirth invariably seemed to interfere with his respiration and ended in violent and wheezy coughings and gaspings. Had Mrs. Bonsor known that he repeated the conversation to Patricia, she would have been mortified almost to the point of discharging her husband's secretary. "You see, me dear," Mr. Triggs had once said to Patricia, "'Ettie's so busy bothering about aitches that she's got time for nothing else. She ain't exactly proud of her old father," he had added shrewdly, "but she finds 'is brass a bit useful." Mr. Triggs was under no delusion as to his daughter's attitude towards him. One day he had asked Patricia rather suddenly, "Why don't you get married, me dear?" Patricia had started and looked up at him quickly. "Married, me, Mr. Triggs? Oh! I suppose for one thing nobody wants me, and for another I'm not in love." Mr. Triggs had pondered a little over this. "That's right, me dear!" he said at length. "Never you marry except you feel you can't 'elp it, then you'll know it's the right one. Don't you marry a chap because he's got a lot of brass. You marry for the same reason that me and my missis married, because we felt we couldn't do without each other," and the old man's voice grew husky. "You wouldn't believe it, me dear, 'ow I miss 'er, though she's been dead eight years next May." Patricia had been deeply touched and, not knowing what to say, had stretched out her hand to the old man, who took and held it for a moment in his. As she drew her hand away she felt a tear splash upon it, and it was not her own. "Ever hear that song 'My Old Dutch'?" he asked after a lengthy silence. Patricia nodded. "I used to sing it to 'er--God bless my soul! what an old fool I'm gettin', talkin' to you in this way. Now I must be gettin' off. Lor! what would 'Ettie say if she knew?" But Mrs. Bonsor did not know. CHAPTER III THE ADVENTURE AT THE QUADRANT GRILL-ROOM That evening as Patricia looked in at the lounge on the way to her room, she found it unusually crowded. On a normal day her appearance would scarcely have been noticed; but this evening it was the signal for a sudden cessation in the buzz of conversation, and all eyes were upon her. For a moment she stood in the doorway and then, with a nod and a smile, she turned and proceeded upstairs, conscious of the whispering that broke out as soon as her back was turned. As she stood before the mirror, wondering what she should wear for the night's adventure, she recalled a remark of Miss Wangle's that no really nice-minded woman ever dressed in black and white unless she had some ulterior motive. Upon the subject of sex-attraction Miss Wangle posed as an authority, and hinted darkly at things that thrilled Miss Sikkum to ecstatic giggles, and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe to pianissimo moans of anguish that such things could be. With great deliberation Patricia selected a black charmeuse costume that Miss Wangle had already confided to the whole of Galvin House was at least two and a half inches too short; but as Patricia had explained to Mrs. Hamilton, if you possess exquisitely fitting patent boots that come high up the leg, it's a sin for the skirt to be too long. She selected a black velvet hat with a large white water-lily on the upper brim. "You look bad enough for a vicar's daughter," she said, surveying herself in the glass as she fastened a bunch of red carnations in her belt. "White at the wrists and on the hat, yes, it looks most improper. I wonder what the major-man will think?" Swift movements, deft touches, earnest scrutiny followed one another. Patricia was an artist in dress. Finally, when her gold wristlet watch had been fastened over a white glove she subjected herself to a final and exhaustive examination. "Now, Patricia!"--it had become with her a habit to address her reflection in the mirror--"shall we carry an umbrella, or shall we not?" For a few moments she regarded herself quizzically, then finally announced, "No: we will not. An umbrella suggests a bus, or the tube, and when a girl goes out with a major in the British Army, she goes in a taxi. No, we will not carry an umbrella." She still lingered in front of the mirror, looking at herself with obvious approval. "Yes, Patricia! you are looking quite nice. Your eyes are violeter, your hair more sunsetty and your lips redder than usual, and, yes, your face generally looks happier." When she entered the lounge it was twenty minutes to eight and, although dinner was at seven-thirty, the room was full. Everybody stared at her as with flushed cheeks she walked to the centre of the room. Then suddenly turning to Miss Wangle, she said, "Do you think I shall do, Miss Wangle, or do I look too wicked for a major?" Miss Wangle merely stared. Mrs. Hamilton smiled and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe looked sympathetically at Miss Wangle. Mr. Bolton laughed. "I wish I was a major, Miss Brent," he remarked, at which Patricia turned to him and made an elaborate curtsy. "That girl will come to a bad end," remarked Miss Wangle with conviction to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, as with a smile over her shoulder Patricia made a dramatic exit. She had noticed, however, that Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe were in hats and jackets. They, too, were apparently going out, although she had not heard them tell Mrs. Craske-Morton so. Mr. Bolton also had his hat in his hand. During the day Patricia had thought out very carefully the part she had set herself to play. If she were going to meet her fiancé back from the Front, she must appear radiantly happy, vide conventional opinion. But she had admonished her reflection in the mirror, "You mustn't overdo it. Women, especially tabbies, are very acute." It had been Patricia's intention to go by bus but at the entrance of the lounge she saw Gustave who ingratiatingly enquired, "Taxi, mees?" With a smile she nodded her head, and Gustave disappeared. "There goes another two shillings. Oh, bother Major Brown! Soldiers are costly luxuries," she muttered under her breath. A moment after Gustave reappeared with the intimation that the taxi was at the door. A group of her fellow-guests gathered in the hall to see her off. Patricia thought their attitude more appropriate to a wedding than the fact that one of their fellow-boarders was going out to dinner. "It is clear," she thought, "that Patricia Brent, man-catcher, is a much more important person than is Patricia Brent, inveterate spinster." She noticed that there was a second taxi at the door, and while her own driver was "winding-up" his machine, which took some little time, the other taxi got off in front. She had seen get into it Miss Wangle, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, and Mr. Bolton. As the taxi sped eastward, Patricia began to speculate as to what she really intended doing. She had no appointment, she was in a taxi which would cost her two shillings at least, and she had given the address of the Quadrant Grill-room. She was still considering what she should do when the taxi drew up. Fate and the taxi driver had decided the matter between them, and Patricia determined to go through with it and disappoint neither. Having paid the man and tipped him handsomely, she descended the stairs to the Grill-room. She had no idea of what it cost to dine at the Quadrant; but remembered with a comfortable feeling that she had some two pounds upon her. With moderation, she decided, it might be possible to get a meal for that sum without attracting the adverse criticism of the staff. It had not struck her that it might appear strange for a girl to dine alone at such a restaurant as the Quadrant, and that she was laying herself open to criticism. She was too excited at this new adventure into which she had been precipitated for careful reasoning. As she descended the stairs she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She started. Surely that could not be Patricia Brent, secretary to a rising politician, that stylish-looking girl in black, with a large bunch of carnations. That red-haired creature with sparkling eyes and a colour that seemed to have caught the reflection of the carnations in her belt! She entered the lounge at the foot of the stairs with increased confidence, and she was conscious that several men turned to look at her with interest. Then suddenly the bottom fell out of her world. There, standing in the vestibule, were Miss Wangle, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, and Mr. Bolton. In a flash she saw it all. They had come to spy upon her. They would find her out, and the whole humiliating story would probably have to be told. Thoughts seemed to spurt through her mind. What was she to do? It was too late to retreat. Miss Wangle had already fixed her with a stony stare through her lorgnettes, which she carried only on special occasions. Patricia was conscious of bowing and smiling sweetly. Some sub-conscious power seemed to take possession of her. Still wondering what she should do, she found herself walking head in the air and perfectly composed, in the direction of the Grill-room. She was conscious of being followed by Miss Wangle and her party. As Patricia rounded the glass screen a superintendent came up and enquired if she had a table. She heard a voice that seemed like and yet unlike her own answer, "Yes, thank you," and she passed on looking from right to left as if in search of someone, unconscious of the many glances cast in her direction. When about half-way up the long room, just past the bandstand, the terrible thought came to her of a possible humiliating retreat. What was she to do? Why was she there? What were her plans? She looked about her, hoping that she did not appear so frightened as she felt. She was conscious of the gaze of a man seated at a table a few yards off. He was fair and in khaki. That was all she knew. Yes, he was looking at her intently. "No, that table won't do! It is too near to the band." It was Miss Wangle's voice behind her. Without a moment's hesitation her sub-conscious self once more took possession of Patricia, and she marched straight up to the fair-haired man in khaki and in a voice loud enough for Miss Wangle and her party to hear cried: "Hullo! so here you are, I thought I should never find you." Then as he rose she murmured under her breath, "Please play up to me, I'm in an awful hole. I'll explain presently." Without a moment's hesitation the man replied, "You're very late. I waited for you a long time outside, then I gave you up." With a look of gratitude and a sigh of content, Patricia sank down into the chair a waiter had placed for her. If there had been no chair, she would have fallen to the floor, her legs refusing further to support her body. She was trembling all over. Miss Wangle had selected the next table. Patricia was conscious of hoping that somewhere in the next world Miss Wangle's sufferings would transcend those of Dives as a hundred to one. As she was pulling off her gloves her companion held a low-toned colloquy with the waiter. She stole a glance at him. What must he be thinking? How had he classified her? Her heart was pounding against her ribs as if determined to burst through. Suddenly she remembered that the others were watching and, leaning upon the table, she said: "Please pretend to be very pleased to see me. We must talk a lot. You know--you know--" then she turned aside in confusion; but with an effort she said, "You--you are supposed to be my fiancé, and you've just come back from France, and--and---- Oh! what are you thinking of me? Please--please----" she broke off. Very gravely and with smiling eyes he replied, "I quite understand. Please don't worry. Something has happened, and if I can do anything to help, you have only to tell me. My name is Bowen, and I'm just back from France." "Are you a major?" enquired Patricia, to whom stars and crowns meant nothing. "I'm afraid I'm a lieutenant-colonel," he replied, "on the Staff." "Oh! what a pity," said Patricia, "I said you were a major." "Couldn't you say I've been promoted?" Patricia clapped her hands. "Oh! how splendid! Of course! You see I said that you were Major Brown, I can easily tell them that they misunderstood and that it was Major Bowen. They are such awful cats, and if they found out I should have to leave. You see that's some of them at the next table there. That's Miss Wangle with the lorgnettes and the other woman is Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, who is her echo, and the man is Mr. Bolton. He's nothing in particular." "I see," said Bowen. "And--and--of course you've got to pretend to be most awfully glad to see me. You see we haven't met for a long time and--and--we're engaged." "I quite understand," was the reply. Then suddenly Patricia caught his eye and saw the smile in it. "Oh, how dreadful!" she cried. "Of course you don't know anything about it. I'm talking like a schoolgirl. You see my name's Patricia, Patricia Brent," and then she plunged into the whole story, telling him frankly of her escapade. He was strangely easy to talk to. "And--and--" she concluded, "what do you think of me?" "I think I'd sooner not tell you just now," he smiled. "Is it as bad as that," she enquired. Then suddenly the smile faded from his face and he leaned across to her, saying: "Miss Brent----" "I'm afraid you must call me Patricia," she interrupted with a comical look, "in case they overhear. It seems rather sudden, doesn't it, and I shall have to call you----" "Peter," he said. He had nice eyes Patricia decided. "Er--er--Peter," she made a dash at the name. Bowen sat back in his chair and laughed. Miss Wangle fixed upon him a stare through her lorgnettes, not an unfavourable stare, she was greatly impressed by his rank and red tabs. After that the ice seemed broken and Patricia and her "fiancé" chatted merrily together, greatly impressing Patricia's fellow-boarders. Bowen was a good talker and a sympathetic listener and, above all, his attitude had in it that deference which put Patricia entirely at her ease. She told him all there was to tell about herself and he, in return, explained that he came of an army family, and had been sent out to France soon after Mons. He was then a captain in the Yeomanry. He was wounded, promoted, and later received the D.S.O. and M.C. He had now been brought back to England and attached to the General Staff. "Now I think you know all that is necessary to know about your fiancé," he had concluded. Patricia laughed. "Oh, by the way," she said, "you have never given me an engagement ring. Please don't forget that. They asked me where my ring was, and I told them I didn't care about rings, as they were badges of servitude. You see it is quite possible that Miss Wangle will come over to us presently. She's just that sort, and she might ask awkward questions, that is why I am telling you all about myself." "I'll remember," said Bowen. "I'm glad you're a D.S.O., though," she went on, half to herself, "that's sure to interest them, and it's nice to think you're more than a major. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe are most worldly-minded. Of course it would have been nicer had you been a field-marshal; but I suppose you couldn't be promoted from a major to a field-marshal in the course of a few days, could you?" "Well, it's not usual," he confessed. When the meal was over Bowen looked at his watch. "I'm afraid it's too late for a show, it's a quarter to ten." "A quarter to ten!" cried Patricia. "How the time has flown. I shall have to be going home." He noticed preparations for a move at the Wangle table. "Oh, please, don't hurry! Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time." "Do you think I ought," enquired Patricia critically, her head on one side. "Well," replied Bowen, "I think that you might safely do so as we are engaged," and that settled it. They went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before Patricia finally decided that she must make a move. "Do you know," she said as she rose, "I am afraid I have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning." "Shall you be tired?" he enquired. "Tired!" she queried, "I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I--I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see I'm excited now and--and--you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind; but when I get alone, then I shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you have been thinking of me, and--and--oh! it will be awful. No; I'll come with you while you get your hat. I daren't be left alone. It might come on then and--and I should probably bolt. Of course I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because--because----" "I'm your fiancé," he smiled. "Ummm," she nodded. Both were silent as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell. "Thinking?" enquired Bowen at length, as they passed the Marble Arch. "I was thinking how perfectly sweet you've been," replied Patricia gravely. "You have understood everything and--and--you see I was so much at your mercy. Shall I tell you what I was thinking?" "Please do." "It sounds horribly sentimental." "Never mind," he replied. "Well, I was thinking that your mother would like to know that you had done what you have done to-night. And now, please, tell me how much my dinner was." "Your dinner!" "Yes, _ple-e-e-e-ase_," she emphasised the "please." "You insist?" And then Patricia did a strange thing. She placed her hand upon Bowen's and pressed it. "Please go on understanding," she said, and he told her how much the dinner was and took the money from her. "May I pay for the taxi?" he enquired comically. For a moment she paused and then replied, "Yes, I think you may do that, and now here we are," as the taxi drew up, "and thank you very much indeed, and good-bye." They were standing on the pavement outside Galvin House. "Good-bye," he enquired. "Do you really mean it?" "Yes, _ple-e-e-ase_," again she emphasised the "please." "Patricia," he said in a serious tone, as the door flew open and Gustave appeared silhouetted against the light, "don't you think that sometimes we ought to think of the other fellow?" "I shall always think of the other fellow," and with a pressure of the hand, Patricia ran up the steps and disappeared into the hall, the door closing behind her. Bowen turned slowly and re-entered the taxi. "Where to, sir?" enquired the man. "Oh, to hell!" burst out Bowen savagely. "Yes, sir; but wot about my petrol?" "Your petrol? Oh! I see," Bowen laughed. "Well! the Quadrant then." In the hall Patricia hesitated. Should she go into the lounge, where she was sure Galvin House would be gathered in full force, or should she go straight to bed? Miss Wangle decided the matter by appearing at the door of the lounge. "Oh! here you are, Miss Brent; we thought you had eloped." "Wasn't it strange we should see you to-night?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, who had followed Miss Wangle. Patricia surveyed Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe with calculating calmness. "If two people go to the same Grill-room at the same time on the same evening, it would be strange if they did not see each other. Don't you think so, Miss Wangle?" "Did you say you were going there?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, coming to Miss Wangle's assistance. "We forgot." "Oh, do come in, Miss Brent!" It was Mrs. Craske-Morton who spoke. Patricia entered the lounge and found, as she had anticipated, the whole establishment collected. Not one was missing. Even Gustave fluttered about from place to place, showing an unwonted desire to tidy up. Patricia was conscious that her advent had interrupted a conversation of absorbing interest, furthermore that she herself had been the subject of that conversation. "Miss Wangle has been telling us all about your fiancé." It was Miss Sikkum who spoke. "Fancy your saying he was a major when he's a Staff lieutenant-colonel." "Oh!" replied Patricia nonchalantly, as she pulled off her gloves, "they've been altering him. They always do that in the Army. You get engaged to a captain and you find you have to marry a general. It's so stupid. It's like buying a kitten and getting a kangaroo-pup sent home." "But aren't you pleased?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton, at a loss to understand Patricia's mood. "No!" snapped Patricia, who was already feeling the reaction. "It's like being engaged to a chameleon, or a quick-change artist. They've made him a 'R.S.O.' as well." Under her lashes Patricia saw, with keen appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged. "You mean a D.S.O., Distinguished Service Order," explained Mr. Bolton. "An R.S.O. is er--er--something you put on letters." "Is it?" enquired Patricia innocently, "I'm so stupid at remembering such things." "He was wearing the ribbon of the Military Cross, too," bubbled Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. "Was he?" Patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she had adopted. "What a nuisance." "A nuisance!" There was surprised impatience in Miss Wangle's voice. Patricia turned to her sweetly. "Yes, Miss Wangle. It gives me such a lot to remember. Now let me see." She proceeded to tick off each word upon her fingers. "He's a Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen, D.S.O., M.C. Is that right?" "Bowen," almost shrieked Miss Wangle. "You said Brown." "Did I? I'm awfully sorry. My memory's getting worse than ever." Then a wave of mischief took possession of her. "Do you know when I went up to him to-night I hadn't the remotest idea of what his Christian name was." "Then what on earth do you call him then?" cried Mrs. Craske-Morton. "Call him?" queried Patricia, as she rose and gathered up her gloves. "Oh!" indifferently, "I generally call him 'Old Thing,'" and with that she left the lounge, conscious that she had scored a tactical victory. CHAPTER IV THE MADNESS OF LORD PETER BOWEN When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling that she had suffered some terrible disappointment. As a child she remembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after some tragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. She opened her eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears. Suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to her with a rush and, with an angry dab of the bedclothes, she wiped her eyes, just as the maid entered with the cup of early-morning tea she had specially ordered. With inspiration she decided to breakfast in bed. She could not face a whole table of wide-eyed interrogation. "Oh, the cats!" she muttered under her breath. "I hate women!" Later she slipped out of the house unobserved, with what she described to herself as a "morning after the party" feeling. She was puzzled to account for the tears. What had she been dreaming of to make her cry? Every time the thought of her adventure presented itself, she put it resolutely aside. She was angry with herself, angry with the world, angry with one Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen. Why, she could not have explained. "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed, as she made a fourth correction in the same letter. "Going out is evidently not good for you, Patricia." She spent the day alternately in wondering what Bowen was thinking of her, and deciding that he was not thinking of her at all. Finally, with a feeling of hot shame, she remembered to what thoughts she had laid herself open. Her one consolation was that she would never see him again. Then, woman-like, she wondered whether he would make an effort to see her. Would he be content with his dismissal? For the first time during their association, the rising politician was conscious that his secretary was anxious to get off sharp to time. At five minutes to five she resolutely put aside her notebook, and banged the cover on to her typewriter. Mr. Bonsor looked up at this unwonted energy and punctuality on Patricia's part, and with a tactful interest in the affairs of others that he was endeavouring to cultivate for political purposes, he enquired: "Going out?" "No," snapped Patricia, "I'm going home." Mr. Bonsor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He was a mild-mannered man who had learned the value of silence when faced by certain phases of feminine psychological phenomena. He therefore made no comment; but he watched his secretary curiously as she swiftly left the room. Jabbing the pins into her hat and throwing herself into her coat, Patricia was walking down the steps of the rising politician's house in Eaton Square as the clock struck five. She walked quickly in the direction of Sloane Square Railway Station. Suddenly she slackened her speed. Why was she hurrying home? She felt herself blushing hotly, and became furiously angry as if discovered in some humiliating act. Then with one of those odd emotional changes characteristic of her, she smiled. "Patricia Brent," she murmured, "I think a little walk won't do you any harm," and she strolled slowly up Sloane Street and across the Park to Bayswater. Her hand trembled as she put the key in the door and opened it. She looked swiftly in the direction of the letter-rack; but her eyes were arrested by two boxes, one very large and obviously from a florist. A strange excitement seized her. "Were they----?" At that moment Miss Sikkum came out of the lounge simpering. "Oh, Miss Brent! have you seen your beautiful presents?" Then Patricia knew, and she became angry with herself on finding how extremely happy she was. Glancing almost indifferently at the labels she proceeded to walk upstairs. Miss Sikkum looked at her in amazement. "But aren't you going to open them?" she blurted out. "Oh! presently," said Patricia in an off-hand way, "I had no idea it was so late," and she ran upstairs, leaving Miss Sikkum gazing after her in petrified astonishment. That evening Patricia took more than usual pains with her toilette. Had she paused to ask herself why, she would have been angry. When she came downstairs, the other boarders were seated at the table, all expectantly awaiting her entrance. On the table, in the front of her chair, were the two boxes. "I had your presents brought in here, Miss Brent," explained Mrs. Craske-Morton. "Oh! I had forgotten all about them," said Patricia indifferently, "I suppose I had better open them," which she proceeded to do. The smaller box contained chocolates, as Mr. Bolton put it, "evidently bought by the hundred-weight." The larger of the boxes was filled with an enormous spray-bunch of white and red carnations, tied with green silk ribbon, and on the top of each box was a card, "With love from Peter." Patricia's cheeks burned. She was angry, she told herself, yet there was a singing in her heart and a light in her eyes that oddly belied her. He had not forgotten! He had dared to disobey her injunction; for, she told herself, "good-bye" clearly forbade the sending of flowers and chocolates. She was unconscious that every eye was upon her, and the smile with which she regarded now the flowers, now the chocolates, was self-revelatory. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe glanced significantly at Miss Wangle, who, however, was too occupied in watching Patricia with hawk-like intentness to be conscious of anything but the quarry. Suddenly Patricia remembered, and her face changed. The flowers faded, the chocolates lost their sweetness and the smile vanished. The parted lips set in a firm but mobile line. What had before been a tribute now became in her eyes an insult. Men sent chocolates and flowers to--to "those women"! If he respected her he would have done as she commanded him, instead of which he had sent her presents. Oh! it was intolerable. "If I sent flowers and chocolates to a lady friend," said Mr. Bolton, "I should expect her to look happier than you do, Miss Brent." With an effort Patricia gathered herself together and with a forced smile replied, "Ah! Mr. Bolton, but you are different," which seemed to please Mr. Bolton mightily. She was conscious that everyone was looking at her in surprise not unmixed with disapproval. She was aware that her attitude was not the conventional pose of the happily-engaged girl. The situation was strange. Even Mr. Cordal was bestowing upon her a portion of his attention. It is true that he was eating curry with a spoon, which required less accuracy than something necessitating a knife and fork; still at meal times it was unusual of him to be conscious even of the existence of his fellow-boarders. It was Gustave who relieved the situation by handing to Patricia a telegram on the little tray where the silver had long since given up the unequal struggle with the base metal beneath. Patricia with assumed indifference laid it beside her plate. "The boy ees waiting, mees," insinuated Gustave. Patricia tore open the envelope and read: "May I come and see you this evening dont say no peter." Patricia was conscious of her flushed face and she felt irritated at her own weakness. With a murmured apology to Mrs. Morton she rose from the table and went into the lounge where she wrote the reply: "Regret impossible remember your promise," then she paused. She did not want to sign her full name, she could not sign her Christian name she decided, so she compromised by using initials only, "P.B." She took the telegram to the door herself, knowing that otherwise poor Gustave's life would be a misery at the hands of Miss Wangle, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe and the others. "Why had she given the boy sixpence?" she asked herself as she slowly returned to the dining-room. Telegraph boys were paid. It was ridiculous to tip them, especially when they brought undesirable messages. "Was the message undesirable?" someone within seemed to question. Of course it was, and she was very angry with Bowen for not doing as she had commanded him. When Patricia returned to the table and proceeded with the meal, she was conscious of the atmosphere of expectancy around her. Everybody wanted to know what was in the telegram. At last Miss Wangle enquired, "No bad news I hope, Miss Brent." Patricia looked up and fixed Miss Wangle with a deliberate stare, which she meant to be rude. "None, Miss Wangle, thank you," she replied coldly. The dinner proceeded until the sweet was being served, when Gustave approached her once more. "You are wanted, mees, on the telephone, please," he said. Patricia was conscious once more of crimsoning as she turned to Gustave. "Please say that I'm engaged," she said. Gustave left the dining-room. Everybody watched the door in a fever of expectancy. Two minutes later Gustave reappeared and, walking softly up to Patricia's chair, whispered in a voice that could be clearly heard by everyone, "It ees Colonel Baun, mees. He wish to speak to you." "Tell him I'm at dinner," replied Patricia calmly. She could literally hear the gasp that went round the table. "But, Miss Brent," began Mrs. Craske-Morton. Patricia turned and looked straight into Mrs. Craske-Morton's eyes interrogatingly. Gustave hesitated. Mrs. Craske-Morton collapsed. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged meaning glances. Little Mrs. Hamilton looked concerned, almost a little sad. Patricia turned to Gustave. "You heard, Gustave?" "Yes, mees," replied Gustave and, turning reluctantly towards the door, he disappeared. There was something in Patricia's demeanour that made it clear she would resent any comment on her action, and the meal continued in silence. Mr. Bolton made some feeble endeavours to lighten the atmosphere; but he was not successful. In the lounge a quarter of an hour later, Gustave once more approached Patricia, this time with a note. "The boy ees waiting, mees," he announced. Patricia tore open the envelope and read: "DEAR PATRICIA, "Won't you let me see you? Please remember that even the under-dog has his rights. "Yours ever, "PETER." "There is no answer, Gustave," said Patricia, and Gustave left the room disconsolately. Half an hour later Gustave returned once more. On his tray were three telegrams. Patricia looked about her wildly. "Had the man suddenly gone mad?" she asked herself. "Tell the boy not to wait, Gustave," she said. "There ees three boys, mees." The atmosphere was electrical. Mr. Bolton laughed, then stopped suddenly. Miss Sikkum simpered. Patricia turned to Gustave with a calmness that was not reflected in her cheeks. "Tell the three boys not to wait, Gustave." "Yes, mees!" Gustave slowly walked to the door. It was clear that he could not reconcile with his standard of ethics the allowing of three telegrams to remain unopened, and to dismiss three boys without knowing whether or no there really were replies. The same feeling was reflected in the faces of Patricia's fellow-boarders. "Miss Brent must be losing a lot of relatives, or coming into a lot of fortunes," remarked Mr. Bolton to Mrs. Hamilton. Patricia preserved an outward calm she was far from feeling. She rose and went up to her room to discover from the three orange envelopes what was the latest phase of Colonel Bowen's madness. Seated on her bed she opened the telegrams. The first read: "Will you go motoring with me on Sunday peter." No, she would do nothing of the kind. The second said: "If I have done anything to offend you please tell me and forgive me peter." Of course he had done nothing, and it was all very absurd. Why was he behaving like a schoolboy? The third was longer. It ran: "I so enjoyed last night it was the most delightful evening I have spent for many a day please do not be too hard upon me peter." This was a tactical error. It brought back to Patricia the whole incident. It was utter folly to have placed herself in such an impossible position. Obviously Bowen knew nothing of women, or he would not have made such a blunder as to remind her of what took place on the previous night, unless--unless---- She hardly dare breathe the thought to herself. What if he thought her different from what she actually was? Could he confuse her with those---- It was impossible! She was angry; angry with him, angry with herself, angry with the Quadrant Grill-room; but angriest of all with Galvin House, which had precipitated her into this adventure. Why did silly women expect every girl to marry? Why was it assumed because a woman did not marry that no one wanted to marry her? Patricia regarded herself in the looking-glass. Was she really the sort of girl who might be taken for an inveterate old maid? Her hands and feet were small. Her ankles well-shaped. Her figure had been praised, even by women. Her hair was a natural red-auburn. Her features regular, her mouth mobile, well-shaped with very red lips. Her eyes a violet-blue with long dark lashes and eyebrows. "You're not so bad, Patricia Brent," she remarked as she turned from the glass. "But you will probably be a secretary to the end of your days, drink cold weak tea, keep a cat and get hard and angular, skinny most likely. You're just the sort that runs to skin and bone." She was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the door. "Come in," she called. The door was softly opened and Mrs. Hamilton entered. "May I come in, dear?" she enquired in an apologetic voice, as she stood on the threshold. "Come in!" cried Patricia, "why of course you may, you dear. You can do anything you like with me." Mrs. Hamilton was small and white and fragile, with a ray of sunlight in her soul. She invariably dressed in grey, or blue-grey. Everything she wore seemed to be as soft as her own expression. "I--I came up--I--I--hope it is not bad news. I don't want to meddle in your affairs, my dear; but I am concerned. If there is anything I can do, you will tell me, won't you? You won't think me inquisitive, will you?" "Why you dear, silly little thing, of course I don't. Still it's just like your sweet self to come up and enquire. It is only that ridiculous Colonel Bowen who is showering telegrams on me in this way, in order, I suppose, to benefit the revenue. I think he has gone mad. Perhaps it's shell-shock, poor thing. There will most likely be another shower before we go to bed. Now we will go downstairs and stop those old pussies talking." "My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Hamilton. Patricia laughed. "Yes, aren't I getting acid and spinsterish?" As they walked downstairs Mrs. Hamilton said: "I'm so anxious to see him, my dear. Miss Wangle says he is so distinguished-looking." "Who?" enquired Patricia, with mock innocence. "Colonel Bowen, dear." "Oh! Yes, he's quite a decent-looking old thing, and he's given Galvin House something to talk about, hasn't he?" In the lounge Patricia soon became the centre of a group anxious for information; but no one was daring enough to put direct questions to her. Mrs. Craske-Morton ventured a suggestion that Colonel Bowen might be coming to dine with Patricia, and that she hoped Miss Brent would let her know in good time, so that she might make special preparations. Patricia replied without enthusiasm. None was better aware than she that had her fiancé turned out to be a private, Mrs. Craske-Morton would have been the last even to suggest that he should dine at Galvin House. There would have been no question of special preparations. About ten o'clock Gustave entered and approached Patricia. She groaned in spirit. "You are wanted on the telephone, mees." Patricia thought she detected a note of reproach in his voice, as if he were conscious that a fellow-male was being badly treated. "Will you say that I'm engaged?" replied Patricia. "It's Colonel Baun, mees." For a moment Patricia hesitated. She was conscious that Galvin House was against her to a woman. After all there were limits beyond which it would be unwise to go. Galvin House had its standards, which had already been sorely tried. Patricia felt rather than heard the whispered criticism passing between Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Rising slowly with an air of reconciled martyrdom, Patricia went to the telephone at the end of the hall, followed by the smiling Gustave, who, like the rest of Galvin House, had found his sense of decorum sorely outraged by Patricia's conduct. "Hullo!" cried Patricia into the mouthpiece of the telephone, her heart thumping ridiculously. Gustave walked tactfully away. "That you, Patricia?" came the reply. Patricia was conscious that all her anger had vanished. "Yes, who is speaking?" "Peter." "Yes." "How are you?" "Did you ring me up to ask after my health?" There was a laugh at the other end. "Well!" enquired Patricia, who knew she was behaving like a schoolgirl. "Did you get my message?" "I'm very angry." "Why?" "Because you've made me ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, and telephoning." "May I call?" "No." "I'm coming to-morrow night." "I shall be out." "Then I'll wait until you return." "Are you playing the game, do you think?" "I must see you. Expect me about nine." "I shall do nothing of the sort." "Please don't be angry, Patricia." "Well! you mustn't come, then. Thank you for the chocolates and flowers." "That's all right. Don't forget to-morrow at nine." "I tell you I shall be out." "Right-oh!" "Good-bye!" Without waiting for a reply, Patricia hung up the receiver. When she returned to the lounge her cheeks were flushed, and she was feeling absurdly happy. Then a moment after she asked herself what it was to her whether he remembered or forgot her. He was an entire stranger--or at least he ought to be. Just as she was going up to her room for the night, another telegram arrived. It contained three words: "Good night peter." "Of all the ridiculous creatures!" she murmured, laughing in spite of herself. CHAPTER V PATRICIA'S REVENGE Galvin House dined at seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had used all her arts in an endeavour to have the hour altered to eight-fifteen, or eight-thirty. "It would add tone to the establishment," she had explained to Mrs. Craske-Morton. "It is dreadfully suburban to dine at half-past seven." Conscious of the views of the other guests, Mrs. Craske-Morton had held out, necessitating the bringing up of Miss Wangle's heavy artillery, the bishop, whose actual views Miss Wangle shrouded in a mist of words. As far as could be gathered, the illustrious prelate held out very little hope of salvation for anyone who dined earlier than eight-thirty. Just as Mrs. Craske-Morton was wavering, Mr. Bolton had floored Miss Wangle and her ecclesiastical relic with the simple question, "And who'll pay for the biscuits I shall have to eat to keep going until half-past eight?" That had clinched the matter. Galvin House continued to dine at the unfashionable hour of seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had resigned herself to the inevitable, conscious that she had done her utmost for the social salvation of her fellow-guests, and mentally reproaching Providence for casting her lot with the Cordals and the Boltons, rather than with the De Veres and the Montmorencies. Mr. Bolton confided to his fellow-boarders what he conceived to be the real cause of Mrs. Craske-Morton's decision. "She's afraid of what Miss Wangle would eat if left unfed for an extra hour," he had said. Miss Wangle's appetite was like Dominie Sampson's favourite adjective, "prodigious." So it came about that on the Friday evening on which Colonel Peter Bowen had announced his intention of calling on Patricia, Galvin House, all unconscious of the event, sat down to its evening meal at its usual time, in its usual coats and blouses, with its usual vacuous smiles and small talk, and above all with its usual appetite--an appetite that had caused Mrs. Craske-Morton to bless the inauguration of food-control, and to pray devoutly to Providence for food-tickets. Had anyone suggested to Patricia that she had dressed with more than usual care that evening, she would have denied it, she might even have been annoyed. Her simple evening frock of black voile, unrelieved by any colour save a ribbon of St. Patrick's green that bound her hair, showed up the paleness of her skin and the redness of her lips. At the last moment, as if under protest, she had pinned some of Bowen's carnations in her belt. As she entered the dining-room, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged significant glances. Woman-like they sensed something unusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner. "Going out?" enquired Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe sweetly. "Probably," was Patricia's laconic reply. Soup had not been disposed of (it was soup on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; fish on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and neither on Sundays at Galvin House) before Gustave entered with an enormous bouquet of crimson carnations. It might almost be said that the carnations entered propelled by Gustave, as there was very little but Gustave's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screen of flowers. Instinctively everybody looked at Patricia. "For you, mees, with Colonel Baun's compliments." Gustave stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him. "You've forgotten the conservatory, Gustave," laughed Mr. Bolton. It was always easy to identify the facetious from the serious Mr. Bolton; his jokes were always heralded by a laugh. "Sir?" interrogated the literal-minded Gustave. "Never mind, Gustave. Mr. Bolton was joking," said Mrs. Craske-Morton. "Yes, madame." Gustave smiled a mechanical smile: he overflowed with tact. "Where will you have the flowers, Miss Brent?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton. "They are exquisite." "Try the bath," suggested Mr. Bolton. "Sir?" from Gustave. It was Alice, Gustave's assistant in the dining-room during meals, who created the diversion for which Patricia had been devoutly praying. An affected little laugh from Miss Sikkum called attention to Alice, standing just inside the door, with an enormous white and gold box tied with bright green ribbon. Patricia regarded the girl in dismay. "Put them in the lounge, please," she said. "You are lucky, Miss Brent," giggled Miss Sikkum enviously. "I wonder what's in the box." "A chest protector," Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out. "Really, Mr. Bolton!" from Mrs. Craske-Morton. Patricia wondered was she lucky? Why should she be made ridiculous in this fashion? "I should say chocolates." The suggestion came from Mr. Cordal through a mouthful of roast beef and Brussels sprouts. Everyone turned to the speaker, whose gastronomic silence was one of the most cherished traditions of Galvin House. "He must have plenty of money," remarked Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe to Miss Wangle in a whisper, audible to all. "Those flowers and chocolates must have cost a lot." "Ten pounds." The remark met a large Brussels sprout that Mr. Cordal was conveying to his mouth and summarily ejected it. As Mr. Cordal was something on the Stock Exchange (Mr. Bolton had once said he must be a "bear") he was, at Galvin House, the recognised authority upon all matters of finance. "Really, Mr. Cordal!" expostulated Mrs. Craske-Morton, rather outraged at this open discussion of Patricia's affairs. "Sure of it," was all Mr. Cordal vouchsafed as he shovelled in another mouthful. "You've been a goer in your time, Mr. Cordal," said Mr. Bolton. Mr. Cordal grunted, which may have meant anything, but in all probability meant nothing. For a quarter of an hour the inane conversation so characteristic of meal-times at Galvin House continued without interruption. How Patricia hated it. Was this all that life held for her? Was she always to be a drudge to the Bonsors, a victim of the Wangles and a target for the Boltons of life? It was to escape such drab existences that girls went on the stage, or worse; and why not? She had only one life, so far as she knew, and here she was sacrificing it to the jungle people, as she called them. Was there no escape? What St. George would rescue her from this dragon of----? "Colonel Baun, mees." Patricia looked up with a start from the apple tart with which she was trifling. Gustave stood beside her, his face glowing in a way that hinted at a handsome tip. He was all-unconscious that he had answered a very difficult question in a manner entirely unsatisfactory to Patricia. "I haf show him in the looaunge, mees. He will wait." Patricia believed him. Was ever man so persistent? She saw through the move. He had come an hour earlier to be sure of catching her before she went out. Patricia was once more conscious of the ridiculous behaviour of her heart. It thumped and pounded against her ribs as if determined to compromise her with the rest of the boarders. "Very well, Gustave, say we are at dinner." "Yes, mees," and Gustave proceeded with his duties. "He's clever," was Patricia's inward comment. "He's bought Gustave, and in an hour he'll have the whole blessed place against me." If the effect upon Patricia of Gustave's announcement had been startling, that upon the rest of the company was galvanic. Each felt aggrieved that proper notice had not been given of so auspicious an event. There was a general feeling of resentment against Patricia for not having told them that she expected Bowen to call. There were covert glances at their garments by the ladies, and among the men a consciousness that the clothes they were wearing were not those they had upstairs. Miss Sikkum's playful fancy was with the Brixton "Paris model," which only that day she had taken to the cleaners; Miss Wangle was conscious that she had not hung herself with her full equipment of chains and accoutrements; Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe thought regretfully of the pale blue evening-gown upstairs, a garment that had followed the course of fashion for nearly a quarter of a century. Mr. Bolton had doubts about his collar and his boots, whilst Mr. Cordal, with the aid of his napkin and some water from a drinking glass, strove to remove from his waistcoat reminiscences of bygone repasts. The other members of the company all had something to regret. Mr. Archibald Sefton, whose occupation was a secret between himself and Providence, was dubious about the creases in his trousers; Mrs. Barnes wondered if the gallant colonel would discover the ink she had that day applied to the seams of her dress. Everyone was constrained and anxious to get to his or to her room for repairs. "Did you know Colonel Bowen was coming?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton, quite at her ease in the knowledge that "something had told her" to put on her best black silk and the large cameo pendant that made her look like a wine-steward at a fashionable restaurant. "He said he might drop in; but he's so casual that I didn't think it worth mentioning," said Patricia, conscious that the reply was unanimously regarded as unconvincing. Having finished her coffee Patricia rose in a leisurely manner. She was no sooner out of the door than a veritable stampede ensued. Every one intended "just to slip upstairs for a moment," and each glared at the other on discovering that all seemed inspired by the same idea. Mrs. Craske-Morton went to her "boudoir" out of tactful consideration for the young lovers; Mrs. Hamilton went up to the drawing-room for the same reason. Patricia paused for a moment outside the door of the lounge. She put her cool hands to her hot cheeks, wondering why her heart should show so little regard for her feelings. She felt an impulse to run away and lock herself in her own room and cry "Go away!" to anyone who might knock. She strove to work herself into a state of anger with Bowen for daring to come an hour before the time appointed. As she entered the lounge, Bowen sprang up and came towards her. There was a spirit of boyish mischief lurking in his eyes. "I suppose," said Patricia as they shook hands, "you think this is very clever." "Please, Patricia, don't bully me." Patricia laughed in spite of herself at the humility and appeal in his voice. She was conscious that she was not behaving as she ought, or had intended to behave. "It seems an age since I saw you," he continued. "Forty-eight hours, to be exact," commented Patricia, forgetful of all the reproachful things she had intended to say. "You got the flowers?" as his eye fell on the carnations which Gustave had placed in a large bowl. "Yes, thank you very much indeed, they're exquisite. They made Miss Sikkum quite envious." "Who's Miss Sikkum?" "Time, in all probability, will show," replied Patricia, seating herself on a settee. Bowen drew up a chair and sat opposite to her. She liked him for that. Had he sat beside her, she told herself, she would have hated him. "You're not angry with me, Patricia, are you?" There was an anxious note in his voice. "Do you appreciate that you've made me extremely ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, conservatories, and confectioner's-shops? Why did you do it?" "I don't know," he confessed with unconscious gaucherie, "I simply couldn't get you out of my thoughts." "Which shows that you tried," commented Patricia, the lightness of her words contradicted by the blush that accompanied them. "The King's Regulations do not provide for Patricias," he replied, "and I had to try. That is how I knew." "Do you think I'm a cormorant, as well as an abandoned person?" she demanded. "A cormorant?" queried Bowen, ignoring the second question. "I don't understand." "Within twenty-four hours you have sent me enough chocolates to last for a couple of months." "Poor Patricia!" he laughed. "You mustn't call me Patricia, Colonel Bowen," she said primly. "What will people think?" "What would they think if they heard the man you're engaged to call you Miss Brent?" "We are not engaged," said Patricia hotly. "We are," his eyes smiled into hers. "I can bring all these people here to prove it on your own statement." She bit her Up. "Are you going to be mean? Are you going to play the game?" She awaited his reply with an anxiety she strove to disguise. Bowen looked straight into her eyes until they fell beneath his gaze. "I'm afraid I've got to be mean, Patricia," he said quietly. "May we smoke?" As she took a cigarette from his case and he lighted it for her, Patricia found herself experiencing a new sensation. Without apparent effort he had assumed control of the situation, and then with a masterfulness that she felt rather than acknowledged, had put the subject aside as if requiring no further comment. This was a side of Bowen's character that she had not yet seen. As she was debating with herself whether or no she liked it, the door opened, giving access to a stream of Galvin Houseites. "Oh!" gasped Patricia hysterically, "they're all dressed up, and it's in your honour." "What's that?" enquired Bowen, less mentally agile than Patricia, as he turned round to gaze at the string of paying guests that oozed into the room. "They've put on their best bibs and tuckers for you," she cried. "Oh! please don't even smile, _ple-e-e-ase_!" The first to enter was Miss Wangle. Although she had not changed her dress, it was obvious that she had taken considerable pains with her personal appearance. On her fingers were more than the usual weight of rings; round her neck were flung a few additional chains; on her arms hung an extra bracelet or two and, as a final touch, she had added a fan to her equipment. To Patricia's keen eyes it was clear that she had re-done her hair, and she carried her lorgnettes, things that in themselves betokened a ceremonial occasion. Following Miss Wangle like an echo came Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. She had evidently taken her courage in both hands and donned the blue evening frock, to which she had added a pair of white gloves which reached barely to the elbow, although the frock ended just below her shoulders. Miss Wangle bowed graciously to Patricia, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe followed suit. They moved over to the extreme end of the room. Mr. Cordal was the next arrival, closely followed by Mr. Bolton. At the sight of Mr. Cordal Patricia started and bit her lower lip. He had assumed a vivid blue tie, and had obviously changed his collar. From the darker spots on his waistcoat and coat it was evident that he had subjected his clothes to a vigorous process of cleaning. Mr. Bolton, on the other hand, had followed Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's lead, and made a clean sweep. He had assumed a black frock-coat; but had apparently not thought it worth while to change his brown tweed trousers, which hung about his boots in shapeless folds, as if conscious that they had no right there. He, too, had donned a clean collar and, by way of adding to his splendour, had assumed a white satin necktie threaded through a "diamond" ring. His thin dark hair was generously oiled and, as he passed over to the side of the room occupied by Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, he left behind him a strong odour of verbena. Mrs. Barnes came next and, one by one, the other guests drifted in. All had assumed something in the nature of a wedding garment in honour of Patricia's fiancé. Miss Sikkum had selected a pea-green satin blouse, which caused Bowen to screw his eyeglass vigorously into his eye and gaze at her in wonder. "Do you like them?" It was Patricia who broke the silence. With a start Bowen turned to her. "Er--er--they seem an er--awfully decent crowd." Patricia laughed. "Yes, aren't they? Dreadfully decent. How would you like to live among them all? Why they haven't the pluck to break a commandment among them." Bowen looked at Patricia in surprise. "Really!" was the only remark he could think of. "And now I've shocked you!" cried Patricia. "You must not think that I like people who break commandments. I don't know exactly what I do mean. Oh, here you are!" and she ran across as Mrs. Hamilton entered and drew her towards Bowen. "Now I know what I meant. This dear little creature has never broken a commandment, I wouldn't mind betting everything I have, and she has never been uncharitable to anyone who has. Isn't that so?" She turned to Mrs. Hamilton, who was regarding her in astonishment. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm quite mad to-night, you mustn't mind. You see Colonel Bowen's mad and he makes me mad." Turning to Bowen she introduced him to Mrs. Hamilton. "This is my friend, Mrs. Hamilton." Then to Mrs. Hamilton. "You know all about Colonel Bowen, don't you, dear? He's the man who sends me conservatories and telegrams and boy-messengers and things." Mrs. Hamilton smiled up sweetly at Bowen, and held out her hand. Patricia glanced across at the group at the other end of the lounge. The scene reminded her of Napoleon on the _Bellerophon_. Suddenly she had an idea. It synchronised with the entry of Gustave, who stood just inside the door smiling inanely. "Call a taxi for Colonel Bowen, please, Gustave," she said coolly. Gustave looked surprised, the group looked disappointed, Bowen looked at Patricia with a puzzled expression. "I'm sorry you're in a hurry," said Patricia, holding out her hand to Bowen. "I'm busy also." "But----" began Bowen. "Oh! don't trouble." Patricia advanced, and he had perforce to retreat towards the door. "See you again sometime. Good-bye," and Bowen found himself in the hall. "Damn!" he muttered. "Sir?" interrogated Gustave anxiously. As Bowen was replying to Gustave in coin, Mrs. Craske-Morton appeared at the head of the stairs on her way down to the lounge after her tactful absence. For a moment she hesitated in obvious surprise, then, with the air of a would-be traveller who hears the guard's whistle, she threw dignity aside and made for Bowen. "Colonel Bowen?" she interrogated anxiously. Bowen turned and bowed. "I am Mrs. Craske-Morton. Miss Brent did not tell me that you were making so short a call, or I would----" Mrs. Craske-Morton's pause implied that nothing would have prevented her from hurrying down. "You are very kind," murmured Bowen absently, not yet recovered from his unceremonious dismissal. He was brought back to realities by Mrs. Craske-Morton expressing a hope that he would give her the pleasure of dining at Galvin House one evening. "Shall we say Friday?" she continued without allowing Bowen time to reply, "and we will keep it as a delightful surprise for Miss Brent." Mrs. Craske-Morton exposed her teeth and felt romantic. When Bowen left Galvin House that evening he was pledged to give Patricia "a delightful surprise" on the following Friday. "That will teach them to pity me!" murmured Patricia that night as she brushed her hair with what seemed entirely unnecessary vigour. She was conscious that she was the best-hated girl in Bayswater, as she recalled the angry and reproachful looks directed towards her by her fellow-guests after Bowen's departure. In an adjoining room Miss Wangle, a black cap upon her head, was also engaged in brushing her hair with a gentleness foreign to most of her actions. "The cat!" she murmured as she lay it in its drawer, and then as she locked the drawer she repeated, "The cat!" CHAPTER VI THE INTERVENTION OF AUNT ADELAIDE Sunday at Galvin House was a day of bodily rest but acute mental activity. The day of God seemed to draw out the worst in everybody; all were in their best clothes and on their worst behaviour. Mr. Cordal descended to breakfast in carpet slippers with fur tops. Miss Wangle regarded this as a mark of disrespect towards the grand-niece of a bishop. She would glare at Mr. Cordal's slippers as if convinced that the cloven hoof were inside. Mr. Bolton sported a velvet smoking-jacket, white at the elbows, light grey trousers and a manner that seemed to say, "Ha! here's Sunday again, good!" After breakfast he added a fez and a British cigar to his equipment, and retired to the lounge to read _Lloyd's News_. Both the cigar and the newspaper lasted him throughout the day. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the conviction that in smoking a cigar, which he disliked, he was making a fitting distinction between the Sabbath and week-days. He went even further, for whereas on secular days he lit his inexpensive cigarettes with matches, on the Sabbath he used only fusees. "I love the smell of fusees," Miss Sikkum would simper, regardless of the fact that a hundred times before she had taken Galvin House into her confidence on the subject. "I think they're so romantic." Patricia wondered if Mr. Bolton's fusee were an offering to heaven or to Miss Sikkum. On Sunday mornings Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe went to divine service at Westminster Abbey, and Mr. Cordal went to sleep in the lounge. Mrs. Barnes wandered aimlessly about, making anxious enquiry of everyone she encountered. If it were cloudy, did they think it would rain? If it rained, did they think it would clear up? If it were fine, did they think it would last? Mrs. Barnes was always going to do something that was contingent upon the weather. Every Sunday she was going for a walk in the Park, or to church; but her constitutional indecision of character intervened. Mr. Archibald Sefton, who showed the qualities of a landscape gardener in the way in which he arranged his thin fair hair to disguise the desert of baldness beneath, was always vigorous on Sundays. He descended to the dining-room rubbing his hands in a manner suggestive of a Dickens Christmas. After breakfast he walked in the Park, "to give the girls a treat," as Mr. Bolton had once expressed it, which had earned for him a stern rebuke from Miss Wangle. In the afternoon Mr. Sefton returned to the Park, and in the evening yet again. Mr. Sefton had a secret that was slowly producing in him misanthropy. His nature was tropical and his courage arctic, which, coupled with his forty-five years, was a great obstacle to his happiness. In dress he was a dandy, at heart he was a craven and, never daring, he was consumed with his own fire. The other guests at Galvin House drifted in and out, said the same things, wore the same clothes, with occasional additions, had the same thoughts; whilst over all, as if to compose the picture, brooded the reek of cooking. The atmosphere of Galvin House was English, the cooking was English, and the lack of culinary imagination also was English. There were two and a half menus for the one o'clock Sunday dinner. Roast mutton, onion sauce, cabbage, potatoes, fruit pie, and custard; alternated for four weeks with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cauliflower, roast potatoes, and lemon pudding. Then came roast pork, apple sauce, potatoes, greens with stewed fruit and cheese afterwards. The cuisine was in itself a calendar. If your first Sunday were a roast-pork Sunday, you knew without mental effort on every roast-pork Sunday exactly how many months you had been there. If for a moment you had forgotten the day, and found yourself toying with a herring at dinner, you knew it was a Tuesday, just as you knew it was Friday from the Scotch broth placed before you. Nobody seemed to mind the dreary reiteration, because everybody was so occupied in keeping up appearances. Sunday was the day of reckoning and retrospection. "Were they getting full value for their money?" was the unuttered question. There were whisperings and grumblings, sometimes complaints. Then there was another aspect. Each guest had to enquire if the expenditure were justified by income. All these things, like the weekly mending, were kept for Sundays. By tea-time the atmosphere was one of unrest. Mr. Sefton returned from the Park disappointed, Miss Sikkum from Sunday-school, breathless from her flight before some alleged admirer, Patricia from her walk, conscious of a dissatisfaction she could not define. Mr. Cordal awoke unrefreshed, Mrs. Craske-Morton emerged from her "boudoir," where she balanced the week's accounts, convinced that ruin stared her in the face owing to the tonic qualities of Bayswater air, and Mr. Bolton emerged from _Lloyd's News_ facetious. Miss Wangle was acid, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe ultra-forbearing, whilst Mrs. Barnes found it impossible to decide between a heart-cake and a rusk. Only Mrs. Hamilton, at work upon her inevitable knitting, seemed human and content. On returning to Galvin House Patricia had formed a habit of instinctively casting her eyes in the direction of the letter-rack, beneath which was the table on which parcels were placed that they might be picked up as the various guests entered on their way to their rooms. She took herself severely to task for this weakness, but in spite of her best efforts, her eyes would wander towards the table and letter-rack. At last she had to take stern measures with herself and deliberately walk along the hall with her face turned to the left, that is to the side opposite from that of the letter-rack table. On the Sunday afternoon following her adventure at the Quadrant Grill-room, Patricia entered Galvin House, her head resolutely turned to the left, and ran into Gustave. "Oh, mees!" he exclaimed, his gentle, cow-like face expressing pained surprise, rather than indignation. Gustave was a Swiss, a French-Swiss, he was emphatic on this point. Patricia said he was Swiss wherever he wasn't French, and German wherever he wasn't Swiss and French. "I am so sorry, Gustave," apologised Patricia. "I wasn't looking where I was going." Gustave smiled amiably, Patricia was a great favourite of his. "There is a lady in the looaunge, Mees Brent, the same as you." Gustave smiled broadly as if he had discovered some subtle joke in the duplication of Patricia's name. "Oh, bother!" muttered Patricia to herself. "Aunt Adelaide, imagine Aunt Adelaide on an afternoon like this." She entered the lounge wearily, to find Miss Brent the centre of a group, the foremost in which were Mrs. Craske-Morton, Miss Wangle, and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Patricia groaned in spirit; she knew exactly what had been taking place, and now she would have to explain everything. Could she explain? Had she for one moment paused to think of Aunt Adelaide, no amount of frenzy or excitement would have prompted her to such an adventure. Miss Brent would probe the mystery out of a ghost. Material, practical, levelheaded, victorious, she would strip romance from a legend, or glamour from a myth. As she entered the lounge, Patricia saw by the movement of Miss Wangle's lips that she was saying "Ah! here she is." Miss Brent turned and regarded her niece with a long, non-committal stare. Patricia walked over to her. "Hullo, Aunt Adelaide! Who would have thought of seeing you here." Miss Brent looked up at her, received the frigid kiss upon one cheek and returned it upon the other. "A peck for a peck," muttered Patricia to herself under her breath. "We've been talking about you," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe ingratiatingly. "How strange," announced Patricia indifferently. "Well, Aunt Adelaide," she continued, turning to Miss Brent, "this is an unexpected pleasure. How is it you are dissipating in town?" "I want to speak to you, Patricia. Is there a quiet corner where we shall not be overheard?" Miss Wangle started, Mrs. Craske-Morton rose hurriedly and made for the door. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe looked uncomfortable. Miss Brent's directness was a thing dreaded by all who knew her. "You had better come up to my room, Aunt Adelaide," said Patricia. As she reached the door, Mrs. Craske-Morton turned. "Oh! Miss Brent," she said, addressing Patricia, "would you not like to take your aunt into my boudoir? It is entirely at your disposal." Mrs. Craske-Morton's "boudoir" was a small cupboard-like apartment in which she made up her accounts. It was as much like a boudoir as a starveling mongrel is like an aristocratic chow. Patricia smiled her thanks. One of Patricia's great points was that she could smile an acknowledgment in a way that was little less than inspiration. When they reached the "boudoir," Miss Brent sat down with a suddenness and an air of aggression that left Patricia in no doubt as to the nature of the talk she desired to have with her. Miss Brent was a tall, angular woman, with spinster shouting from every angle of her uncomely person. No matter what the fashion, she seemed to wear her clothes all bunched up about her hips. Her hair was dragged to the back of her head, and crowned by a hat known in the dim recesses of the Victorian past as a "boater." A veil clawed what remained of the hair and hat towards the rear, and accentuated the sharpness of her nose and the fleshlessness of her cheeks. Miss Brent looked like nothing so much as an aged hawk in whom the lust to prey still lingered, without the power of making the physical effort to capture it. "Patricia," she demanded, "what is all this I hear?" "If you've been talking to Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, Aunt Adelaide, heaven only knows what you've heard," replied Patricia calmly. "Patricia." Miss Brent invariably began her remarks by uttering the name of the person whom she addressed. "Patricia, you know perfectly well what I mean." "I should know better, if you would tell me," murmured Patricia with a patient sigh as she seated herself in the easiest of the uneasy chairs, and proceeded to pull off her gloves. "Patricia, I refer to these stories about your being engaged." "Yes, Aunt Adelaide?" "Have you nothing to say?" "Nothing in particular. People get engaged, you know. I suppose it is because they've got nothing else to do." "Patricia, don't be frivolous." "Frivolous! Me frivolous! Aunt Adelaide! If you were a secretary to a brainless politician, who is supposed to rise, but who won't rise, can't rise, and never will rise, from ten until five each day, for the magnificent salary of two and a half guineas a week, even you wouldn't be able to be frivolous." "Patricia!" There was surprised disapproval in Miss Brent's voice. "Are you mad?" "No, Aunt Adelaide, just bored, just bored stiff." Patricia emphasised the word "stiff" in a way that brought Miss Brent into an even more upright position. "Patricia, I wish you would change your idiom. Your flagrant vulgarity would have deeply pained your poor, dear father." Patricia made no response; she simply looked as she felt, unutterably bored. She was incapable even of invention. Supposing she told her aunt the whole story, at least she would have the joy of seeing the look of horror that would overspread her features. "Patricia," continued Miss Brent, "I repeat, what is this I hear about your being engaged?" "Oh!" replied Patricia indifferently, "I suppose you've heard the truth; I've got engaged." "Without telling me a word about it." "Oh, well! those are nasty things, you know, that one doesn't advertise." "Patricia!" "Well, aunt, you say that all men are beasts, and if you associate with beasts, you don't like the world to know about it." "Patricia!" repeated Miss Brent. "Aunt Adelaide!" cried Patricia, "you make me feel that I absolutely hate my name. I wish I'd been numbered. If you say 'Patricia' again I shall scream." "Is it true that you are engaged to Lord Peter Bowen?" "Good Lord, no." Patricia sat up in astonishment. "Then that woman in the lounge is a liar." There was uncompromising conviction in Miss Brent's tone. Patricia leaned forward and smiled. "Aunt Adelaide, you are singularly discriminating to-day. She is a liar, and she also happens to be a cat." Miss Brent appeared not to hear Patricia's remark. She was occupied with her own thoughts. She possessed a masculine habit of thinking before she spoke, and in consequence she was as devoid of impulse and spontaneity as a snail. Patricia watched her aunt covertly, her mind working furiously. What could it mean? Lord Peter Bowen! Miss Wangle was not given to making mistakes in which the aristocracy were concerned. At Galvin House she was the recognised authority upon anything and everything concerned with royalty and the titled and landed gentry. County families were her hobbies and the peerage her obsession. It would be just like Peter, thought Patricia, to turn out a lord, just the ridiculous, inconsequent sort of thing he would delight in. She was unconscious of any incongruity in thinking of him as Peter. It seemed the natural thing to do. She saw by the signs on her aunt's face that she was nearing a decision. Conscious that she must not burn her boats, Patricia burst in upon Miss Brent's thoughts with a suddenness that startled her. "If Miss Wangle desires to discuss my friends with you in future, Aunt Adelaide, I think she should adopt the names by which they prefer to be known." Patricia watched the surprised look upon her aunt's face, and with dignity met the keen hawk-like glance that flashed from her eyes. "If, for reasons of his own," continued Patricia, "a man chooses to drop his title in favour of his rank in the army, that I think is a matter for him to decide, and not one that requires discussion at Miss Wangle's hands." Miss Brent's stare convinced Patricia that she was carrying things off rather well. "Patricia, where did you meet this Colonel Peter Bowen?" The question came like a thunder-clap to Patricia's unprepared ears. All her self-complacency of a moment before now deserted her. She felt her face crimsoning. How she envied girls who did not blush. What on earth could she tell her aunt? Why had an undiscriminating Providence given her an Aunt Adelaide at all? Why had it not bestowed this inestimable treasure upon someone more deserving? What could she say? As well think of lying to Rhadamanthus as to Miss Brent. Then Patricia had an inspiration. She would tell her aunt the truth, trusting to her not to believe it. "Where did I meet him, Aunt Adelaide?" she remarked indifferently. "Oh! I picked him up in a restaurant; he looked nice." "Patricia, how dare you say such a thing before me." A slight flush mantled Miss Brent's sallow cheeks. All the proprieties, all the chastities and all the moralities banked up behind her in moral support. "You ought to feel ashamed of yourself, Patricia. London has done you no good. What would your poor dear father have said?" "I'm sorry, Aunt Adelaide; but please remember I've had a very tiring week, trying to leaven an unleavenable politician. Shall we drop the subject of Colonel Bowen for the time being?" "Certainly not," snapped Miss Brent. "It is my duty as your sole surviving relative," how Patricia deplored that word "surviving," why had her Aunt Adelaide survived? "As your sole surviving relative," repeated Miss Brent, "it is my duty to look after your welfare." "But," protested Patricia, "I'm nearly twenty-five, and I am quite able to look after myself." "Patricia, it is my duty to look after you." Miss Brent spoke as if she were about to walk over heated ploughshares rather than to satisfy a natural curiosity. "I repeat," proceeded Miss Brent, "where did you meet Colonel Bowen?" "I have told you, Aunt Adelaide, but you won't believe me." "I want to know the truth, Patricia. Is he really Lord Peter?" persisted Miss Brent. "To be quite candid, I've never asked him," replied Patricia. Miss Brent stared at her niece. The obviously feminine thing was to express surprise; but Miss Brent never did the obvious thing. Instead of repeating, "Never asked him!" she remained silent for some moments while Patricia, with great intentness, proceeded to jerk her gloves into shape. "Patricia, you are mad!" Miss Brent spoke with conviction. Patricia glanced up from her occupation and smiled at her aunt as if entirely sharing her conviction. "It's the price of spinsterhood with some women," was all she said. Miss Brent glared at her; but there was more than a spice of curiosity in her look. "Then you decline to tell me?" she enquired. There was in her voice a note that told of a mind made up. Patricia knew from past experience that her aunt had made up her mind as to her course of action. "Tell you what?" she enquired innocently. "Whether or no the Colonel Bowen you are engaged to is Lord Peter Bowen." Patricia determined to temporise in order to gain time. She knew Aunt Adelaide to be capable of anything, even to calling upon Lord Peter Bowen's family and enquiring if it were he to whom her niece was engaged. She was too bewildered to know how to act. It would be so like this absurd person to turn out to be a lord and make her still more ridiculous. If he were Lord Peter, why on earth had he not told her? Had he thought she would be dazzled? Suddenly there flashed into Patricia's mind an explanation which caused her cheeks to flame and her eyes to flash. She strove to put the idea aside as unworthy of him; but it refused to leave her. She had heard of men giving false names to girls they met--in the way she and Bowen had met. He had, then, in spite of his protestations, mistaken her. In all probability he was not staying at the Quadrant at all. What a fool she had been. She had told all about herself, whereas he had told her nothing beyond the fact that his name was Peter Bowen. Oh, it was intolerable, humiliating! The worst of it was that she seemed unable to extricate herself from the ever-increasing tangle arising out of her folly. Miss Wangle and Galvin House had been sufficiently serious factors, requiring all her watchfulness to circumvent them; but now Aunt Adelaide had thrown herself precipitately into the mêlée, and heaven alone knew what would be the outcome! Had her aunt been a man or merely a woman, Patricia argued, she would not have been so dangerous; but she possessed the deliberate logic of the one and the quickness of perception of the other. With her feminine eye she could see, and with her man-like brain she could judge. Patricia felt that the one thing to do was to get rid of her aunt for the day and then think things over quietly and decide as to her plan of campaign. "Please, Aunt Adelaide," she said, "don't let's discuss it any more to-day, I've had such a worrying time at the Bonsors', and my head is so stupid. Come to tea to-morrow afternoon at half-past five and I will tell you all, as they say in the novelettes; but for heaven's sake don't get talking to those dreadful old tabbies. They have no affairs of their own, and at the present moment they simply live upon mine." "Very well, Patricia," replied Miss Brent as she rose to go, "I will wait until to-morrow; but, understand me, I am your sole surviving relative and I have a duty to perform by you. That duty I shall perform whatever it costs me." As Patricia looked into the hard, cold eyes of her aunt, she believed her. At that moment Miss Brent looked as if she represented all the aggressive virtues in Christendom. "It's very sweet of you, Aunt Adelaide, and I very much appreciate your interest. I am all nervy to-day; but I shall be all right to-morrow. Don't forget, half-past five here. That will give me time to get back from the Bonsors'." Miss Brent pecked Patricia's right cheek and moved towards the door. "Remember, Patricia," she said, as a final shot, "to-morrow I shall expect a full explanation. I am deeply concerned about you. I cannot conceive what your poor dear father would have said had he been alive." With this parting shot Miss Brent moved down the staircase and left Galvin House. As she stalked to the temperance hotel in Bloomsbury, where she was staying, she was fully satisfied that she had done her duty as a woman and a Christian. "Sole surviving relative," muttered Patricia as she turned back after seeing her aunt out. And then she remembered with a smile that her father had once said that "relatives were the very devil." A softness came into her eyes at the thought of her father, and she remembered another saying of his, "When you lose your sense of humour and your courage at the same time, you have lost the game." For a moment Patricia paused, deliberating what she would do. Finally, she walked to the telephone at the end of the hall. There was a grimness about her look indicative of a set purpose, taking down the receiver she called "Gerrard 60000." There was a pause. "That the Quadrant Hotel?" she enquired. "Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" The clerk would enquire. Patricia waited what seemed an age. At last a voice cried, "Hullo!" "Is that Lord Peter Bowen?" "Is that you, Patricia?" came the reply from the other end of the wire. "Oh, so it is true then!" said Patricia. "What's true?" queried Bowen at the other end. "What I've just said." "What do you mean? I don't understand." "I must see you this evening," said Patricia in an even voice. "That's most awfully good of you." "It's nothing of the sort." Bowen laughed. "Shall I come round?" "No." "Will you dine with me?" "No." "Well, where shall I see you?" Patricia thought for a moment. "I will meet you at Lancaster Gate tube at twenty minutes to nine." "All right, I'll be there. Shall I bring the car?" For a moment Patricia hesitated. She did not want to go to a restaurant with him, she wanted merely to talk and see how she was to get out of the difficulty with Aunt Adelaide. The car seemed to offer a solution. They could drive out to some quiet place and then talk without a chance of being overheard. "Yes, please, I think that will do admirably." "Mind you bring a thick coat. Won't you let me pick you up? Please do, then you can bring a fur coat and all that sort of thing, you know." Again Patricia hesitated for a moment. "Perhaps that would be the better way," she conceded grudgingly. "Right-oh! Will half-past eight do?" "Yes, I'll be ready." "It's awfully kind of you; I'm frightfully bucked." "You had better wait and see, I think," was Patricia's grim retort. "Good-bye." "Au revoir." Patricia put the receiver up with a jerk. She returned to her room conscious that she was never able to do herself justice with Bowen. Her most righteous anger was always in danger of being dissipated when she spoke to him. His personality seemed to radiate good nature, and he always appeared so genuinely glad to see her, or hear her voice that it placed her at a disadvantage. She ought to be stronger and more tenacious of purpose, she told herself. It was weak to be so easily influenced by someone else, especially a man who had treated her in the way that Bowen had treated her; for Patricia had now come to regard herself as extremely ill-used. Nothing, she told herself, would have persuaded her to ring up Bowen in the way she had done, had it not been for Aunt Adelaide. In her heart she had to confess that she was very much afraid of Aunt Adelaide and what she might do. Patricia dreaded dinner that evening. She knew instinctively that everybody would be full of Miss Wangle's discovery. She might have known that Miss Wangle would not be satisfied until she had discovered everything there was to be discovered about Bowen. As Patricia walked along the hall to the staircase, Mrs. Hamilton came out of the lounge. Patricia put her arm round the fragile waist of the old lady and they walked upstairs together. "Well," said Patricia gaily, "what are the old tabbies doing this afternoon?" "My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Hamilton gently, "you mustn't call them that, they have so very little to interest them that--that----" "Oh, you dear, funny little thing!" said Patricia, giving Mrs. Hamilton a squeeze which almost lifted her off her feet. "I think you would find an excuse for anyone, no matter how wicked. When I get very, very bad I shall come and ask you to explain me to myself. I think if you had your way you would prove every wolf a sheep underneath. Come into my room and have a pow-wow." Inside her room Patricia lifted Mrs. Hamilton bodily on to the bed. "Now lie there, you dear little thing, and have a rest. Dad used to say that every woman ought to lie on her back for two hours each day. I don't know why. I suppose it was to keep her quiet and get her out of the way. In any case you have got to lie down there." "But your bed, my dear," protested Mrs. Hamilton. "Never mind my bed, you just do as you're told. Now what are the old cats--I beg your pardon, what have the--lambs been saying?" Mrs. Hamilton smiled in spite of herself. "Well, of course, dear, we're all very interested to hear that you are engaged to--Lord Peter Bowen." "How did they find out?" interrupted Patricia. "Well, it appears that Miss Wangle has a friend who has a cousin in the War Office." "Oh, dear!" groaned Patricia. "I believe Miss Wangle has a friend who has a cousin in every known place in the world, and a good many unknown places," she added. "She has got a bishop in heaven, innumerable connections in Mayfair, acquaintances at Court, cousins of friends at the War Office; the only place where she seems to have nobody who has anybody else is hell." "My dear!" said Mrs. Hamilton in horror, "you mustn't talk like that." "But isn't it true?" persisted Patricia. "Well, I'm sorry if I've shocked you. Tell me all about it." "Well," began Mrs. Hamilton, "soon after you had gone out Miss Wangle's friend telephoned in reply to her letter of enquiry. She told her all about Lord Peter Bowen, how he had distinguished himself in France, won the Military Cross, the D.S.O., how he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and brought back to the War Office and given a position on the General Staff. He's a very clever young man, my dear." Patricia laughed outright at Mrs. Hamilton's earnestness. "Why of course he's clever, otherwise he wouldn't have taken up with such a clever young woman." "Well, my dear, I hope you'll be happy," said Mrs. Hamilton earnestly. "I doubt it," said Patricia. "Doubt it!" There was horror in Mrs. Hamilton's voice. She half raised herself on the bed. Patricia pushed her back again. "Never mind, your remark reminds me of a story about a great-great-grandmother of mine. A granddaughter of hers had become engaged and there was a great family meeting to introduce the poor victim to his future "in-laws." The old lady was very deaf and had formed the habit of speaking aloud quite unconscious that others could hear her. The wretched young man was brought up and presented, and everybody was agog to hear the grandmotherly pronouncement, for the old lady was as shrewd as she was frank. She looked at the young man keenly and deliberately, whilst he stood the picture of discomfort, and turning to her granddaughter, said, "Well, my dear, I hope you'll be happy, I hope you'll be very happy," then to herself in an equally loud voice she added, "But he wouldn't have been my choice, he wouldn't have been my choice." "Oh! the poor dear," said Mrs. Hamilton, seeing only the tragic side of the situation. Patricia laughed. "How like you, you dear little grey lady," and she bent down and kissed the pale cheeks, bringing a slight rose flush to them. It was half-past seven before Mrs. Hamilton left Patricia's room. "Heigh-ho!" sighed Patricia as she undid her hair, "I suppose I shall have to run the gauntlet during dinner." CHAPTER VII LORD PETER PROMISES A SOLUTION Sunday supper at Galvin House was a cold meal timed for eight o'clock; but allowed to remain upon the table until half-past nine for the convenience of church-goers. Patricia had dawdled over her toilette, realising, however, to admit that she dreaded the ordeal before her in the dining-room. When at last she could find no excuse for remaining longer in her room, she descended the stairs slowly, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy about her knees. Outside the dining-room door she paused. Her instinct was to bolt; but the pad-pad of Gustave's approaching footsteps cutting off her retreat decided her. As she entered the dining-room the hum of excited conversation ceased abruptly and, amidst a dead silence, Patricia walked to her seat conscious of a heightened colour and a hatred of her own species. Looking round the table, and seeing how acutely self-conscious everyone seemed, her self-possession returned. She noticed a new deference in Gustave's manner as he placed before her a plate of cold shoulder of mutton and held the salad-bowl at her side. Having helped herself Patricia turned to Miss Wangle, and for a moment regarded her with an enigmatical smile that made her fidget. "How clever of you, Miss Wangle," she said sweetly. "In future no one will ever dare to have a secret at Galvin House." Miss Wangle reddened. Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out. "Miss Wangle, Private Enquiry Agent," he cried, "I----" "Really, Mr. Bolton!" protested Mrs. Craske-Morton, looking anxiously at Miss Wangle's indrawn lips and angry eyes. Mr. Bolton subsided. "We're so excited, dear Miss Brent," simpered Miss Sikkum. "You'll be Lady Bowen----" "Lady Peter Bowen," corrected Mrs. Craske-Morton with superior knowledge. "Lady Peter," gushed Miss Sikkum. "Oh how romantic, and I shall see your portrait in _The Mirror_. Oh! Miss Brent, aren't you happy?" Patricia smiled across at Miss Sikkum, whose enthusiasm was too genuine to cause offence. "And you'll have cars and all sorts of things," remarked Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, thinking of he solitary blue evening frock, "he's very rich." "Worth ten thousand a year," almost shouted Mr. Cordal, striving to regain control over a piece of lettuce-leaf that fluttered from his lips, and having eventually to use his fingers. "You'll forget all about us," said Miss Pilkington, who in her capacity as a post-office supervisor daily showed her contempt for the public whose servant she was. "If you're nice to her," said Mr. Bolton, "she may buy her stamps at your place." Again Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Really, Mr. Bolton!" eased the situation. Patricia was for the most part silent. She was thinking of the coming talk with Bowen. In spite of herself she was excited at the prospect of seeing him again. Miss Wangle also said little. From time to time she glanced in Patricia's direction. "The Wangle's off her feed," whispered Mr. Bolton to Miss Sikkum, producing from her a giggle and an "Oh! Mr. Bolton, you _are_ dreadful." Mrs. Barnes was worrying as to whether a lord should be addressed as "my lord" or "sir," and if you curtsied to him, and if so how you did it with rheumatism in the knee. Patricia noticed with amusement the new deference with which everyone treated her. Mrs. Craske-Morton, in particular, was most solicitous that she should make a good meal. Miss Wangle's silence was in itself a tribute. Patricia nervously waited the moment when Bowen's presence should be announced. When the time came Gustave rose to the occasion magnificently. Throwing open the dining-room door impressively and speaking with great distinctness he cried: "Ees Lordship is 'ere, mees," and then after a moment's pause he added, "'E 'as brought 'is car, mees. It is at the door." Patricia smiled in spite of herself at Gustave's earnestness. "Very well, Gustave, say I will not be a moment," she replied and, with a muttered apology to Mrs. Craske-Morton, she left the table and the dining-room, conscious of the dramatic tension of the situation. Patricia ran down the passage leading to the lounge, then, suddenly remembering that haste and happiness were not in keeping with anger and reproach, entered the lounge with a sedateness that even Aunt Adelaide could not have found lacking in maidenly decorum. Bowen came across from the window and took both her hands. "Why was she allowing him to do this?" she asked herself. "Why did she not reproach him, why did she thrill at his touch, why----?" She withdrew her hands sharply, looked up at him and then for no reason at all laughed. How absurd it all was. It was easy to be angry with him when he was at the Quadrant and she at Galvin House; but with him before her, looking down at her with eyes that were smilingly confident and gravely deferential by turn, she found her anger and good resolutions disappear. "I know you are going to bully me, Patricia." Bowen's eyes smiled; but there was in his voice a note of enquiry. "Oh! please let us escape before the others come in sight," said Patricia, looking over her shoulder anxiously. "They'll all be out in a moment. I left them straining at their leashes and swallowing scalding coffee so as to get a glimpse of a real, live lord at close quarters." As she spoke Patricia stabbed on a toque. "Shall I want anything warmer than this?" she enquired as Bowen helped her into a long fur-trimmed coat. "I brought a big fur coat for you in case it gets cold," he replied, and he held open the door for her to pass. "Quick," she whispered, "they're coming." As she ran down the steps she nodded brightly to Gustave, who stood almost bowed down with the burden of his respect for an English lord. As Bowen swung the car round, Patricia was conscious that at the drawing-room and lounge windows Galvin House was heavily massed. Unable to find a space, Miss Sikkum and Mr. Bolton had come out on to the doorstep and, as the car jerked forward, Miss Sikkum waved her pocket handkerchief. Patricia shuddered. For some time they were silent. Patricia was content to enjoy the unaccustomed sense of swift movement coupled with the feeling of the luxury of a Rolls Royce. From time to time Bowen glanced at her and smiled, and she was conscious of returning the smile, although in the light of what she intended to say she felt that smiles were not appropriate. The car sped along the Bayswater Road, threaded its way through Hammersmith Broadway and passed over the bridge, across Barnes Common into Priory Lane, and finally into Richmond Park. Bowen had not mentioned where he intended to take her, and Patricia was glad. She was essentially feminine, and liked having things decided for her, the more so as she invariably had to decide for herself. Half-way across the Park Bowen turned in the direction of Kingston Gate and, a minute later, drew up just off the roadway. Having stopped the engine he turned to her. "Now, Patricia," he said with a smile, "I am at your mercy. There is no one within hail." Bowen's voice recalled her from dreamland. She was thinking how different everything might have been, but for that unfortunate unconvention. With an effort she came down to earth to find Bowen smiling into her eyes. It was an effort for her to assume the indignation she had previously felt. Bowen's presence seemed to dissipate her anger. Why had she not written to him instead of endeavouring to express verbally what she knew she would fail to convey? "Please don't be too hard on me, Patricia," pleaded Bowen. Patricia looked at him. She wished he would not smile at her in that way and assume an air of penitence. It was so disarming. It was unfair. He was taking a mean advantage. He was always taking a mean advantage of her, always putting her in the wrong. By keeping her face carefully averted from his, she was able to tinge her voice with indignation as she demanded: "Why did you not tell me who you were?" "But I did," he protested. "You said that you were Colonel Bowen, and you are not." Patricia was pleased to find her sense of outraged indignation increasing. "You have made me ridiculous in the eyes of everyone at Galvin House." "But," protested Bowen. "It's no good saying 'but,'" replied Patricia unreasonably, "you know I'm right." "But I told you my name was Bowen," he said, "and later I told you that my rank was that of a lieutenant-colonel, both of which are quite correct." "You are Lord Peter Bowen, and you've made me ridiculous," then conscious of the absurdity of her words, Patricia laughed; but there was no mirth in her laughter. "Made you ridiculous," said Bowen, concern in his voice. "But how?" "Oh, I am not referring to your boy-messengers and telegrams, florists' shops, confectioners' stocks," said Patricia, "but all the tabbies in Galvin House set themselves to work to find out who you were and--and--look what an absurd figure I cut! Then of course Aunt Adelaide must butt in." "Aunt Adelaide!" repeated Bowen, knitting his brows. "Tabbies at Galvin House!" "If you repeat my words like that I shall scream," said Patricia. "I wish you would try and be intelligent. Miss Wangle told Aunt Adelaide that I'm engaged to Lord Peter Bowen. Aunt Adelaide then asked me about my engagement, and I had to make up some sort of story about Colonel Bowen. She then enquired if it were true that I was engaged to Lord Peter Bowen. Of course I said 'No,' and that is where we are at present, and you've got to help me out. You got me into the mess." "Might I enquire who Aunt Adelaide is, please, Patricia?" Bowen's humility made him very difficult to talk to. "Aunt Adelaide is my sole surviving relative, vide her own statement," said Patricia. "If I had my way she would be neither surviving nor a relative; but as it happens she is both, and to-morrow afternoon at half-past five she is coming to Galvin House to receive a full explanation of my conduct." Bowen compressed his lips and wrinkled his forehead; but there was laughter in his eyes. "It's difficult, isn't it, Patricia?" he said. "It's absurd, and please don't call me Patricia." "But we're engaged and----" "We're nothing of the sort," she said. "But we are," protested Bowen. "I can----" "Never mind what you can do," she retorted. "What am I to tell Aunt Adelaide at half-past five to-morrow evening?" "Why not tell her the truth?" said Bowen. "Isn't that just like a man?" Patricia addressed the query to a deer that was eyeing the car curiously from some fifty yards distance. "Tell the truth," she repeated scornfully. "But how much will that help us?" "Well! let's tell a lie," protested Bowen, smiling. And then Patricia did a weak and foolish thing, she laughed, and Bowen laughed. Finally they sat and looked at each other helplessly. "However you got those," she nodded at the ribbons on his breast, "I don't know. It was certainly not for being intelligent." For a minute Bowen did not reply. He was apparently lost in thought. Presently he turned to Patricia. "Look here," he said, "by half-past five to-morrow afternoon I'll have found a solution. Now can't we talk about something pleasant?" "There is nothing pleasant to talk about when Aunt Adelaide is looming on the horizon. She's about the most unpleasant thing next to chilblains that I know." "I suppose," said Bowen tentatively, "you couldn't solve the difficulty by marrying me by special licence." "Marry you by special licence!" cried Patricia in amazement. "Yes, it would put everything right." "I think you must be mad," said Patricia with decision; but conscious that her cheeks were very hot. "I think I must be in love," was Bowen's quiet retort. "Will you?" "Not even to escape Aunt Adelaide's interrogation would I marry you by special, or any other licence," said Patricia with decision. Bowen turned away, a shadow falling across his face. Then a moment after, drawing his cigarette-case from his pocket, he enquired, "Shall we smoke?" Patricia accepted the cigarette he offered her. She watched him as he lighted first hers, then his own. She saw the frown that had settled upon his usually happy face, and noted the staccatoed manner in which he smoked. Then she became conscious that she had been lacking in not only graciousness but common civility. Instinctively she put out her hand and touched his coat-sleeve. "Please forgive me, I was rather a beast, wasn't I?" she said. He looked round and smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Please try and understand," she said, "and now will you drive me home?" Bowen looked at her for a moment, then, getting out of the car, started the engine, and without a word climbed back to his seat. The journey back was performed in silence. At Galvin House Gustave, who was on the look-out, threw open the door with a flourish. In saying good night neither referred to the subject of their conversation. As Patricia entered, the lounge seemed suddenly to empty its contents into the hall. "I hope you enjoyed your ride," said Mr. Bolton. "I hate motoring," said Patricia. Then she walked upstairs with a curt "Good night," leaving a group of surprised people speculating as to the cause of her mood, and deeply commiserating with Bowen. CHAPTER VIII LORD PETER'S S.O.S. "The bath is ready, my lord." Lord Peter Bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that another day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously. For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he moved noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such precision and self-repression were natural or acquired. To Bowen Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at what hour Bowen had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he had just shaved. In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed by one law--order. He was noiseless, wordless, selfless. Bowen was convinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, Peel would merely say: "His Lordship is not at home, sir." Thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed the individuality of negation. He looked nothing in particular, seemed nothing in particular, did everything to perfection. His face was a barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious: he betrayed neither emotion nor confidence. In short he was the most perfect gentleman's servant in existence. "What's the time, Peel?" enquired Bowen. "Seven forty-three, my lord," replied the meticulous Peel, glancing at the clock on the mantel-piece. "Have I any engagements to-day?" queried his master. "No, my lord. You have refused to make any since last Thursday morning." Then Bowen remembered. He had pleaded pressure at the War Office as an excuse for declining all invitations. He was determined that nothing should interfere with his seeing Patricia should she unbend. With the thought of Patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events. Bowen cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. Every act of his had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of Patricia. Even then things might have gone well if it had not been for his wretched bad luck in being the son of a peer. As he lay watching Peel, Bowen felt in a mood to condole with himself. Confound it! Surely it could not be urged against him as his fault that he had a wretched title. He had been given no say in the matter. As for telling Patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out, "I'm a lord?" Supposing he had introduced himself as "Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen." How ridiculous it would have sounded. He had come to hate the very sound of the word "lord." "It's ten minutes to eight, my lord." It was Peel's voice that broke in upon his reflections. "Oh, damn!" cried Bowen as he threw his legs out of bed and sat looking at Peel. "I beg pardon, my lord?" "I said damn!" replied Bowen. "Yes, my lord." Bowen regarded Peel narrowly. He was confoundedly irritating this morning. He seemed to be my-lording his master specially to annoy him. There was, however, no sign upon Peel's features or in his watery blue eyes indicating that he was other than in his normal frame of mind. Why couldn't Patricia be sensible? Why must she take up this absurd attitude, contorting every action of his into a covert insult? Why above all things couldn't women be reasonable? Bowen rose, stretched himself and walked across to the bath-room. As he was about to enter he looked over his shoulder. "If," he said, "you can arrange to remind me of my infernal title as little as possible during the next few days, Peel, I shall feel infinitely obliged." "Yes, my lord," was the response. Bowen banged the door savagely, and Peel rang to order breakfast. During the meal Bowen pondered over the events of the previous evening, and in particular over Patricia's unreasonableness. His one source of comfort was that she had appealed to him to put things right about her aunt. That would involve his seeing her again. He did not, or would not, see that he was the only one to whom she could appeal. Bowen always breakfasted in his own sitting-room; he disliked his fellow-men in the early morning. Looking up suddenly from the table he caught Peel's expressionless eye upon him. "Peel." "Yes, my lord." "Why is it that we Englishmen dislike each other so at breakfast?" Peel paused for a moment. "I've heard it said, my lord, that we're half an inch taller in the morning, perhaps our perceptions are more acute also." Bowen looked at Peel curiously. "You're a philosopher," he said, "and I'm afraid a bit of a cynic." "I hope not, my lord," responded Peel. Bowen pushed back his chair and rose, receiving from Peel his cap, cane, and gloves. "By the way," he said, "I want you to ring up Lady Tanagra and ask her to lunch with me at half-past one. Tell her it's very important, and ask her not to fail me." "Yes, my lord: it shall be attended to." Bowen went out. Lady Tanagra was Bowen's only sister. As children they had been inseparable, forced into an alliance by the overbearing nature of their elder brother, the heir, Viscount Bowen, who would succeed to the title as the eighth Marquess of Meyfield. Bowen was five years older than his sister, who had just passed her twenty-third birthday and, as a frail sensitive child, she had instinctively looked to him for protection against her elder brother. Their comradeship was that of mutual understanding. For one to say to the other, "Don't fail me," meant that any engagement, however pressing, would be put off. There was a tacit acknowledgment that their comradeship stood before all else. Each to the other was unique. Thus when Bowen sent the message to Lady Tanagra through Peel asking her not to fail him, he knew that she would keep the appointment. He knew equally well that it would involve her in the breaking of some other engagement, for there were few girls in London so popular as Lady Tanagra Bowen. Whenever there was an important social function, Lady Tanagra Bowen was sure to be there, and it was equally certain that the photographers of the illustrated and society papers would so manoeuvre that she came into the particular group, or groups, they were taking. The seventh Marquess of Meyfield was an enthusiastic collector of Tanagra figurines and, overruling his lady's protestations, he had determined to call his first and only daughter Tanagra. Lady Meyfield had begged for a second name; but the Marquess had been resolute. "Tanagra I will have her christened and Tanagra I will have her called," he had said with a smile that, if it mitigated the sternness of his expression, did not in my way undermine his determination. Lady Meyfield knew her lord, and also that her only chance of ruling him was by showing unfailing tact. She therefore bowed to his decision. "Poor child!" she had remarked as she looked down at the frail little mite in the hollow of her arm, "you're certainly going to be made ridiculous; but I've done my best," and Lord Meyfield had come across the room and kissed his wife with the remark, "There you're wrong, my dear, it's going to help to make her a great success. Imagine, the Lady Tanagra Bowen; why it would make a celebrity of the most commonplace female," whereat they had both smiled. As a child Lady Tanagra had been teased unmercifully about her name, so much so that she had almost hated it; but later when she had come to love the figurines that were so much part of her father's life, she had learned, not only to respect, but to be proud of the name. To her friends and intimates she was always Tan, to the less intimate Lady Tan, and to the world at large Lady Tanagra Bowen. She had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of being proposed to by an undesirable of the name of Black. "It's no good," she had said, "I could never marry you, no matter what the state of my feelings. Think how ridiculous we should both be, everybody would call us Black and Tan. Ugh! it sounds like a whisky as well as a dog." Whereat Mr. Black had laughed and they remained friends, which was a great tribute to Lady Tanagra. Exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human! Lady Tanagra Bowen was a favourite wherever she went. She seemed incapable of making enemies even amongst her own sex. Her taste in dress was as unerring as in literature and art. Everything she did or said was without effort. She had been proposed to by "half the eligibles and all the ineligibles in London," as Bowen phrased it; but she declared she would never marry until Peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him. At a quarter-past one when Bowen left the War Office, he found Lady Tanagra waiting in her car outside. "Hullo, Tan!" he cried, "what a brainy idea, picking up the poor, tired warrior." "It'll save you a taxi, Peter. I'll tell you what to do with the shilling as we go along." Lady Tanagra smiled up into her brother's face. She was always happy with Peter. As she swung the car across Whitehall to get into the north-bound stream of traffic, Bowen looked down at his sister. She handled her big car with dexterity and ease. She was a dainty creature with regular features, violet-blue eyes and golden hair that seemed to defy all constraint. There was a tilt about her chin that showed determination, and that about her eyebrows which suggested something more than good judgment. "I hope you weren't doing anything to-day, Tan," said Bowen as they came to a standstill at the top of Whitehall, waiting for the removal of a blue arm that barred their progress. "I was lunching with the Bolsovers; but I'm not well enough, I'm afraid, to see them. It's measles, you know." "Good heavens, Tan! what do you mean?" "Well, I had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficient excuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks' standing. Quite a lot of people were invited to meet me." "I'm awfully sorry," began Bowen apologetically. "Oh, it's all right!" was the reply as the car jumped forward. "I shall be deluged with fruit and flowers now from all sorts of people, because the Bolsovers are sure to spread it round that I'm in extremis. To-morrow, however, I shall announce that it was a wrong diagnosis." Lady Tanagra drew the car up to the curb outside Dent's. "I think," she said, indicating an old woman selling matches, "we'll give her the shilling for the taxi, Peter, shall we?" Peter beckoned the old woman and handed her a shilling with a smile. "Does it make you feel particularly virtuous to be charitable with another's money?" he enquired. Lady Tanagra made a grimace. Over lunch they talked upon general topics and about common friends. Lady Tanagra made no reference to the important matter that had caused her to be summoned to lunch, even at the expense of having measles as an excuse. That was characteristic of her. She had nothing of a woman's curiosity, at least she never showed it, particularly with Peter. After lunch they went to the lounge for coffee. When they had been served and both were smoking, Bowen remarked casually, "Got any engagement for this afternoon, Tan?" "Tea at the Carlton at half-past four, then I promised to run in to see the Grahams before dinner. I'm afraid it will mean more flowers and fruit. Oh!" she replied, "I suppose I must stick to measles. I shall have to buy some thanks for kind enquiries cards as I go home." During lunch Bowen had been wondering how he could approach the subject of Patricia. He could not tell even Tanagra how he had met her--that was Patricia's secret. If she chose to tell, that was another matter; but he could not. As a rule he found it easy to talk to Tanagra and explain things; but this was a little unusual. Lady Tanagra watched him shrewdly for a minute or two. "I think I should just say it as it comes, Peter," she remarked in a casual, matter-of-fact tone. Bowen started and then laughed. "What I want is a sponsor for an acquaintanceship between myself and a girl. I cannot tell you everything, Tan, she may decide to; but of course you know it's all right." "Why, of course," broke in Lady Tanagra with an air of conviction which contained something of a reproach that he should have thought it necessary to mention such a thing. "Well, you've got to do a bit of lying, too, I'm afraid." "Oh! that will be all right. The natural consequence of a high temperature through measles." Lady Tanagra saw that Bowen was ill at ease, and sought by her lightness to simplify things for him. "How long have I known her?" she proceeded. "Oh! that you had better settle with her. All that is necessary is for you to have met her somewhere, or somehow, and to have introduced me to her." "And who is to receive these explanations?" enquired Lady Tanagra. "Her aunt, a gorgon." "Does the girl know that you are--that I am to throw myself into the breach?" "No," said Peter, "I didn't think to tell her. I said that I would arrange things. Her name's Patricia Brent. She's private secretary to Arthur Bonsor of 426 Eaton Square, and she lives at Galvin House Residential Hotel, to give it its full title, 8 Galvin Street, Bayswater. Her aunt is to be at Galvin House at half-past five this afternoon, when I have to be explained to her. Oh! it's most devilish awkward, Tan, because I can't tell you the facts of the case. I wish she were here." "That's all right, Peter. I'll put things right. What time does she leave Eaton Square?" "Five o'clock, I think." "Good! leave it to me. By the way, where shall you be if I want to get at you?" "When?" "Say six o'clock." "I'll be back here at six and wait until seven." "That will do. Now I really must be going. I've got to telephone to these people about the measles. Shall I run you down to Whitehall?" "No, thanks, I think I'll walk," and with that he saw her into her car and turned to walk back to Whitehall, thanking his stars for being possessed of such a sister and marvelling at her wisdom. He had not the most remote idea of how she would achieve her purpose; but achieve it he was convinced she would. It was notorious that Lady Tanagra never failed in anything she undertook. While Bowen and his sister were lunching at the Quadrant, Patricia was endeavouring to concentrate her mind upon her work. "The egregious Arthur," as she called him to herself in her more impatient moments, had been very trying that morning. He had been in a particularly indeterminate mood, which involved the altering and changing of almost every sentence he dictated. In the usual way he was content to tell Patricia what he wanted to say, and let her clothe it in fitting words; but this morning he had insisted on dictating every letter, with the result that her notes had become hopelessly involved and she was experiencing great difficulty in reading them. Added to this was the fact that she could not keep her thoughts from straying to Aunt Adelaide. What would happen that afternoon? What was Bowen going to do to save the situation? He had promised to see her through; but how was he going to do it? CHAPTER IX LADY TANAGRA TAKES A HAND At a quarter to five Patricia left the library to go upstairs to put on her hat and coat. In the hall she encountered Mrs. Bonsor. "Finished?" interrogated that lady in a tone of voice that implied she was perfectly well aware of the fact that it wanted still a quarter of an hour to the time at which Patricia was supposed to be free. "No; there is still some left; but I'm going home," said Patricia. There was something in her voice and appearance that prompted Mrs. Bonsor to smile her artificial smile and remark that she thought Patricia was quite right, the weather being very trying. When she left the Bonsors' house, Patricia was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the large grey car standing a few yards up the square with a girl at the steering-wheel. Patricia turned in the opposite direction from that in which the car stood, making her way towards Sloane Street to get her bus. She had not gone many steps when the big car slid silently up beside her, and she heard a voice say, "Can't I give you a lift to Galvin House?" She turned round and saw a fair-haired girl smiling at her from the car. "I--I----" "Jump in, won't you?" said the girl. "But--but I think you've made a mistake." "You're Patricia Brent, aren't you?" "Yes," said Patricia, smiling, "that's my name." "Well then, jump in and I'll run you up to Galvin House. Don't delay or you'll be too late for your aunt." Patricia looked at the girl in mute astonishment, but proceeded to get into the car, there seemed nothing else to be done. As she did so, the fair-haired girl laughed brightly. "It's awfully mean of me to take such an advantage, but I couldn't resist it. I'm Peter's sister, Tanagra." "Oh!" said Patricia, light dawning upon her and turning to Tanagra with a smile, "Then you're the solution?" "Yes," said Lady Tanagra, "I'm going to see you two out of the mess you've somehow or other got into." Suddenly Patricia stiffened. "Did he--did he--er--tell you?" "Not he," said Lady Tanagra, shoving on the brake suddenly to avoid a crawling taxi that had swung round without any warning. "Peter doesn't talk." "But then, how do you----?" "Well," said Lady Tanagra, "he told me that I was to be the one who had introduced him to you and explain him to your aunt. It's all over London that I've got measles, and there will be simply piles of flowers and fruit arriving at Grosvenor Square by every possible conveyance." "Measles!" cried Patricia uncomprehendingly. "Yes, you see when Peter wants me I always have to throw up any sort of engagement, and he does the same for me. When he asked me to lunch with him to-day and said it was important, I had to give some reasonable excuse to three lots of people to whom I had pledged myself, and I thought measles would do quite nicely." Patricia laughed in spite of herself. "So you don't know anything except that you have got to----" "Sponsor you," interrupted Lady Tanagra. For some time Patricia was silent. She felt she could tell her story to this girl who was so trustful that everything was all right, and who was willing to do anything to help her brother. "Can't we go slowly whilst I talk to you," said Patricia, as they turned into the Park. "We'll do better than that," said Lady Tanagra, "we'll stop and sit down for five minutes." She pulled up the car near the Stanhope Gate and they found a quiet spot under a tree. "I cannot allow you to enter into this affair," said Patricia, "without telling you the whole story. What you will think of me afterwards I don't know; but I've got myself into a most horrible mess." She then proceeded to explain the whole situation, how it came about that she had come to know Bowen and the upshot of the meeting. Lady Tanagra listened without interruption and without betraying by her expression what were her thoughts. "And now what do you think of me?" demanded Patricia when she had concluded. For a moment Lady Tanagra rested her hand upon Patricia's. "I think, you goose, that had you known Peter better there would not have been so much need for you to worry; but there isn't much time and we've got to prepare. Now listen carefully. First of all you must call me Tan or Tanagra, and I must call you Patricia or Pat, or whatever you like. Secondly, as it would take too long to find out if we've got any friends in common, you went to the V.A.D. Depot in St. George's Crescent to see if you could do anything to help. There you met me. I'm quite a shining light there, by the way, and we palled up. This led to my introducing Peter and--well all the rest is quite easy." "But--but there isn't any rest," said Patricia. "Don't you see how horribly awkward it is? I'm supposed to be engaged to him." "Oh!" said Lady Tanagra quietly, "that's a matter for you and Peter to settle between you. I'm afraid I can't interfere there. All I can do is to explain how you and he came to know each other; and now we had better be getting on as your aunt will not be pleased if you keep her waiting. What I propose to do is to pick her up and take her up to the Quadrant where we shall find Peter." "But," protested Patricia, "that's simply getting us more involved than ever." "Well, I'm afraid it's got to be," said Lady Tanagra, smiling mischievously; "it's much better that they should meet at the Quadrant than at Galvin House, where you say everybody is so catty." Patricia saw the force of Lady Tanagra's argument, and they were soon whirling on their way towards Galvin House. She wanted to pinch herself to be quite sure that she was not dreaming. Everything seemed to be happening with such rapidity that her brain refused to keep pace with events. Why had she not met these people in a conventional way so that she might preserve their friendship? It was hard luck, she told herself. "Would you mind telling me what you propose doing?" enquired Patricia. "I promised Peter to gather up the pieces," was the response. "All you've got to do is to remain quiet." Lady Tanagra brought the car up in front of Galvin House with a magnificent sweep. Gustave, who had been on the watch, swung open the door in his most impressive manner. As Patricia and Lady Tanagra entered the lounge, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe were addressing pleasantries to a particularly grim Miss Brent. "Oh, here you are!" Miss Brent's exclamation was uttered in such a voice as to pierce even the thick skin of Miss Wangle, who having instantly recognised Lady Tanagra, retired with Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe a few yards, where they carried on a whispered conversation, casting significant glances at Lady Tanagra, Miss Brent and Patricia. "I told Patricia that it was time the families met," said Lady Tanagra, "and so I insisted on coming when I heard you were to be here." "I think you are quite right." Patricia was surprised at the change in her aunt. Much of her usual uncompromising downrightness had been shed, and she appeared almost gracious. For one thing she was greatly impressed at the thought that Patricia was to become Lady Peter Bowen. As the aunt of Lady Peter Bowen, Miss Brent saw that her own social position would be considerably improved. She saw herself taking precedence at Little Milstead and issuing its social life and death warrants. Apart from these considerations Miss Brent was not indifferent to Lady Tanagra's personal charm. "Tan's parlour tricks," as Godfrey Elton called them, were notorious. Everyone was aware of their existence; yet everyone fell an instant victim. A compound of earnestness, deference, pleading, irresistible impertinence and dignity, they formed a dangerous weapon. Lady Tanagra's position among her friends and acquaintance was unique. When difficulties and contentions arose, the parties' instinctive impulse was to endeavour to invest her interest. "Tanagra is so sensible," outraged parenthood would exclaim; "Tan's such a sport. She'll understand," cried rebellious youth. People not only asked Lady Tanagra's advice, but took it. The secret of her success, unknown to herself, was her knowledge of human nature. Even those against whom she gave her decisions bore her no ill-will. Her manner towards Miss Brent was a mixture of laughter and seriousness, with deft little touches of deference. "I've come to apologize for everybody and everything, Miss Brent," she cried; "but in particular for myself." Lady Tanagra chatted on gaily, "sparring for an opening," Elton called it. "You mustn't blame Patricia," she bubbled in her soft musical voice, "it's all Peter's fault, and where it's not his fault it's mine," she proceeded illogically. "You won't be hard on us, will you?" She looked up at Miss Brent with the demureness of a child expecting severe rebuke for some naughtiness. Miss Brent's eyes narrowed and the firm line of her lips widened. Patricia recognised this as the outward evidences of a smile. "I confess, I am greatly puzzled," began Miss Brent. "Of course you must be," continued Lady Tanagra, "and if you were not so kind you would be very cross, especially with me. Now," she continued, without giving Miss Brent a chance of replying, "I want you to do me a very great favour." Lady Tanagra paused impressively, and gave Miss Brent her most pleading look. Miss Brent looked at Lady Tanagra with just a tinge of suspicion in her pea-soup coloured eyes. "May I ask what it is?" she enquired guardedly. "I want you to let me carry you off to a quiet place where we can talk." Miss Brent rose at once. She disliked Calvin House and the inquisitive glances of its inmates. "I told Peter to be at the Quadrant until seven. He is very anxious to meet you," continued Lady Tanagra as they moved towards the door. "I would not let him come here as I thought, from that Patricia has told me, that you would not care--to----" She paused. "You are quite right, Lady Tanagra," said Miss Brent with decision. "I do not like boarding-houses. They are not the places for the discussion of family affairs." Patricia descended the steps of Galvin House, not quite sure whether this were reality or a dream. She watched Miss Brent seat herself beside Lady Tanagra, whilst she herself entered the tonneau of the car. As the door clicked and the car sprang forward, she caught a glimpse of eager faces at the windows of Galvin House. As they swung into the Park and hummed along the even road, Patricia endeavoured to bring herself to earth. She pinched herself until it hurt. What had happened? She felt like someone present at her own funeral. Her fate was being decided without anyone seeming to think it necessary to consult her. "By half-past five to-morrow afternoon I shall have found a solution." Bowen's words came back to her. He was right. Lady Tanagra was indeed a solution. Patricia and Miss Brent were merely lay-figures. It must be wonderful to be able to make people do what you wished, she mused. She wondered what would have happened had Bowen possessed his sister's powers. At the Quadrant Peel was waiting in the vestibule. With a bow that impressed Miss Brent, he conducted them to Bowen's suite. As they entered Bowen sprang up from a writing-table. Patricia noticed that there was no smell of tobacco smoke. The Bowens were a wonderful family, she decided, remembering her aunt's prejudices. "I have only just heard you were in town," she heard Bowen explaining to Miss Brent. "I rang up Patricia this morning, but she could not remember your address." Patricia gasped; but, seeing the effect of the "grey lie" (it was not quite innocent enough to be called a white lie, she told herself) she forgave it. During tea Lady Tanagra and Bowen set to to "play themselves in," as Lady Tanagra afterwards expressed it. "Poor Aunt Adelaide," Patricia murmured to herself, "they'll turn her giddy young head." "And now," Lady Tanagra began when Bowen had taken Miss Brent's cup from her. "I must explain all about this little romance and how it came about." Patricia caught Bowen's eye, and saw in it a look of eager interest. "Patricia wanted to do war work in her spare time," continued Lady Tanagra, "so she applied to the V.A.D. at St. George's Crescent. I am on the committee and, by a happy chance," Lady Tanagra smiled across to Patricia, "she was sent to me. I saw she was not strong and dissuaded her." Miss Brent nodded approval. "I explained," continued Lady Tanagra, "that the work was very hard, and that it was not necessarily patriotic to overwork so as to get ill. Doctors have quite enough to do." Again Miss Brent nodded agreement. "I think we liked each other from the first," again Lady Tanagra smiled across at Patricia, "and I asked her to come and have tea with me, and we became friends. Finally, one day when we were enjoying a quiet talk here in the lounge, this big brother of mine comes along and spoils everything." Lady Tanagra regarded Bowen with reproachful eyes. "Spoiled everything?" enquired Miss Brent. "Yes; by falling in love with my friend, and in a most treacherous manner she must do the same." Lady Tanagra's tone was matter-of-fact enough to deceive a misanthropist. Patricia's cheeks burned and her eyes fell beneath the gaze of the others. She felt as a man might who reads his own obituary notices. "And why was I not told, her sole surviving relative?" Miss Brent rapped out the question with the air of a counsel for the prosecution. "That was my fault," broke in Bowen. Three pairs of eyes were instantly turned upon him. Miss Brent suspicious, Lady Tanagra admiring, Patricia wondering. "And why, may I ask?" enquired Miss Brent. "I wanted it to be a secret between Patricia and me," explained Bowen easily. "But, Lady Tanagra----" There was a note in Miss Brent's voice that Patricia recognised as a soldier does the gas-gong. "Oh!" replied Bowen, "she finds out everything; but I only told her at lunch to-day." "And he told me as if I had not already discovered the fact for myself," laughed Lady Tanagra. "Patricia wanted to tell you," continued Bowen. "She has often talked of you (Patricia felt sure Aunt Adelaide must hear her start of surprise); but I wanted to wait until we could go to you together and confess." Bowen smiled straight into his listener's eyes, a quiet, friendly smile that would have disarmed a gorgon. For a few moments there was silence. Miss Brent was thinking, thinking as a judge thinks who is about to deliver sentence. "And Lady Meyfield, does she know?" she enquired. Without giving Bowen a chance to reply Lady Tanagra rushed in as if fearful that he might make a false move. "That is another of Peter's follies, keeping it from mother. He argued that if the engagement were officially announced, the family would take up all Patricia's time, and he would see nothing of her. Oh! Peter's very selfish sometimes, I am to say; but," she added with inspiration, "every thing will have to come out now." "Of course!" Patricia started at the decision in Miss Brent's tone. She looked across at Bowen, who was regarding Lady Tanagra with an admiration that amounted almost to reverence. As he looked up Patricia's eyes fell. What was happening to her? She was getting further into the net woven by her own folly. Lady Tanagra was getting them out of the tangle into which they had got themselves; but was she not involving them in a worse? Patricia knew her aunt, Lady Tanagra did not. Therein lay the key to the whole situation. Miss Brent rose to go. Patricia saw that judgment was to be deferred. She shook hands with Lady Tanagra and Bowen and, finally, turning to Patricia said: "I think, Patricia, that you have been very indiscreet in not taking me into your confidence, your sole surviving relative," and with that she went, having refused Lady Tanagra's offer to drive her to her hotel, pleading that she had another call to make. When Bowen returned from seeing Miss Brent into a taxi, the three culprits regarded each other. All felt that they had come under the ban of Miss Brent's displeasure. It was Lady Tanagra who broke the silence. "Well, we're all in it now up to the neck," she laughed. Bowen smiled happily; but Patricia looked alarmed. Lady Tanagra went over to her and bending down kissed her lightly on the cheek. Patricia looked up, and Bowen saw that her eyes were suspiciously moist. With a murmured apology about a note he was expecting he left the room. That night the three dined at the Quadrant, "to get to know each other," as Lady Tanagra said. When Patricia reached Galvin House, having refused to allow Bowen to see her home, she was conscious of having spent another happy evening. "Up to the neck in it," she murmured as she tossed back her hair and began to brush it for the night, "over the top of our heads, I should say." CHAPTER X MISS BRENT'S STRATEGY Having become reconciled to what she regarded as Patricia's matrimonial plans, although strongly disapproving of her deplorable flippancy, Miss Brent decided that her niece's position must be established in the eyes of her prospective relatives-in-law. Miss Brent was proud of her family, but still prouder of the fact that the founder had come over with that extremely dubious collection of notables introduced into England by William of Normandy. To Miss Brent, William the Conqueror was what _The Mayflower_ is to all ambitious Americans--a social jumping-off point. There were no army lists in 1066, or passengers' lists in 1620. No one could say with any degree of certainty what it was that Geoffrey Brent did for, or knew about, his ducal master; but it was sufficiently important to gain for him a grant of lands, which he had no more right to occupy than the Norman had to bestow. After careful thought Miss Brent had decided upon her line of operations. Geoffrey Brent was to be used as a corrective to Patricia's occupation. No family, Miss Brent argued, could be expected to welcome with open arms a girl who earned her living as the secretary of an unknown member of parliament. She foresaw complications, fierce opposition, possibly an attempt to break off the engagement. To defeat this Geoffrey Brent was to be disinterred and flung into the conflict, and Patricia was to owe to her aunt the happiness that was to be hers. Incidentally Miss Brent saw in this circumstance a very useful foundation upon which to build for herself a position in the future. Miss Brent had made up her mind upon two points. One that she would call upon Lady Meyfield, the other that Patricia's engagement must be announced. Debrett told her all she wanted to know about the Bowens, and she strongly disapproved of what she termed "hole-in-the-corner engagements." The marriage of a Brent to a Bowen was to her an alliance, carrying with it certain social responsibilities, consequently Society must be advised of what was impending. Romance was a by-product that did not concern either Miss Brent or Society. Purpose and decision were to Miss Brent what wings and tail are to the swallow: they propelled and directed her. Her mind once made up, to change it would have appeared to Miss Brent an unpardonable sign of weakness. Circumstances might alter, thrones totter, but Miss Brent's decisions would remain unshaken. On the day following her meeting with Lady Tanagra and Bowen, Miss Brent did three things. She transferred to "The Mayfair Hotel" for one night, she prepared an announcement of the engagement for _The Morning Post_, and she set out to call upon Lady Meyfield in Grosvenor Square. The transference to "The Mayfair Hotel" served a double purpose. It would impress the people at the newspaper office, and it would also show that Patricia's kinswoman was of some importance. As Patricia was tapping out upon a typewriter the halting eloquence of Mr. Arthur Bonsor, Miss Brent was being whirled in a taxi first to the office of _The Morning Post_ and then on to Grosvenor Square. "I fully appreciate," tapped Patricia with wandering attention, "the national importance of pigs." "Miss Brent!" announced Lady Meyfield's butler. Miss Brent found herself gazing into a pair of violet eyes that were smiling a greeting out of a gentle face framed in white hair. "How do you do!" Lady Meyfield was endeavouring to recall where she could have met her caller. "I felt it was time the families met," announced Miss Brent. Lady Meyfield smiled, that gentle reluctant smile so characteristic of her. She was puzzled; but too well-bred to show it. "Won't you have some tea?" She looked about her, then fixing her eyes upon a dark man in khaki, with smouldering eyes, called to him, introduced him, and had just time to say: "Godfrey, see that Miss Brent has some tea," when a rush of callers swept Miss Brent and Captain Godfrey Elton further into the room. Miss Brent looked about her with interest. She had read of how Lady Meyfield had turned her houses, both town and country, into convalescent homes for soldiers; but she was surprised to see men in hospital garb mixing freely with the other guests. Elton saw her surprise. "Lady Meyfield has her own ideas of what is best," he remarked as he handed her a cup of tea. Miss Brent looked up interrogatingly. "She had some difficulty at first," continued Elton; "but eventually she got her own way as she always does. Now the official hospitals send her their most puzzling cases and she cures them." "How?" enquired Miss Brent with interest. "Imagination," said Elton, bowing to a pretty brunette at the other side of the room. "She is too wise to try and fatten a canary on a dog biscuit." "Does she keep canaries then?" enquired Miss Brent. "I'm afraid that was only my clumsy effort at metaphor," responded Elton with a disarming smile. "She adopts human methods. They are generally successful." Elton went on to describe something of the success that had attended Lady Meyfield's hostels, as she called them. They were famous throughout the Service. When war broke out someone had suggested that she should use her tact and knowledge of human nature in treating cases that defied the army M.O.'s. "A tyrant is the first victim of tact," Godfrey Elton had said of Lord Meyfield, and in his ready acquiescence in his lady's plans Lord Meyfield had tacitly concurred. Lady Meyfield had conferred with her lord in respect to all her plans and arrangements, until he had come to regard the hostels as the children of his own brain, admirably controlled and conducted by his wife. He seldom appeared, keeping to the one place free from the flood of red, white, and blue--his library. Here with his books and terra-cottas he "grew old with a grace worthy of his rank," as Elton phrased it. Lady Meyfield's "cases" were mostly those of shell-shock, or nervous troubles. She studied each patient's needs, and decided whether he required diversion or quiet: if diversion, he was sent to her town house; if quiet, he went to one of her country houses. At first it had been thought that a woman could not discipline a number of men; but Lady Meyfield had settled this by allowing them to discipline themselves. All misdemeanours were reported to and judged by a committee of five elected by ballot from among the patients. Their decisions were referred to Lady Meyfield for ratification. The result was that in no military hospital, or convalescent home, in the country was the discipline so good. Miss Brent listened perfunctorily to Elton's description of Lady Meyfield's success. She had not come to Grosvenor Square to hear about hostels, or the curing of shell-shocked soldiers, and her eyes roved restlessly about the room. "You know Lord Peter?" she enquired at length. "Intimately," Elton replied as he took her cup from her. "Do you like him?" Miss Brent was always direct. "Unquestionably." Elton's tone was that of a man who found nothing unusual either in the matter or method of interrogation. "Is he steady?" was the next question. "As a rock," responded Elton, beginning to enjoy a novel experience. "Why doesn't he live here?" demanded Miss Brent. "Who, Peter?" Miss Brent nodded. "No room. The soldiers, you know," he added. "No room for her own son?" Miss Brent's tone was in itself an accusation against Lady Meyfield of unnaturalness. "Oh! Peter understands," was Elton's explanation. "Oh!" Miss Brent looked sharply at him. For a minute there was silence. "You have been wounded?" Miss Brent indicated the blue band upon his arm. Her question arose, not from any interest she felt; but she required time in which to reorganise her attack. "I am only waiting for my final medical board, as I hope," Elton replied. "You know Lady Tanagra?" Miss Brent was feeling some annoyance with this extremely self-possessed young man. "Yes," was Elton's reply. He wondered if the next question would deal with her steadiness. "I suppose you are a friend of the family?" was Miss Brent's next question. Elton bowed. "Good afternoon, sir." The speaker was a soldier in hospital blue, a rugged little man known among his fellows as "Uncle." "Hullo! Uncle, how are you?" said Elton, shaking hands. Miss Brent noticed a warmth in Elton's tone that was in marked contrast to the even tone of courtesy with which he had answered her questions. "Oh, just 'oppin' on to 'eaven, sir," replied Uncle. "Sort of sittin' up an' takin' notice." Elton introduced Uncle to Miss Brent, an act that seemed to her quite unnecessary. "And where were you wounded?" asked Miss Brent conventionally. "Clean through the buttocks, mum," replied Uncle simply. Miss Brent flushed and cast a swift glance at Elton, whose face showed no sign. She turned to Uncle and regarded him severely; but he was blissfully unaware of having offended. "Can't sit down now, mum, without it 'urtin'," added Uncle, interpreting Miss Brent's steady gaze as betokening interest. "Oh, Goddy! I've been trying to fight my way across to you for hours." The pretty brunette to whom Elton had bowed joined the group. "I've been giving you the glad eye all the afternoon and you merely bow. Well, Uncle, how's the wound?" Miss Brent gasped. She was unaware that Uncle's wound was the standing joke among all Lady Meyfield's guests. "Oh! I'm gettin' on, thank you," said Uncle cheerfully. "Mustn't complain." "Isn't he a darling?" The girl addressed herself to Miss Brent, who merely stared. "Do you refer to Uncle or to me?" enquired Elton. "Why both, of course; but--" she paused and, screwing up her piquante little face in thought she added, "but I think Uncle's the darlinger though, don't you?" Again she challenged Miss Brent. "Good job my missis can't 'ear 'er," was Uncle's comment to Elton. "There, you see!" cried the girl gaily, "Uncle talks about his wife when I make love to him, and as for Goddy," she turned and regarded Elton with a quizzical expression, "he treats my passion with a look that clearly says prunes and prisms." Miss Brent's head was beginning to whirl. Somewhere at the back of her mind was the unuttered thought, What would Little Milstead think of such conversation? She was brought back to Lady Meyfield's drawing-room by hearing the brunette once more addressing her. "They're the two most interesting men in the room. I call them the Dove and the Serpent. Uncle has the guilelessness of the dove, whilst Godfrey has all the wisdom of the serpent. The three of us together would make a most perfect Garden of Eden. Wouldn't we, Goddy?" "You are getting a little confused, Peggy," said Elton. "This is not a fancy dress----" "Stop him, someone!" cried the brunette, "he's going to say something naughty." Elton smiled, Miss Brent continued to stare, whilst Uncle with a grin of admiration cried: "Lor', don't she run on!" "Now come along, Uncle!" cried the girl. "I've found some topping chocolates, a new kind. They're priceless," and she dragged Uncle off to the end of the table. "Who was that?" demanded Miss Brent of Elton, disapproval in her look and tone. "Lady Peggy Bristowe," replied Elton. Miss Brent was impressed. The Bristowes traced their ancestry so far back as to make William the Norman's satellites look almost upstarts. "She is a little overpowering at first, isn't she?" remarked Elton, smiling in spite of himself at the conflicting emotions depicted upon Miss Brent's face; but Lady Peggy gave her no time to reply. She was back again like a shaft of April sunshine. "Here, open your mouth, Goddy," she cried, "they're delicious." Elton did as he was bid, and Lady Peggy popped a chocolate in, then wiping her finger and thumb daintily upon a ridiculously small piece of cambric, she stood in front of Elton awaiting his verdict. "Like it?" she demanded, her head on one side like a bird, and her whole attention concentrated upon Elton. "Apart from a suggestion of furniture polish," began Elton, "it is----" "Hun!" cried Lady Peggy as she whisked over to where she had left Uncle. "Lady Peggy is rather spoiled," said Elton to Miss Brent. "I fear she trades upon having the prettiest ankles in London." Miss Brent turned upon Elton one glance, then with head in air and lips tightly compressed, she stalked away. Elton watched her in surprise, unconscious that his casual reference to the ankles of the daughter of a peer had been to Miss Brent the last straw. "Hate at the prow and virtue at the helm," he murmured as she disappeared. Miss Brent was now convinced beyond all power of argument to the contrary that her call had landed her in the very midst of an ultra-fast set. She was unaware that Godfrey Elton was notorious among his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people. "You never know what Godfrey will say," his Aunt Caroline had remarked on one occasion when he had just confided to the vicar that all introspective women have thick ankles, "and the dear vicar is so sensitive." It seemed that whenever Elton elected to emerge from the mantle of silence with which he habitually clothed himself, it was in the presence of either a sensitive vicar or someone who was sensitive without being a vicar. Once when Lady Gilcray had rebuked him for openly admiring Jenny Adam's legs, which were displayed each night to an appreciative public at the Futility Theatre, Elton had replied, "A woman's legs are to me what they are to God," which had silenced her Ladyship, who was not quite sure whether it was rank blasphemy or a classical quotation; but she never forgave him. Miss Brent made several efforts to approach Lady Meyfield to have a few minutes' talk with her about the subject of her call; but without success. She was always surrounded either by arriving or departing guests, and soldiers seemed perpetually hovering about ready to pounce upon her at the first opportunity. At last Miss Brent succeeded in attracting her hostess' attention, and before she knew exactly what had happened, Lady Meyfield had shaken hands, thanked her for coming, hoped she would come again soon, and Miss Brent was walking downstairs her mission unaccomplished. Her only consolation was the knowledge that within the next day or two _The Morning Post_ would put matters upon a correct footing. A mile away Patricia was tapping out upon her typewriter that "pigs are the potential saviours of the Empire." CHAPTER XI THE DEFECTION OF MR. TRIGGS "Well, me dear, how goes it?" Patricia looked up from a Blue Book, from which she was laboriously extracting statistics. Mr. Triggs stood before her, florid and happy. He was wearing a new black and white check suit, a white waistcoat and a red tie, whilst in his hand he carried a white felt top-hat with a black band. "It doesn't go at all well," said Patricia, smiling. "What's the matter, me dear?" he enquired anxiously. "You look fagged out." "Oh! I'm endeavouring to extract information about potatoes from stupid Blue Books," said Patricia, leaning back in her chair. "Why can't they let potatoes grow without writing about them?" she asked plaintively, screwing up her eyebrows. "'E ain't much good, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Triggs. "Who?" asked Patricia in surprise. "A. B.," said Mr. Triggs, lowering his voice and looking round furtively, "Dull, 'e strikes me." "Well, you see, Mr. Triggs, he's rising, and you can't rise and be risen at the same time, can you?" Mr. Triggs shook his head doubtfully. "'E'll no more rise than your salary, me dear," he said. "Oh! what a gloomy person you are to-day, Mr. Triggs, and you look like a ray of sunshine." "D'you like it?" enquired Mr. Triggs, smiling happily as he stood back that Patricia might obtain a good view of his new clothes. She now saw that over his black boots he wore a pair of immaculate white spats. "You look just like a duke. But where are you going, and why all this splendour?" asked Patricia. Mr. Triggs beamed upon her. "I'm glad you like it, me dear. I was thinking about you when I ordered it." Patricia looked up and smiled. There was something to her strangely lovable in this old man's simplicity. "I come to take you to the Zoo," he announced. "To the Zoo?" cried Patricia in unfeigned surprise. Mr. Triggs nodded, hugely enjoying the effect of the announcement. "Now run away and get your hat on." "But I couldn't possibly go, I've got heaps of things to do," protested Patricia. "Why Mrs. Bonsor would be----" "Never you mind about 'Ettie; I'll manage 'er. She'll----" "I thought I heard your voice, father." Both Patricia and Mr. Triggs started guiltily; they had not heard Mrs. Bonsor enter the room. "'Ullo, 'Ettie!" said Mr. Triggs, recovering himself. "I just come to take this young lady to the Zoo." "Do I look as bad as all that?" asked Patricia, conscious that her effort was a feeble one. "Don't you worry about your looks, me dear," said Mr. Triggs, "I'll answer for them. Now go and get your 'at on." "But I really couldn't, Mr. Triggs," protested Patricia. "I'm afraid it's impossible for Miss Brent to go to-day, father," said Mrs. Bonsor evenly; but flashing a vindictive look at Patricia. "Why?" enquired Mr. Triggs. "I happen to know," continued Mrs. Bonsor, "that Arthur is very anxious for some work that Miss Brent is doing for him." "What work?" enquired Mr. Triggs. "Oh--er--something about----" Mrs. Bonsor looked appealingly at Patricia; but Patricia had no intention of helping her out. "Well! if you can't remember what it is, it can't matter much, and I've set my mind on going to the Zoo this afternoon." "Very well, father. If you will wait a few minutes I will go with you myself." "You!" exclaimed Mr. Triggs in consternation. "You and me at the Zoo! Why you said once the smell made you sick." "Father! how can you suggest such a thing?" "But you did," persisted Mr. Triggs. "I once remarked that I found the atmosphere a little trying." "Won't you come into the morning-room, father, there's something I want to speak to you about." "No, I won't," snapped Mr. Triggs like a spoilt child, "I'm going to take Miss Brent to the Zoo." "But Arthur's work, father----" began Mrs. Bonsor. "Very well then, 'Ettie," said Mr. Triggs, "you better tell A. B. that I'd like to 'ave a little talk with 'im to-morrow afternoon at Streatham, at three o'clock sharp. See? Don't forget!" Mr. Triggs was angry, and Mrs. Bonsor realised that she had gone too far. Turning to Patricia she said: "Do you think it would matter if you put off what you are doing until to-morrow, Miss Brent?" she enquired. "I think I ought to do it now, Mrs. Bonsor," replied Patricia demurely, determined to land Mrs. Bonsor more deeply into the mire if possible. "Well, if you'll run away and get your hat on, I will explain to Mr. Bonsor when he comes in." Patricia looked up, Mrs. Bonsor smiled at her, a frosty movement of her lips, from which her eyes seemed to dissociate themselves. During Patricia's absence Mr. Triggs made it abundantly clear to his daughter that he was displeased with her. "Look 'ere, 'Ettie, if I 'ear any more of this nonsense," he said, "I'll take on Miss Brent as my own secretary, then I can take her to the Zoo every afternoon if I want to." A look of fear came into Mrs. Bonsor's eyes. One of the terrors of her life was that some designing woman would get hold of her father and marry him. It did not require a very great effort of the imagination to foresee that the next step would be the cutting off of the allowance Mr. Triggs made his daughter. Suppose Patricia were to marry her father? What a scandal and what a humiliation to be the stepdaughter of her husband's ex-secretary. Mrs. Bonsor determined to capitulate. "I'm very sorry, father; but if you had let us know we could have arranged differently. However, everything is all right now." "No, it isn't," said Mr. Triggs peevishly. "You've tried to spoil my afternoon. Fancy you a-coming to the Zoo with me. You with your 'igh and mighty ways. The truth is you're ashamed of your old father, although you ain't ashamed of 'is money." It was with a feeling of gratitude that Mrs. Bonsor heard Patricia enter the room. "I'm ready, Mr. Triggs," she announced, smiling. Mr. Triggs followed her out of the room without a word. "You'll explain to Mr. Bonsor that I've been kidnapped, will you not?" said Patricia to Mrs. Bonsor, rather from the feeling that something should be said than from any particular desire that Mr. Bonsor should be placated. "Certainly, Miss Brent," replied Mrs. Bonsor, with another unconvincing smile. "I hope you'll have a pleasant afternoon." "Tried to spoil my afternoon, she did," mumbled Mr. Triggs in the tone of a child who has discovered that a playmate has endeavoured to rob him of his marbles. Patricia laughed and, slipping her hand through his arm, said: "Now, you mustn't be cross, or else you'll spoil my afternoon, and we're going to have such a jolly time together." Instantly the shadow fell from Mr. Triggs's face and he turned upon Patricia and beamed, pressing her hand against his side. Then with another sudden change he said, "'Ettie annoys me when she's like that; but I've given 'er something to think about," he added, pleased at the recollection of his parting shot. Patricia smiled at him, she never made any endeavour to probe into the domestic difficulties of the Triggs-Bonsor menage. "Do you know what I told 'er?" enquired Mr. Triggs. Patricia shook her head. "I said that if she wasn't careful I'd engage you as my own secretary. That made 'er sit up." He chuckled at the thought of his master-stroke. "But you've got nothing for me to secretary, Mr. Triggs," said Patricia, not quite understanding where the joke came. "Ah! 'Ettie understands. 'Ettie knows that every man that ain't married marries 'is secretary, and she's dead afraid of me marrying." "Am I to take that as a proposal, Mr. Triggs?" asked Patricia demurely. Mr. Triggs chuckled. "Now we'll forget about everything except that we are truants," cried Patricia. "I've earned a holiday, I think. On Sunday and Monday there was Aunt Adelaide, yesterday it was national importance of pigs and----" "Hi! Hi! Taxi! Taxi!" Mr. Triggs yelled, dashing forward and dragging Patricia after him. A taxi was crossing a street about twenty yards distance. Mr. Triggs was impulsive in all things. Having secured the taxi and handed Patricia in, he told the man to drive to the Zoo, and sank back with a sigh of pleasure. "Now we're going to 'ave a very 'appy afternoon, me dear," he said. "Don't you worry about pigs." Arrived at the Zoo, Mr. Triggs made direct for the monkey-house. Patricia, a little puzzled at his choice, followed obediently. Arrived there he walked round the cages, looking keenly at the animals. Finally selecting a little monkey with a blue face, he pointed it out to Patricia. "They was just like that little chap," he said eagerly. "That one over there, see 'im eating a nut?" "Yes, I see him," said Patricia; "but who was just like him?" "I'll tell you when we get outside. Now come along." Patricia followed Mr. Triggs, puzzled to account for his strange manner and sudden lack of interest in the monkey-house. They walked along for some minutes in silence, then, when they came to a quiet spot, Mr. Triggs turned to Patricia. "You see, me dear," he said, "it was there that I asked her." "That you asked who what?" enquired Patricia, utterly at a loss. "You see we'd been walking out for nearly a year; I was a foreman then. I 'ad tickets given me for the Zoo one Sunday, so I took 'er. When we was in the monkey-house there was a couple of little chaps just like that blue-faced little beggar we saw just now." There was a note of affection in Mr. Triggs's voice as he spoke of the little blue-faced monkey. "And one of 'em 'ad 'is arm round the other and was a-making love to 'er as 'ard as ever 'e could go," continued Mr. Triggs. "And I says to Emily, just to see 'ow she'd take it, 'That might be you an' me, Emily,' and she blushed and looked down, and then of course I knew, and I asked 'er to marry me. I don't think either of us 'ad cause to regret it," added the old man huskily. "God knows I 'adn't." Patricia felt that she wanted both to laugh and to cry. She could say nothing, words seemed so hopelessly inadequate. "You see this is our wedding-day, that's why I wanted to come," continued Mr. Triggs, blinking his eyes, in which there was a suspicious moisture. "Oh! thank you so much for bringing me," said Patricia, and she knew as she saw the bright smile with which Mr. Triggs looked at her that she had said the right thing. "Thirty years and never a cross word," he murmured. "She'd 'ave liked you, me dear," he added; "she 'ad wonderful instinct, and everybody loved her. 'Ere, but look at me," he suddenly broke off, "spoilin' your afternoon, and you lookin' so tired. Come along," and Mr. Triggs trotted off in the direction of the seals, who were intimating clearly that they thought that something must be wrong with the official clock. They were quite ready for their meal. For two hours Patricia and Mr. Triggs wandered about the Zoo, roving from one group of animals to another, behaving rather like two children who had at last escaped from the bondage of the school-room. After tea they strolled through Regent's Park, watching the squirrels and talking about the thousand and one things that good comrades have to talk about. Mr. Triggs told something of his early struggles, how his wife had always believed in him and been his helpmate and loyal comrade, how he missed her, and how, when she had died, she had urged him to marry again. "Sam," she had said, "you want a woman to look after you; you're nothing but a great, big baby." "And she was right, me dear," said Mr. Triggs huskily, "she was right as she always was, only she didn't know that there couldn't ever be anyone after 'er." Slowly and tactfully Patricia guided the old man's thoughts away from the sad subject of his wife's death, and soon had him laughing gaily at some stories she had heard the night previously from the Bowens. Mr. Triggs was as easily diverted from sadness to laughter as a child. It was half-past seven when they left the Park gates, and Patricia, looking suddenly at her wristlet watch, cried out, "Oh! I shall be late for dinner, I must fly!" "You're going to dine with me, me dear," announced Mr. Triggs. "Oh, but I can't," said Patricia; "I--I----" "Why can't you?" "Well, I haven't told Mrs. Craske-Morton." "Who's she?" enquired Mr. Triggs. "Of course it doesn't matter, how stupid of me," said Patricia; "I should love to dine with you, Mr. Triggs, if you will let me." "That's all right," said Mr. Triggs, heaving a sigh of relief. They walked down Portland Place and Regent Street until they reached the Quadrant. "We'll 'ave dinner in the Grill-room at the Quadrant," announced Mr. Triggs, with the air of a man who knows his way about town. "Oh, no, not there, please!" cried Patricia, in a panic. "Not there!" Mr. Triggs looked at her, surprise and disappointment in his voice. "Why not?" "Oh! I'd sooner not go there if you don't mind. Couldn't we go somewhere else?" For a moment Mr. Triggs did not reply. "There's someone there I don't want to meet," said Patricia, then a moment afterwards she realised her mistake. Mr. Triggs looked down at his clothes. "I suppose they are a bit out of it for the evening," he remarked in a hurt voice. "Oh, Mr. Triggs, how could you?" said Patricia. "Now I shall insist on dining in the Quadrant Grill-room. If you won't come with me I'll go alone." "Not if you don't want to go, me dear, it doesn't matter. Though I do like to 'ear the band. We can go anywhere." "No, Quadrant or nothing," said Patricia, hoping that Bowen would be dining out. "Are you sure, me dear?" said Mr. Triggs, hesitating on the threshold. "Nothing will change me," announced Patricia, with decision. "Now you can see about getting a table while I go and powder my nose." When Patricia rejoined Mr. Triggs in the vestibule of the Grill-room he was looking very unhappy and downcast. "There ain't a table nowhere," he said. "Oh, what a shame!" cried Patricia. "Whatever shall we do?" "I don't know," said Mr. Triggs helplessly. "Are you sure?" persisted Patricia. "That red-'eaded fellow over there said there wasn't nothing to be 'ad." "I am sorry," said Patricia, seeing Triggs's disappointment. "I suppose we shall have to go somewhere else after all." "Won't you and your friend share my table, Patricia?" Patricia turned round as if someone had hit her, her face flaming. "Oh!" she cried. "You?" "I have a table booked, and if you will dine with me you will be conferring a real favour upon a lonely fellow-creature." Bowen smiled from Patricia to Mr. Triggs, who was looking at him in surprise. "Oh! where are my manners?" cried Patricia as she introduced the two men. Mr. Triggs's eyes bulged at the mention of Bowen's title. "Now, Mr. Triggs," said Bowen, "won't you add the weight of your persuasion to mine, and persuade Miss Brent that the only thing to do is for you both to dine with me and save me from boredom?" "Well, it was to 'ave been my treat," said Mr. Triggs, not quite sure of his ground. "But you can afford to be generous. Can't you share her with me, just for this evening?" Mr. Triggs beamed and turned questioningly to Patricia, who, seeing that if she declined it would be a real disappointment to him, said: "Well, I suppose we must under the circumstances." "You're not very gracious, Patricia, are you?" said Bowen comically. Patricia laughed. "Well, come along, I'm starving," she said. Many heads were turned to look at the curious trio, headed by the obsequious maître d'hôtel, as they made their way towards Bowen's table. "I wonder what 'Ettie would say," whispered Mr. Triggs to Patricia, "me dining with a lord, and 'im being a pal of yours, too." Patricia smiled. She was wondering what trick Fate would play her next. The meal was a gay one. Bowen and Mr. Triggs immediately became friends and pledged each other in champagne. Mr. Triggs told of their visit to the Zoo and of the anniversary it celebrated. "Then you are a believer in marriage, Mr. Triggs," said Bowen. "A believer in it! I should just think I am," said Mr. Triggs. "I wish she'd get married," he added, nodding his head in the direction of Patricia. "She's going to," said Bowen quietly. Mr. Triggs sat up as if someone had hit him in the small of the back. "Going to," he cried. "Who's the man?" "You have just pledged him in Moet and Chandon," replied Bowen quietly. "You going to marry 'er?" Unconsciously Mr. Triggs raised his voice in his surprise, and several people at adjacent tables turned and looked at the trio. "Hush! Mr. Triggs," said Patricia, feeling her cheeks burn. Bowen merely smiled. "Well I _am_ glad," said Mr. Triggs heartily, and seizing Bowen's hand he shook it cordially. "God bless my soul!" he added, "and you never told me." He turned reproachful eyes upon Patricia. "It--it----" she began. "You see, it's only just been arranged," said Bowen. Patricia flashed him a grateful look, he seemed always to be coming to her rescue. "God bless my soul!" repeated Mr. Triggs. "But you'll be 'appy, both of you, I'll answer for that." "Then I may take it that you're on my side, Mr. Triggs," said Bowen. "On your side?" queried Mr. Triggs, not understanding. "Yes," said Bowen, "you see Patricia believes in long engagements, whereas I believe in short ones. I want her to marry me at once; but she will not. She wants to wait until we are both too old to enjoy each other's society, and she is too deaf to hear me say how charming she is." "If you love each other you'll never be too old to enjoy each other's company," said Mr. Triggs seriously. "Still, I'm with you," he added, "and I'll do all I can to persuade 'er to hurry on the day." "Oh, Mr. Triggs!" cried Patricia reproachfully, "you have gone over to the enemy." "I think he has merely placed himself on the side of the angels," said Bowen. "And now," said Mr. Triggs, "you must both of you dine with me one night to celebrate the event. Oh Lor'!" he exclaimed. "What will 'Ettie say?" Then turning to Bowen he added oy way of explanation, "'Ettie's my daughter, rather stiff, she is. She looks down on Miss Brent because she's only A. B.'s secretary. 'Ettie's got to learn a lot about the world," he added oracularly. "My, this'll be a shock to 'er." "I'm afraid I can't----" began Patricia. "You're not going to say you can't both dine with me?" said Mr. Triggs, blankly disappointed. "I think Patricia will reconsider her decision," said Bowen quietly. "She wouldn't be so selfish as to deny two men an evening's happiness." "She's one of the best," said Mr. Triggs, with decision. "Mr. Triggs, I think you and I have at least one thing in common," said Bowen. CHAPTER XII A BOMBSHELL "Good morning, Miss Brent." Patricia was surprised at the graciousness of Mrs. Bonsor's salutation, particularly after the episode of the Zoo on the previous afternoon. "Good morning," she responded, and made to go upstairs to take off her hat and coat. "I congratulate you," proceeded Mrs. Bonsor in honeyed tones; "but I'm just a little hurt that you did not confide in me." Mrs. Bonsor's tone was that of a trusted friend of many years' standing. "Confide!" repeated Patricia in a matter-of-fact tone. "Confide what, Mrs. Bonsor?" "Your engagement to Lord Peter Bowen. Such a surprise. You're a very lucky girl. I hope you'll bring Lord Peter to call." Patricia listened mechanically to Mrs. Bonsor's inanities. Suddenly she realised their import. What had happened? How did she know? Had Mr. Triggs told her? "How did you know?" Patricia enquired. "Haven't you seen _The Morning Post_?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor. "_The Morning Post_!" repeated Patricia, in consternation; "but--but I don't understand." "Then isn't it true?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor, scenting a mystery. "I--I----" began Patricia, then with inspiration added, "I must be getting on, I've got a lot to do to make up for yesterday." "But isn't it true, Miss Brent?" persisted Mrs. Bonsor. Then from half-way up the stairs Patricia turned and, in a spurt of mischief, cried, "If you see it in _The Morning Post_ it is so, Mrs. Bonsor." When Patricia entered the library Mr. Bonsor was fussing about with letters and papers, a habit he had when nervous. "I'm so sorry about yesterday afternoon, Mr. Bonsor," said Patricia; "but Mrs. Bonsor seemed to wish me to----" "Not at all, not at all, Miss Brent," said Mr. Bonsor nervously. "I--I----" then he paused. "I know what you're going to say, Mr. Bonsor, but please don't say it." Mr. Bonsor looked at her in surprise. "Not say it?" he said. "Oh! everybody's congratulating me, and I'm tired. Shall we get on with the letters?" Mr. Bonsor was disappointed. He had prepared a dainty little speech of congratulation, which he had intended to deliver as Patricia entered the room. Mr. Bonsor was always preparing speeches which he never delivered. There was not an important matter that had been before the House since he had represented Little Dollington upon which he had not prepared a speech. He had criticised every member of the Government and Opposition. He had prepared party speeches and anti-party speeches, patriotic speeches and speeches of protest. He had called upon the House of Commons to save the country, and upon the country to save the House of Commons. He had woven speeches of splendid optimism and speeches of gloomy foreboding. He had attacked ministers and defended ministers, seen himself attacked and had routed his enemies. He had prepared speeches to be delivered to his servants for domestic misdemeanour, speeches for Mr. Triggs, even for Mrs. Bonsor. He had conceived speeches on pigs, speeches on potatoes, speeches on oil-cake, and speeches on officers' wives; in short, there was nothing in the world of his thoughts about which he had not prepared a speech. The one thing he did not do was to deliver these speeches. They were wonderful things of his imagination, which seemed to defy crystallization into words. So it was with the speech of congratulation that he had prepared for Patricia. That morning Patricia was distraite. Her thoughts continued to wander to _The Morning Post_ announcement, and she was anxious to get out to lunch in order to purchase a copy and see what was actually said. Then her thoughts ran on to who was responsible for such an outrage; for Patricia regarded it as an outrage. It was obviously Bowen who had done it in order to make her position still more ridiculous. It was mean, she was not sure that it was not contemptible. Patricia was in the act of transcribing some particulars about infant mortality in England and Wales compared with that of Scotland, when the parlourmaid entered with a note. Mr. Bonsor stretched out his hand for it. "It is for Miss Brent, sir," said the maid. Patricia looked up in surprise. It was unusual for her to receive a note at the Bonsors'. She opened the envelope mechanically and read:-- "DEAREST, "I have just seen _The Morning Post_. It is sweet of you to relent. You have made me very happy. Will you dine with me to-night and when may I take you to Grosvenor Square? My mother will want to see her new daughter-in-law. "I so enjoyed last night. Surely the gods are on my side. "PETER." Patricia read and re-read the note. For a moment she felt ridiculously happy, then, with a swift change of mood she saw the humiliation of her situation. Bowen thought it was she who had inserted the notice of the engagement. What must he think of her? It looked as if she had done it to burn his boats behind him. Then suddenly she seized a pen and wrote:-- "DEAR LORD PETER, "I know nothing whatever about the announcement in _The Morning Post_, and I only heard of it when I arrived here. I cannot dine with you to-night, and I am very angry and upset that anyone should have had the impertinence to interfere in my affairs. I shall take up the matter with _The Morning Post_ people and insist on a contradiction immediately. "Yours sincerely, "PATRICIA BRENT." With quick, decisive movements Patricia folded the note, addressed the envelope and handed it to the maid, then she turned to Mr. Bonsor. "I am sorry to interrupt work, Mr. Bonsor; but that was rather an important note that I had to answer." Mr. Bonsor smiled sympathetically. At lunch-time Patricia purchased a copy of _The Morning Post_, and there saw in all its unblushing mendacity the announcement. "A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Lord Peter Bowen, D.S.O., M.C., attached to the General Staff, son of the 7th Marquess of Meyfield, and Patricia Brent, daughter of the late John Brent, of Little Milstead." "Why on earth must the ridiculous people put it at the top of the column?" she muttered aloud. A man occupying an adjoining table at the place where she was lunching turned and looked at her. "And now I must go back to potatoes, pigs, and babies," said Patricia to herself as she paid her bill and rose. "Ugh!" She had scarcely settled down to her afternoon's work when the maid entered and announced, "Lord Peter Bowen to see you, miss." "Oh bother!" exclaimed Patricia. "Tell him I'm busy, will you please?" The maid's jaw dropped; she was excellently trained, but no maid-servant could be expected to rise superior to such an extraordinary attitude on the part of a newly-engaged girl. Nothing short of a butler who had lived in the best families could have risen to such an occasion. "But, Miss Brent----" began Mr. Bonsor. Patricia turned and froze him with a look. "Will you give him my message, please, Fellers?" she said, and Fellers walked out a disillusioned young woman. Two minutes later Mrs. Bonsor entered the room, flushed and excited. "Oh, Miss Brent, that silly girl has muddled up things somehow! Lord Peter Bowen is waiting for you in the morning-room. I have just been talking to him and saying that I hope you will both dine with us one day next week." "The message was quite correct, Mrs. Bonsor. I am very busy with pigs, and babies, and potatoes. I really cannot add Lord Peter to my responsibilities at the moment." Mrs. Bonsor looked at Patricia as if she had suddenly gone mad. "But Miss Brent-----" began Mrs. Bonsor, scandalised. "I suppose I shall have to see him," said Patricia, rising with the air of one who has to perform an unpleasant task. "I wish he'd stay at the War Office and leave me to do my work. I suppose I shall have to write to Lord Derby about it." Mrs. Bonsor glanced at Mr. Bonsor, who, however, was busily engaged in preparing an appropriate speech upon War Office methods, suggested by Patricia's remark about Lord Derby. As Patricia entered the morning-room, Bowen came forward. "Oh, Patricia! why will you persist in being a cold douche? Why this morning I absolutely scandalised Peel by singing at the top of my voice whilst in my bath, and now. Look at me now!" Patricia looked at him, then she was forced to laugh. He presented such a woebegone appearance. "But what on earth have I to do with your singing in your bath?" she enquired. "It was _The Morning Post_ paragraph. I thought everything was going to be all right after last night, and now I'm a door-mat again." "Who inserted that paragraph?" enquired Patricia. "I rang up _The Morning Post_ office and they told me that it was handed in by Miss Brent, who is staying at the Mayfair Hotel." "Aunt Adelaide!" There was a depth of meaning in Patricia's tone as she uttered the two words, then turning to Bowen she enquired, "Did you tell them to contradict it?" "They asked me whether it were correct," he said, refusing to meet Patricia's eyes. "What did you say?" "I said it was." He looked at her quizzically, like a boy who is expecting a severe scolding. Patricia had to bite her lips to prevent herself from laughing. "You told _The Morning Post_ people that it was correct when you knew that it was wrong?" Bowen hung his head. "But it isn't wrong," he muttered. "You know very well that it is wrong and that I am not engaged to you, and that no marriage has been arranged or ever will be arranged. Now I shall have to write to the editor and insist upon the statement being contradicted." "Good Lord! Don't do that, Patricia," broke in Bowen. "They'll think we've all gone mad." "And for once a newspaper editor will be right," was Patricia's comment. "And will you dine to-night, Pat?" Patricia looked up. This was the first time Bowen had used the diminutive of her name. Somehow it sounded very intimate. "I am afraid I have an--an----" The hesitation was her undoing. "No; don't tell me fibs, please. You will dine with me and then, afterwards, we will go on and see the mater. She is dying to know you." How boyish and lover-like Bowen was in spite of his twenty-eight years, and--and--how different everything might have been if---- Patricia was awakened from her thoughts by hearing Bowen say: "Shall I pick you up here in the car?" "No, I--I've just told you I am engaged," she said. "And I've just told you that I won't allow you to be engaged to anyone but me," was Bowen's answer. "If you won't come and dine with me I'll come and play my hooter outside Galvin House until they send you out to get rid of me. You know, Patricia, I'm an awful fellow when I've set my mind on anything, and I'm simply determined to marry you whether you like it or not." "Very well, I will dine with you to-night at half-past seven." "I'll pick you up at Galvin House at a quarter-past seven with the car." "Very well," said Patricia wearily. It seemed ridiculous to try and fight against her fate, and at the back of her mind she had a plan of action, which she meant to put into operation. "Now I must get back to my work. Good-bye." Bowen opened the door of the morning-room. Mrs. Bonsor was in the hall. Patricia walked over to the library, leaving Bowen in Mrs. Bonsor's clutches. "Oh, Lord Peter!" Mrs. Bonsor gushed. "I hope you and Miss Brent will dine with us----" Patricia shut the library door without waiting to hear Bowen's reply. At five o'clock she gave up the unequal struggle with infant mortality statistics and walked listlessly across the Park to Galvin House. She was tired and dispirited. It was the weather, she told herself, London in June could be very trying, then there had been all that fuss over _The Morning Post_ announcement. At Galvin House she knew the same ordeal was awaiting her that she had passed through at Eaton Square. Mrs. Craske-Morton would be effusive, Miss Wangle would unbend, Miss Sikkum would simper, Mr. Bolton would be facetious, and all the others would be exactly what they had been all their lives, only a little more so as a result of _The Morning Post_ paragraph. Only the fact of Miss Wangle taking breakfast in bed had saved Patricia from the ordeal at breakfast. Miss Wangle was the only resident at Galvin House who regularly took _The Morning Post_, it being "the dear bishop's favourite paper." Arrived at Galvin House Patricia went straight to her room. Dashing past Gustave, who greeted her with "Oh, mees!" struggling at the same time to extract from his pocket a newspaper. Patricia felt that she should scream. Had everyone in Galvin House bought a copy of that day's _Morning Post_, and would they all bring it out of their pockets and point out the passage to her? She sighed wearily. Suddenly she jumped up from the bed where she had thrown herself, seized her writing-case and proceeded to write feverishly. At the end of half an hour she read and addressed three letters, stamping two of them. The first was to the editor of _The Morning Post_, and ran:-- "DEAR SIR, "In your issue of to-day's date you make an announcement regarding a marriage having been arranged between Lord Peter Bowen and myself, which is entirely inaccurate. "I am given to understand that this announcement was inserted on the authority of my aunt, Miss Adelaide Brent, and I must leave you to take what action you choose in relation to her. As for myself, I will ask you to be so kind as to insert a contradiction of the statement in your next issue. "I am, "Yours faithfully, "PATRICIA BRENT." Patricia always prided herself on the business-like quality of her letters. The second letter was to Miss Brent. It ran:-- "DEAR AUNT ADELAIDE, "I have written to the editor of _The Morning Post_ informing him that he must take such action as he sees fit against you for inserting your unauthorised statement that a marriage has been arranged between Lord Peter Bowen and me. It may interest you to know that the engagement has been broken off as a result of your impulsive and ill-advised action. Personally I think you have rather presumed on being my 'sole surviving relative.' "Your affectionate niece, "PATRICIA." The third letter was to Bowen. "DEAR LORD PETER, "I have written to the editor of _The Morning Post_, asking him to contradict the inaccurate statement published in to-day's issue. I am consumed with humiliation that such a thing should have been sent to him by a relative of mine, more particularly by a 'sole surviving relative.' My aunt unfortunately epitomises in her personality all the least desirable characteristics to be found in relatives. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am about--oh, everything! If you really want to save me from feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself you will not only forget me, but also a certain incident. "You have done me a great honour, I know, and you will add to it a great service if you will do as I ask and forget all about a folly that I have had cause bitterly to regret. "Please forgive me for not dining with you to-night and for breaking my word; but I am feeling very unwell and tired and I have gone to bed. "Yours sincerely, "PATRICIA BRENT." Patricia's plan was to post the letters to Aunt Adelaide and _The Morning Post_, and leave the other with Gustave to be given to Bowen when he called, she would then shut herself in her room and plead a headache as an excuse for not being disturbed. Thus she would escape Miss Wangle and her waves of interrogation. As Patricia descended the stairs, Gustave was in the act of throwing open the door to Lady Tanagra. It was too late to retreat. "Ah! there you are," exclaimed Lady Tanagra as she passed the respectful Gustave in the hall. Patricia descended the remaining stairs slowly and with dragging steps. Lady Tanagra looked at her sharply. "Aren't we a nuisance?" cried she. "There's nothing more persistent in nature than a Bowen. Bruce's spider is quite a parochial affair in comparison," and she laughed lightly. Patricia smiled as she welcomed Lady Tanagra. For a moment she hesitated at the door of the lounge, then with a sudden movement she turned towards the stairs. "Come up to my room," she said, "we can talk there." There was no cordiality in her voice. Lady Tanagra noticed that she looked worn-out and ill. Once the bedroom door was closed she turned to Patricia. "My poor Patricia! whatever is the matter? You look thoroughly done up. Now lie down on the bed like a good girl, and I will assume my best bedside manner." Patricia shook her head wearily, and indicating a chair by the window, seated herself upon the bed. "I'm afraid I am rather tired," she said. "I was just going to lock myself up for the night." "Now I'm going to cheer you up," cried Lady Tanagra. "Was there ever a more tactless way of beginning, but I've got something to tell you that is so exquisitely funny that it would cheer up an oyster, or even a radical." "First," said Patricia, "I think I should like you to read these letters." Slowly and wearily she ripped open the three letters and handed them to Lady Tanagra, who read them through slowly and deliberately. This done, she folded each carefully, returned it to its envelope and handed them to Patricia. "Well!" said Patricia. Lady Tanagra smiled. Reaching across to the dressing-table she took a cigarette from Patricia's box and proceeded to light it. Patricia watched her curiously. "I think you must have been meant for a man, Tanagra," she said after a pause. "You have the gift of silence, and nothing is more provoking to a woman." "What do you want me to say?" enquired Lady Tanagra. "I like these cigarettes," she added. "If you are not careful, you'll make me scream in a minute," said Patricia, with a smile. "I showed you those letters and now you don't even so much as say 'thank you.'" "Thank you very much indeed, Patricia," said Lady Tanagra meekly. "You don't approve of them?" There was undisguised challenge in Patricia's voice. "I think the one to Miss Brent is admirable, specially if you will add a postscript after what I tell you." "But the other two," persisted Patricia. "I do not think I am qualified to express an opinion, am I?" said Lady Tanagra calmly. "Why not?" "Well, you see, I am an interested party." "You!" cried Patricia, then with a sudden change, "Oh, if you are not careful I shall come over and shake you!" "I think that would be very good for both of us," was Lady Tanagra's reply. "Tell me what you mean," persisted Patricia. "Well, in the first place, the one to the editor of _The Morning Post_ will make poor Peter ridiculous, and the other will hurt his feelings, and as I am very fond of Peter you cannot expect me to be enthusiastic with either of them, can you?" Lady Tanagra rose and going over to Patricia put her arm round her and kissed her on the cheek, then Patricia did a very foolish thing. Without a word of warning she threw her arms around Lady Tanagra's neck and burst into tears. "Oh, I'm so wretched, Tanagra! I know I'm a beast and I want to hurt everybody and every thing. I think I should like to hurt you even," she cried, her mood of crying passing as quickly as it had come. "Don't you think we had better just talk the thing out? Now since you have asked my view," continued Lady Tanagra, "I will give it. Your letter to _The Morning Post_ people will make poor Peter the laughing-stock of London. He has many enemies among ambitious mamas. Never have I known him to be attracted towards a girl until you came along. He's really paying you a very great compliment." Patricia sniffed ominously. "Then the letter to Peter would hurt him because--you must forgive me--it is rather brutal, isn't it?" Patricia nodded her head vigorously. "Well," continued Lady Tanagra, "what do you say if we destroy them both?" "But--but--that would leave _The Morning Post_ announcement and P-Peter----" "Don't you think they might both be left, just for the moment? Later you can wipe the floor with them." "But--but--you don't understand, Tanagra," began Patricia. "Don't you think that half the troubles of the world are due to people wanting to understand?" said Lady Tanagra calmly. "I never want to understand. There are certain things I know and these are sufficient for me. In this case I know that I have a very good brother and he wants to marry a very good girl; but for some reason she won't have anything to do either with him or with me." She looked up into Patricia's face with a smile so wholly disarming that Patricia was forced to laugh. "If you knew Patricia's opinion of herself," she said to Lady Tanagra, "you would be almost shocked." "Well, now, will you do something just to please me?" insinuated Lady Tanagra. "You see this big brother of mine has always been more or less my adopted child, and you have it in your power to hurt him more than I want to see him hurt." There was an unusually serious note in Lady Tanagra's voice. "Why not let things go on as they are for the present, then later the engagement can be broken off if you wish it. I'll speak to Peter and see that he is not tiresome." "Oh, but he's never been that!" protested Patricia, then she stopped suddenly in confusion. Lady Tanagra smiled to herself. "Well, if he's never been tiresome I'm sure you wouldn't like to hurt him, would you?" She was speaking as if to a child. "The only person I want to hurt is Aunt Adelaide," said Patricia with a laugh. Lady Tanagra noticed with pleasure that the mood seemed to be dropping from her. "Well, may I be the physician for to-day?" continued Lady Tanagra. Patricia nodded her head. "Very well, then, I prescribe a dinner this evening with one Tanagra Bowen, Peter Bowen and Godfrey Elton, on the principle of 'Eat thou and drink, to-morrow thou shalt die.'" "Who is Godfrey Elton?" asked Patricia with interest. "My dear Patricia, if I were to start endeavouring to describe Godfrey we should be at it for hours. You can't describe Godfrey, you can only absorb him. He is a sort of wise youth rapidly approaching childhood." "What on earth do you mean?" cried Patricia, laughing. "You will discover for yourself later. We are all dining at the Quadrant to-night at eight." "Dining at the Quadrant?" repeated Patricia in amazement. "Yes, and I have to get home to dress and you have to dress and I will pick you up in a taxi at a quarter to eight." "But--but--Peter--your brother said that he was coming----" "Peter has greater faith in his sister than in himself, he therefore took me into his confidence and I am his emissary." "Oh, you Bowens, you Bowens!" moaned Patricia in mock despair. "There is no avoiding us, I confess," said Lady Tanagra gaily. "Now I must tell you about your charming aunt. She called upon mother yesterday." "What!" gasped Patricia. "She called at Grosvenor Square and announced to poor, un-understanding mother that she thought the families ought to know one another. But she got rather badly shocked by Godfrey and one of the soldier boys, whom we call 'Uncle,' and left with the firm conviction that our circle is a pernicious one." "It's--it's--perfectly scandalous!" cried Patricia. "No, it's not as bad as that," said Lady Tanagra calmly. "What?" began Patricia. "Oh! I mean Aunt Adelaide's conduct, it's humiliating, it's----" "Wait until you hear," said Lady Tanagra with a smile. "When Peter ran in to see mother, she said that she had had a call from a Miss Brent and could he place her. So poor old Peter blurts out that he's going to marry Miss Brent. Poor mother nearly had a fit on the spot. She was too tactful to express her disapproval; but she showed it in her amazement. The result was that Peter was deeply hurt and left the room and the house. I am the only one who saw the exquisite humour of the joke. My poor darling mother had the impression that Peter has gone clean off his head and wanted to marry your most excellent Aunt Adelaide," and Lady Tanagra laughed gaily. For a moment Patricia gazed at her blankly, then as she visualised Aunt Adelaide and Bowen side by side at the altar she laughed hysterically. "I kept mother in suspense for quite a long time. Then I told her, and I also rang up Peter and told him. And now I must fly," cried Lady Tanagra. "I will be here at a quarter to eight, and if you are not ready I shall be angry; but if you have locked yourself in your room I shall batter down the door. We are going to have a very happy evening and you will enjoy yourself immensely. I think it quite likely that Godfrey will fall in love with you as well as Peter, which will still further increase your embarrassments." Then with a sudden change of mood she said, "Please cheer up, Patricia, happiness is not a thing to be taken lightly. You have been a little overwrought of late, and now, good-bye." "One moment, please," said Patricia. "Don't you understand that nothing can possibly be built up on such a foundation as--as----?" "Your picking up Peter in the Grill-room of the Quadrant," said Lady Tanagra calmly. Patricia gasped. "Oh!" she cried. "Let's call things by their right names," said Lady Tanagra. "At the present moment you're putting up rather a big fight against your own inclination, and you are causing yourself a lot of unnecessary unhappiness. Is it worth it?" she asked. "One's self-respect is always worth any sacrifice," said Patricia. "Except when you are in love, and then you take pride in trampling it under foot." With this oracular utterance Lady Tanagra departed with a bright nod, a smile and an insistence that Patricia should not come downstairs. CHAPTER XIII A TACTICAL BLUNDER "I often think," remarked Lady Tanagra as she helped herself a second time to hors d'oeuvres, "that if Godfrey could only be condensed or desiccated he would save the world from ennui." Elton looked up from a sardine he was filleting with great interest and care; concentration was the foundation of Godfrey Elton's character. "Does that mean that he is a food or a stimulant?" enquired Patricia, Elton having returned to his sardine. Lady Tanagra regarded Elton with thoughtful brow. "I think," she said deliberately, "I should call him a habit." "Does that imply that he is a drug upon the market?" retorted Patricia. Bowen laughed. Elton continued to fillet his sardine. "You see," continued Lady Tanagra, "Godfrey has two qualities that to a woman are maddening. The first is the gift of silence, and the second is a perfect genius for making everyone else feel that they are in the wrong. Some day he'll fall in love, and then something will snap and--well, he will give up dissecting sardines as if they were the one thing in life worthy of a man's attention." Elton looked up again straight into Lady Tanagra's eyes and smiled. "Look at him now!" continued Lady Tanagra, "that very smile makes me feel like a naughty child." The four were dining in Bowen's sitting-room at the Quadrant, Lady Tanagra having decided that this would be more pleasant than in the public dining-room. "Can you," continued Lady Tanagra, who was in a wilful mood, "can you imagine Godfrey in love? I don't think any man ought to be allowed to fall in love until he has undergone an examination as to whether or no he can say the right thing the right way. No, it takes an Irishman to make love." "But an Irishman says what he cannot possibly mean," said Patricia, with the air of one of vast experience in such matters. "And many Englishmen mean what they cannot possibly say," said Elton, looking at Lady Tanagra. "Oh," cried Lady Tanagra, clapping her hands. "You have drawn him, Patricia. Now he will talk to us instead of concentrating himself upon his food. Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly, turning to Elton. "I promised that you should fall in love with Patricia, Godfrey." "Now that Tanagra has come down to probabilities the atmosphere should lighten," Elton remarked. "Isn't that Godfrey all over?" demanded Lady Tanagra of Bowen. "He will snub one woman and compliment another in a breath. Patricia," she continued, "I warn you against Godfrey. He is highly dangerous. He should always be preceded by a man with a red flag." "But why?" asked Bowen. "Because of his reticence. A man has no right t to be reticent; it piques a woman's curiosity, and with us curiosity is the first step to surrender." "Why hesitate at the first step?" asked Elton. "Think of it, Patricia," continued Lady Tanagra, ignoring Elton's remark. "Although Godfrey has seen _The Morning Post_ he has not yet congratulated Peter." "I did not know then that I had cause to congratulate him," said Elton quietly. "What mental balance!" cried Lady Tanagra. "I'm sure he reads the deaths immediately after the births, and the divorces just after the marriages so as to preserve his sense of proportion." Elton looked first at Lady Tanagra and then on to Patricia, and smiled. "Can you not see Godfrey choosing a wife?" demanded Lady Tanagra, laughing. "Weighing the shape of her head with the size of her ankles, he's very fussy about ankles. He would dissect her as he would a sardine, demanding perfection, mental, moral, and physical, and in return he could give _himself_." Lady Tanagra emphasized the last word. "Most men take less time to choose a wife than they would a trousering," said Elton quietly. "I think Mr. Elton is right," said Patricia. "Then you don't believe in love at first sight," said Bowen to Patricia. "Miss Brent did not say that," interposed Elton. "She merely implied that a man who falls in love at first sight should choose trouserings at first sight. Is that not so?" He looked across at Patricia. Patricia nodded. "An impetuous man will be impetuous in all things," said Bowen. "He who hesitates may lose a wife," said Lady Tanagra, "and----" "And by analogy, go without trousers," said Elton quietly. "That might explain a Greek; but scarcely a Scotsman," said Patricia. "No one has ever been able to explain a Scotsman," said Elton. "We content ourselves with misunderstanding him." "We were talking about love," broke in Lady Tanagra, "and I will not have the conversation diverted." Turning to Patricia she demanded, "Can you imagine Godfrey in love?" "I think so," said Patricia quietly, looking across at Elton. "Only----" "Only what?" cried Lady Tanagra with excited interest. "Oh, please, Patricia, explain Godfrey to me! No one has ever done so." "Don't you think he is a little like the Scotsman we were talking about just now?" said Patricia. "Difficult to explain; but easy to misunderstand." "Oh, Peter, Peter!" wailed Lady Tanagra, looking across at Bowen. "She's caught it." "Caught what?" asked Bowen in surprise. "The vagueness of generalities that is Godfrey," replied Lady Tanagra. "Now, Patricia, you must explain that 'only' at which you broke off. You say you can imagine Godfrey in love, only----" "I think he would place it on the same plane as honour and sportsmanship, probably a little above both." Elton looked up from the bread he was crumbling, and gave Patricia a quick penetrating glance, beneath which her eyes fell. Lady Tanagra looked at Patricia in surprise, but said nothing. "Can you imagine Tan in love, Patricia?" enquired Bowen. "We Bowens are notoriously backward in matters of the heart," he added. "I shall fall in love when the man comes along who--who----" Lady Tanagra paused. "Will compel you," said Patricia, concluding the sentence. Again Elton looked quickly across at her. "What do you mean?" demanded Lady Tanagra. "I think," said Patricia deliberately, "that you are too primitive to fall in love. You would have to be stormed, carried away by force, and wooed afterwards." "It doesn't sound very respectable, does it?" said Lady Tanagra thoughtfully, then turning to Bowen she demanded, "Peter, would you allow me to be carried away by force, stormed, and wooed afterwards?" "I think, Tanagra, you sometimes forget that your atmosphere is too exotic for most men," said Elton. "Godfrey," said Lady Tanagra reproachfully, "I have had quite a lot of proposals, and I won't be denied my successes." "We were talking about love, not offers of marriage," said Elton with a smile. "Cynic," cried Lady Tanagra. "You imply that the men who have proposed to me wanted my money and not myself." "Suppose, Tanagra, there were a right man," said Patricia, "and he was poor and honourable. What then?" "I suppose I should have to ask him to marry me," said Lady Tanagra dubiously. "But, Tan, we've just decided," said Bowen, "that you have to be carried away by force, and cannot love until force has been applied." "I think I've had enough of this conversation," said Lady Tanagra. "You're trying to prove that I'm either going to lose my reputation, or die an old maid, and I'm not so sure that you're wrong, about the old maid, I mean," she added. "I shall depend upon you, Godfrey, then," she said, turning to Elton, "and we will hobble about the Park together on Sunday mornings, comparing notes upon rheumatism and gout. Ugh!" She looked deliberately round the table, from one to the other. "Has it ever struck you what we shall look like when we grow very old?" she asked. "No one need ever grow old," said Patricia. "How can you prevent it?" asked Bowen. "There is morphia and the fountain of eternal youth," suggested Elton. "Please don't let's be clever any more," said Lady Tanagra. "It's affecting my brain. Now we will play bridge for a little while and then all go home and get to bed early." In spite of her protests Bowen insisted on seeing Patricia to Galvin House. For some time they did not speak. As the taxi turned into Oxford Street Bowen broke the silence. "Patricia, my mother wants to know you," he said simply. Patricia shivered. The words came as a shock. They recalled the incident of her meeting with Bowen. She seemed to see a grey-haired lady with Bowen's eyes and quiet manner, too well-bred to show the disapproval she felt on hearing the story of her son's first meeting with his fiancé. She shuddered again. "Are you cold?" Bowen enquired solicitously, leaning forward to close the window nearest to him. "No, I was thinking what Lady Meyfield will think when she hears how you made the acquaintance of--of--me," she finished lamely. "There is no reason why she should know," said Bowen. "Do you think I would marry----?" Patricia broke off suddenly in confusion. "But why----?" began Bowen. "If ever I meet Lady Meyfield I shall tell her exactly how I--I--met you," said Patricia with decision. "Well, tell her then," said Bowen good-humouredly. "She has a real sense of humour." The moment Bowen had uttered the words he saw his mistake. Patricia drew herself up coldly. "It was rather funny, wasn't it?" she said evenly; "but mothers do not encourage their sons to develop such acquaintances. Now shall we talk about something else?" "But my mother wants to meet you," protested Bowen. "She----" "Tell her the story of our acquaintance," replied Patricia coldly. "I think that will effectually overcome her wish to know me. Ah! here we are," she concluded as the taxi drew up at Galvin House. With a short "good night!" Patricia walked up the steps, leaving Bowen conscious that he had once more said the wrong thing. That night, as Patricia prepared for bed, she mentally contrasted the Bowens' social sphere with that of Galvin House and she shuddered for the third time that evening. "Patricia Brent," she apostrophised her reflection in the mirror. "You're a fool! and you have not even the saving grace of being an old fool. High Society has turned your giddy young head," and with a laugh that sounded hard even to her own ears, she got into bed and switched off the light. CHAPTER XIV GALVIN HOUSE MEETS A LORD The effect of _The Morning Post_ announcement upon Galvin House had been little short of sensational. Although all were aware of the engagement, to see the announcement in print seemed to arouse them to a point of enthusiasm. Everyone from the servants upwards possessed a copy of _The Morning Post_, with the single exception of Mrs. Barnes, who had mislaid hers and made everybody's life a misery by insisting on examining their copy to make quite sure that they had not taken hers by mistake. Had not Patricia been so preoccupied, she could not have failed to notice the atmosphere of suppressed excitement at Galvin House. Many glances were directed at her, glances of superior knowledge, of which she was entirely unconscious. Woman-like she never paused to ask herself what she really felt or what she really meant. Her thoughts ran in a circle, coming back inevitably to the maddening question, "What does he really think of me?" Why had Fate been so unkind as to undermine a possible friendship with that damning introduction? After all, she would ask herself indifferently, what did it matter? Bowen was nothing to her. Then back again her thoughts would rush to the inevitable question, what did he really think? Since the night of her adventure, Patricia had formed the habit of dressing for dinner. She made neither excuse nor explanation to herself as to why she did so. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, however, had covertly remarked upon the fact; but Patricia had ignored them. She had reached that state in her psychological development when she neither explained nor denied things. With delicacy and insight Providence has withheld from woman the uncomfortable quality of introspection. Had Patricia subjected her actions to the rigid test of reason, she would have found them strangely at variance with her determination. With a perversity characteristic of her sex, she forbade Bowen to see her, and then spent hours in speculating as to when and how he would disobey her. A parcel in the hall at Galvin House sent the colour flooding to her cheeks, whilst Gustave, entering the lounge, bearing his flamboyant nickle-plated apology for the conventional silver salver, set her heart thumping with expectation. As the day on which Bowen was to dine at Galvin House drew near, the excitement became intense, developing into a panic when the day itself dawned. All were wondering how this or that garment would turn out when actually worn, and those who were not in difficulties with their clothes were troubled about their manners. At Galvin House manners were things that were worn, like a gardenia or a patent hook-and-eye. Patricia had once explained to an uncomprehending Aunt Adelaide that Galvin House had more manners than breeding. On the Friday evening when Patricia returned to Galvin House, Gustave was in the hall. "Oh, mees!" he involuntarily exclaimed. Patricia waited for more; but after a moment of hesitation, Gustave disappeared along the hall as if there were nothing strange in his conduct, leaving Patricia staring after him in surprise. At that moment Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled out of the lounge, full of an unwonted importance. "Oh, Miss Brent!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you've come. I have a few friends coming to dinner this evening and we are dressing." Without waiting for a reply Mrs. Craske-Morton turned and disappeared along the passage leading to the servants' regions. At that moment Mr. Bolton appeared at the top of the stairs in his shirt sleeves; but at the sight of Patricia he turned and bolted precipitately out of sight. Patricia walked slowly upstairs and along the corridor to her room, unconscious that each door she passed was closed upon a tragedy. In one room Mrs. Barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and a camisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could be made black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at the stationer's shop in error. Mr. James Harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body, stood in front of his glass, frankly baffled by the problem of how to keep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of his low-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determined to show all that it was supposed to hide. Miss Sikkum was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. On her lap lay the Brixton "Paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrow black velvet ribbon. Should she or should she not enlarge the surface of exposure? If she did Miss Wangle might think her fast; if she did not Lord Peter might think her suburban. Mr. Sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from his reflection in the glass a likeness to a sandy cockatoo. Mr. Cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt, which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of a pouter pigeon. To each his tragedy and to all their anguish. Even Miss Wangle had her problem. Should she or should she not remove the lace from the modest V in her black silk evening gown. The thought of the bishop, however, proved too much for her, and her collar-bones continued to remain a mystery to Galvin House. The dinner-gong found everyone anxious and unprepared. All had a vision of Bowen sitting in judgment upon them and mentally comparing Galvin House with Park Lane; for in Bayswater Park Lane is the pinnacle of culture and social splendour. A few minutes after the last strain of the gong, sounded by Gustave in a manner worthy of the occasion, had subsided, Miss Sikkum crept out from her room feeling very "undressed." The sight of Mr. Sefton nearly drove her back precipitately to the maiden fastness of her chamber. "Was she really too undressed?" she asked herself. Slowly the guests descended, each anxious to cede to others the pride of place, all absorbed with his or her particular tragedy. By the aid of pins Mr. Cordal had overcome his likeness to a pigeon, but he had not allowed for movement, which tore the pins from their hold, allowing his shirt-front to balloon out joyfully before him, for the rest of the evening obscuring his boots. Miss Wangle looked at Miss Sikkum and mentally thanked Heaven and the bishop that she had restrained her abandoned impulse to remove the black lace from her own neck. Mr. Bolton's attention was concentrated upon the centre stud of his shirt. The button-hole was too large, and the head of the stud insisted on disappearing in a most coquettish and embarrassing manner. Mr. Bolton was not sure that Bowen would approve of blue underwear, and consequently kept a finger and thumb upon his stud for the greater part of the evening. As each entered the lounge, it was with a hurried glance round to see if the guest of the evening had arrived, followed by a sigh of relief on discovering that he had not. Mrs. Craske-Morton had taken the precaution of deferring the dinner until eight o'clock. She wished Bowen's entry to be dramatic. Mrs. Craske-Morton had asked a few friends of her own to meet her distinguished guest; a Miss Plimsoll, who was composed in claret colour and royal blue trimming, and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ragbone. Mrs. Ragbone was a stout, jolly woman with a pronounced cockney accent. Mr. Ragbone was a man whose eyebrows seemed to rise higher with each year, and whose manner of patient suffering became more pathetically unreal with the passage of each season. Mrs. Craske-Morton always explained him as a solicitor. Morton, Gofrim and Bowett, of Lincoln's Inn, knew him as their chief clerk. The atmosphere of the lounge was one of nervous tension. All were listening for the bell which would announce the arrival of Bowen. When at last he came, everybody was taken by surprise, Mr. Bolton's stud eluded his grasp, Mr. Sefton felt his back hair, whilst Miss Sikkum blushed rosily at her own daring. A dead silence spread over the company, broken by Gustave, who, throwing open the door with a flourish, announced "Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen, D.S.O." Bowen gave him a quick glance with widened eyes, then coming forward, shook hands with Mrs. Craske-Morton. Miss Sikkum was disappointed to find that he was in khaki. She had a vague idea that the nobility adopted different evening clothes from the ordinary rank and file. It would have pleased her to see Bowen with velvet stripes down his trousers, a velvet collar and velvet cuffs. A coloured silk waistcoat would have convinced her. Mrs. Craske-Morton was determined to do her work thoroughly. She had taken the precaution of telling Patricia that dinner would not be served until a few minutes after eight, that would give her time to introduce Bowen to all the guests. She proceeded to conduct him round to everyone in turn. In her flurry she quite forgot the careful schooling to which she had subjected herself for a week past, and she introduced Miss Wangle to Bowen. "Lord Peter, allow me to introduce Miss Wangle. Miss Wangle, Lord Peter Bowen," and this was the form adopted with the rest of the company. Bowen's sixth bow had just been interrupted by Mr. Cordal grasping him warmly by the hand, when Patricia entered. For a moment she looked about her regarding the strange toilettes, then she saw Bowen. She felt herself crimsoning as he slipped away from Mr. Cordal's grasp and came across to her. All the guests hung back as if this were the meeting between Wellington and Blücher. "I've done six, there are about twenty more to do. If you save me, Patricia, I'll forgive you anything after we're married." Patricia shook hands sedately. Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled up to re-claim Bowen. "A little surprise, Miss Brent; I hope you will forgive me." Patricia smiled at her in anything but a forgiving spirit. "And now, Lord Peter, I want to introduce you to----" "Deenair is served, madame." Gustave was certainly doing the thing in style. At a sign from Mrs. Craske-Morton, Miss Wangle secured Mr. Samuel Ragbone and they started for the dining-room. The remainder of the guests paired off in accordance with Mrs. Craske-Morton's instructions, written and verbal, she left nothing to chance, and the procession was brought up by Mrs. Craske-Morton herself and Bowen. Patricia fell to the lot of Mr. Sefton. As soon as the guests were seated a death-like stillness reigned. Bowen was looking round with interest as he unfolded his napkin into which had been deftly inserted a roll. Miss Sikkum, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe and Mr. Bolton each lost their rolls, which were retrieved from underneath the table by Gustave and Alice. Mr. Sefton, also unconscious of the secreted roll, opened his napkin with a debonair jerk to show that he was quite at his ease. The bread rose in the air. He made an unsuccessful clutch, touched but could not hold it, and watched with horror the errant roll hit Miss Wangle playfully on the side of the nose, just as she was beginning to tell Bowen about "the dear bishop." Patricia bit her lip, Bowen bent solicitously over the angry Miss Wangle, whilst Mr. Bolton threatened to report Mr. Sefton to the Food Controller. Gustave created a diversion by arriving with the soup. His white cotton gloves, several sizes too large even for his hands, caused him great anxiety. Every spare moment during the evening he spent in clutching them at the wrists, just as they were on the point of slipping off. Nothing, however, could daunt his courage or mitigate his good-humour. For the first time in his life he was waiting upon a real lord, and from the circumstance he was extracting every ounce of satisfaction it possessed. In serving Bowen his attitude was that of one self-convicted of unworthiness. Accustomed to the complaints and bickerings of a Bayswater boarding-house, Bowen's matter-of-fact motions of acceptance or refusal impressed him profoundly. So this was how lords behaved. Nothing so impressed him as the little incident of the champagne. At Galvin House it was the custom for the guests to have their own drinks. Mr. Cordal, for instance, drank what the label on the bottle announced to be "Gumton's Superior Light Dinner Ale." Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe favoured Guinness's Stout, Miss Sikkum took hot water, whilst Miss Wangle satisfied herself with a claret bottle. There is refinement in claret, the dear bishop always drank it, with water: but as claret costs money Miss Wangle made a bottle last for months. The thought of the usual heterogeneous collection of bottles on the occasion of Lord Peter's visit had filled Mrs. Craske-Morton with horror, and she had decided to "spring" wine, as Mr. Bolton put it. In other words, she supplied for the whole company four bottles of one-and-eightpenny claret, the bottles rendered beautifully old by applied dust and cobwebs. To this she had added a bottle of grocer's champagne for Bowen. Gustave had been elaborately instructed that this was for the principal guest and the principal guest only, and Mrs. Craske-Morton had managed to convey to him in some subtle way that if he poured so much as a drop of the precious fluid into any other person's glass, the consequences would be too terrifying even to contemplate. Whilst Galvin House was murmuring softly over its soup, Gustave approached Bowen with the champagne bottle swathed in a white napkin, and looking suspiciously like an infant in long clothes. Holding the end of the bottle's robes with the left hand so that it should not tickle Bowen's ear, Gustave bent anxiously to his task. Bowen, however, threw a bomb-shell at the earnest servitor. He motioned that he did not desire champagne. Gustave hesitated and looked enquiringly at his mistress. Here was an unlooked-for development. "You'll take champagne?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton ingratiatingly. Gustave breathed again, and whilst Bowen's attention was distracted in explaining to Mrs. Craske-Morton that he preferred water, he had a delicate taste in wine, Gustave filled the glass happily. Of course, it was all right, he told himself, the lord merely wanted to be pressed. If he had really meant "no," he would have put his hand over his glass, as Miss Sikkum always did when she refused some of Mr. Cordal's "Light Dinner Ale." Gustave retired victorious with the champagne bottle, which he placed upon the sideboard. At every interval in his manifold duties, Gustave returned with the white-clothed bottle, and strove to squeeze a few more drops into Bowen's untouched glass. The terrifying constraint with which the meal had opened gradually wore off as the wine circulated. Following the path of least resistance, it mounted to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's head; but with Miss Sikkum it seemed to stop short at her nose. Mr. Cordal's shirt-front announced that he had temporarily given up Gumton in favour of the red, red wine of the smoking-concert baritone. Mrs. Barnes seemed on the point of tears, whilst Mr. Sefton's attentions to Patricia were a direct challenge to Bowen. Conversation at Galvin House was usually general; but it now became particular. Every remark was directed either to or at Bowen, and each guest strove to hear what he said. Those who were fortunate enough to catch his replies told those who were not. A smile or a laugh from anyone who might be in conversation with Bowen rippled down the table. Mr. Cordal was less intent upon his food, and his inaccuracy of aim became more than ever noticeable. "Oh, Lord Bowen!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "do tell us where you got the D.S.O." Bowen screwed his glass into his eye and looked across at Miss Sikkum, at the redness of her nose and the artificial rose in her hair. Everyone was waiting anxiously for Bowen's reply. Mr. Cordal grunted approval. "At Buckingham Palace," said Bowen, "from the King. They give you special leave, you know." Patricia looked across at him and smiled. What was he thinking of Galvin House refinement? What did he think of her for being there? Well, he had brought it on himself and he deserved his punishment. At first Patricia had been amused: but as the meal dragged wearily on, amusement developed into torture. Would it never end? She glanced from Miss Wangle, all graciousness and smiles, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her faded blue evening-frock, on to Miss Sikkum bare and abandoned. She heard Mr. Sefton's chatter, Mr. Bolton's laugh, Mr. Cordal's jaws and lips. She shuddered. Why did not she accept the opening of escape that now presented itself and marry Bowen? He could rescue her from all this and what it meant. "And shall we all be asked to the wedding, Lord Bowen?" It was again Miss Sikkum's thin voice that broke through the curtain of Patricia's thoughts. "I hope all Miss Brent's friends will be there," replied Bowen diplomatically. "And now we shall all have to fetch and carry for Miss Brent," laughed Mr. Bolton. "Am I your friend, Miss Brent?" he enquired. "She always laughs at your jokes when nobody else can," snapped Miss Pilkington. Everybody turned to the speaker, who during the whole meal had silently nursed her resentment at having been placed at the bottom of the table. Mr. Bolton looked crestfallen. Bowen looked across at Patricia and saw her smile sympathetically at Mr. Bolton. "I think from what I have heard, Mr. Bolton," he said, "that you may regard yourself as one of the elect." Patricia flashed Bowen a grateful look. Mr. Bolton beamed and, turning to Miss Pilkington, said with his usual introductory laugh: "Then I shall return good for evil, Miss Pilkington, and persuade Lady Peter to buy her stamps at your place." Miss Pilkington flushed at this reference to her calling, a particularly threadbare joke of Mr. Bolton's. "When is it to be, Lord Peter?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton. Miss Sikkum looked down modestly at her plate, not quite certain whether or no this were a delicate question. "That rests with Miss Brent," replied Bowen, smiling. "If you, her friends, can persuade her to make it soon, I shall be very grateful." Miss Sikkum simpered and murmured under her breath, "How romantic." "Now, Miss Brent," said Mr. Bolton, "it's up to you to name the happy day." Patricia smiled, conscious that all eyes were upon her; but particularly conscious of Bowen's gaze. "I believe in long engagements," she said, stealing a glance at Bowen and thrilling at the look of disappointment on his face. "Didn't Jacob serve seven years for Rachel?" "Yes, and got the wrong girl then," broke in Mr. Bolton. "You'll have to be careful, Miss Brent, or Miss Sikkum will get ahead of you." "Really, Mr. Bolton!" said Mrs. Craske-Morton, looking anxiously at Bowen. Miss Sikkum's cheeks had assumed the same tint as her nose, and her eyes were riveted upon her plate. Miss Pilkington muttered something under her breath about Mr. Bolton's remark being outrageous. "I think we'll take coffee in the lounge," said Mrs. Craske-Morton, rising. Turning to Bowen, she added, "We follow the American custom, Lord Peter, the gentlemen always leave the dining-room with the ladies." There was a pushing back of chairs and a shuffling of feet and Galvin House rose from its repast. "Coffee will not be served for half an hour, and if you and Miss Brent would like to--to----" Mrs. Craske-Morton paused significantly. "My boudoir is at your service." Bowen looked at her and then at Patricia. He saw the flush on her cheeks and the humiliation in her eyes. "I think we should much prefer not to interrupt our pleasant conversation. What do you say, Patricia?" he enquired, turning to Patricia, who smiled her acquiescence. They all trooped into the lounge, where everybody except Patricia, Bowen and Mrs. Craske-Morton stood about in awkward poses. The arrival of Gustave with coffee relieved the tension. For the next hour each guest endeavoured to attract to himself or herself Bowen's attention, and each was disappointed when at length he rose to go and shook hands only with Mrs. Craske-Morton, including the others in a comprehensive bow. Still more were they disappointed and surprised when Patricia did not go out into the hall to see him off. "Oh, Miss Brent!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "aren't you going to say good night to him?" "Good night!" interrogated Patricia, "but I did." "Yes; but I mean----" began Miss Sikkum. "Oh, you know," she said with a simper, but Patricia had passed over to a chair, where she seated herself and began to read a newspaper upside down. Miss Sikkum's romantic soul had received a shock. CHAPTER XV MR. TRIGGS TAKES TEA IN KENSINGTON GARDENS I "Well, me dear, 'ow goes it?" Mr. Triggs flooded the room with his genial person, mopping his brow with a large bandana handkerchief, and blowing a cheerful protest against the excessive heat. Patricia looked up from her work and greeted him with a tired smile, as he collapsed heavily upon a chair, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. "When you're sixty-two in the shade it ain't like being twenty-five in the sun," he said, laughing happily at his joke. "Now you must sit quiet and be good," admonished Patricia. "I'm busy with beetles." "Busy with what?" demanded Mr. Triggs arresting the process of fanning himself with his handkerchief. "The potato-beetle," explained Patricia. "There is no lack of variety in the life of an M.P.'s secretary: babies and beetles, pigs and potatoes, meat and margarine, they all have their allotted place." "Arthur works you too 'ard, me dear, I'm afraid," said Mr. Triggs. "I must speak to 'im about it." "Oh, Mr. Triggs! You mustn't do anything of the sort. He's most kind and considerate, and if I am here I must do what he wants." "But beetles and babies and potatoes, me dear," said Mr. Triggs. "That's more than a joke." "Oh! you don't know what a joke a beetle can be," said Patricia, looking up and laughing in spite of herself at the expression of anxiety on Mr. Triggs's face. Mr. Triggs mumbled something to himself. "God bless my soul!" he exclaimed a moment after. "'Ere am I, forgetting what I come about. I've seen _The Morning Post_, me dear." Patricia pushed back her chair from the table and turned and faced Mr. Triggs. "Mr. Triggs," she said, "if you mention the words _Morning Post_ to me again I think I shall kill you." Mr. Triggs's hands dropped to his side as he gazed at her in blank astonishment. "But, me dear----" he began. "The engagement has been broken off," announced Patricia. Mr. Triggs's jaw dropped, and he gazed at Patricia in amazement. "Broken off," he repeated. "Engagement broken off. Why, damn 'im, I'll punch 'is 'ead," and he made an effort to rise. Patricia laughed, a little hysterically. "You mustn't blame Lord Peter," she said. "It is I who have broken it off." Mr. Triggs collapsed into the chair again. "You broke it off," he exclaimed. "You broke off the engagement with a nice young chap like 'im?" Patricia nodded. "Well, I'm blowed!" Mr. Triggs sat staring at Patricia as if she had suddenly become transformed into a dodo. After nearly a minute's contemplation of Patricia, a smile slowly spread itself over his features, like the sun breaking through a heavy cloud-laden sky. "You been 'avin' a quarrel, that's what's the matter," he announced with a profound air of wisdom. Patricia shook her head with an air of finality; but Mr. Triggs continued to nod his head wisely. "That's what's the matter," he muttered. "Why," he added, "you'll never get another young chap like 'im. Took a great fancy to 'im, I did. Now all you've got to do is just to kiss and make it up. Then you'll feel 'appier than ever afterwards." Patricia realised the impossibility of conveying to Mr. Triggs that her decision was irrevocable. Furthermore she was anxious that he should go, as she had promised to get out certain statistics for Mr. Bonsor. "Now you really must go, Mr. Triggs. You won't think me horrid, will you, but I had a half-holiday the other day, and now I must work and make up for it. That's only fair, isn't it?" "Very well, me dear, I can't stay. I'll be off and get out of your way. Now don't forget. Make it up, kiss and be friends. That's my motto." "It isn't a quarrel, Mr. Triggs; but it's no use trying to explain to anyone so sweet and nice as you. Anyhow, I have broken off the engagement, and Lord Peter is in no way to blame." "Well, good-bye, me dear. I'll see you again soon," said Mr. Triggs, still nodding his head with genial conviction as to the rightness of his diagnosis. "And now I'll be trottin'. Don't forget," and with a final look over his shoulder and another nod of wisdom he floated out of the room, seeming to leave it cold and bare behind him. "Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered as he walked away from Eaton Square. Arrived at the corner of Eaton Place, he stood still as if uncertain what direction to take. Seeing a crawling taxi he suddenly seemed inspired with an idea. "Hi! Hi! Taxi!" he shouted, waving his umbrella. Having secured the taxi and given the man instructions to drive to the Quadrant, he hauled himself in and sat down with a sigh of satisfaction. It was a few minutes to one as he asked for Lord Peter Bowen at the enquiry-office of the Quadrant. Two minutes later Peel descended in the lift to inform him that his Lordship had not yet returned to lunch. Was Mr. Triggs expected? "Well, no," confessed Mr. Triggs, looking at Peel a little uncertainly. "'E wasn't expecting me; but 'e asked me the other night if I'd call in when I was passing, and as I was passing I called in, see?" For a moment Peel seemed to hesitate. "His Lordship has a luncheon engagement, sir," he said; "but he could no doubt see you for two or three minutes if he asked you to call. Perhaps you will step this way." Before Mr. Triggs had a chance of doing as was suggested, Peel had turned aside. "No, my lady, his Lordship is not in yet; but he will not be more than a minute or two. This gentleman," he looked at the card, "Mr. Triggs, is----" "Oh, Mr. Triggs, how do you do?" cried Lady Tanagra, extending her hand. Mr. Triggs looked at the exquisite little vision before him in surprise and admiration. He took the proffered hand as if it had been a piece of priceless porcelain. "I'm Lord Peter's sister, you know. I've heard all about you from Patricia. Do come up and let us have a chat before my brother comes." Mr. Triggs followed Lady Tanagra into the lift, too surprised and bewildered to make any response to her greeting. As the lift slid upwards he mopped his brow vigorously with his handkerchief. When they were seated in Bowen's sitting-room he at last found voice. "I just been to see 'er," he said. "Who, Patricia?" asked Lady Tanagra. Mr. Triggs nodded, and there was a look in his eyes which implied that he was not at all satisfied with what he had seen. "Quarrelled, 'aven't they?"' he asked. "Well," began Lady Tanagra, not quite knowing how much Mr. Triggs actually knew of the circumstances of the case. "Said she'd broken it off. I gave her a talking to, I did. She'll never get another young chap like 'im." "Did you tell her so?" asked Lady Tanagra. "Tell her so, I should think I did!" said Mr. Triggs, "and more than once too." "Oh, you foolish, foolish man!" cried Lady Tanagra, wringing her hands in mock despair. A moment afterwards she burst out laughing at the comical look of dismay on Mr. Triggs's face. "What 'ave I done?" he cried in genuine alarm. "Why, don't you see that you have implied that all the luck is on her side, and that will make her simply furious?" "But--but----" began Mr. Triggs helplessly, looking very much like a scolded child. "Now sit down," ordered Lady Tanagra with an irresistible smile, "and I'll tell you. My brother wants to marry Patricia, and Patricia, for some reason best known to herself, says that it can't be done. Now I'm sure that she is fond of Peter; but he has been so impetuous that he has rather taken her breath away. I've never known him like it before," said Lady Tanagra plaintively. "But 'e's an awfully lucky fellow if 'e gets 'er," broke in Mr. Triggs, as if feeling that something were required of him. "Why, of course he is," said Lady Tanagra. "Now will you help us, Mr. Triggs?" Lady Tanagra looked at him with an expression that would have extracted a promise of help from St. Anthony himself. "Of course I will, me dear. I--I beg your pardon," stuttered Mr. Triggs. "Never mind, let it stand at that," said Lady Tanagra gaily. "I'm sure we're going to be friends, Mr. Triggs." "Knew it the moment I set eyes on you," said Mr. Triggs with conviction. "Well, we've got to arrange this affair for these young people," said Lady Tanagra with a wise air. "First of all we've got to prove to Patricia that she is really in love with Peter. If she's not in love with him, then we've got to make her in love with him. Do you understand?" Mr. Triggs nodded his head with an air that clearly said he was far from understanding. "Well, now," said Lady Tanagra. "Patricia knows only three people that know Peter. There is you, Godfrey Elton, and myself. Now if she's in love with him she will want to hear about him, and----" "But ain't she going to see 'im?" demanded Mr. Triggs incredulously. "No, she says that she doesn't want Peter ever to see her, write to her, telephone to her, or, as far as I can see, exist on the same planet with her." "But--but----" began Mr. Triggs. "It's no good reasoning with a woman, Mr. Triggs, we women are all as unreasonable as the Income Tax. Now if you'll do as you are told we will prove that Patricia is wrong." "Very well, me dear," began Mr. Triggs. "Now this is my plan," interrupted Lady Tanagra. "If Patricia really cares for Peter she will want to hear about him from friends. She will, very cleverly, as she thinks, lead up the conversation to him when she meets you, or when she meets Godfrey Elton, or when she meets me. Now what we have to do is just as carefully to avoid talking about him. Turn the conversation on to some other topic. Now we've all got to plot and scheme and plan like--like----" "Germans," interrupted Mr. Triggs. "Splendid!" cried Lady Tanagra, clapping her hands. "But why has she changed her mind?" asked Mr. Triggs. "You must never ask a woman why she changes her frock, or why she changes her mind, because she never really knows," said Lady Tanagra. "Probably she does it because she hasn't got anything else particular to do at the moment. Ah! here's Peter," she cried. Bowen came forward and shook hands cordially with Mr. Triggs. "This is splendid of you!" he said. "You'll lunch with us, of course." "Oh no, no," said Mr. Triggs. "I just ran in to--to----" "To get to know me," said Lady Tanagra with a smile. "Of course! That's it," cried Mr. Triggs, beaming. "I can't stop to lunch though, I'm afraid. I must be going to----" "Have you got a luncheon engagement?" asked Lady Tanagra. "Er--well, yes." "Please don't tell fibs, Mr. Triggs. You're not engaged to lunch with anybody, and you're going to lunch with us, so that's settled." "Why, bless my soul!" blew Mr. Triggs helplessly as he mopped his head with his handkerchief. "Why, bless my soul!" "It's no good, Mr. Triggs. When Tanagra wants anything she has it," said Bowen with a laugh. "It doesn't matter whether it's the largest pear or the nicest man!" Lady Tanagra laughed. "Now we'll go down into the dining-room." For an hour and a half they talked of Patricia, and at the end of the meal both Lady Tanagra and Bowen knew that they had a firm ally in Mr. Triggs. "Don't forget, Mr. Triggs," cried Lady Tanagra as she bade him good-bye in the vestibule. "You're a match-maker now, and you must be very careful." And Mr. Triggs lifted his hat and waved his umbrella as, wreathed in smiles, he trotted towards the revolving doors and out into the street. After he had gone Lady Tanagra extracted from Bowen a grudging promise of implicit obedience. He must not see, telephone, write or telegraph to Patricia. He was to eliminate himself altogether. "But for how long, Tan?" he enquired moodily. "It may be for years and it may be for ever," cried Lady Tanagra gaily as she buttoned her gloves. "Anyhow, it's your only chance." "Damn!" muttered Bowen under his breath as he watched her disappear; "but I'll give it a trial." II The next afternoon as Patricia walked down the steps of Number 426 Eaton Square and turned to the left, she was conscious that in spite of the summer sunshine the world was very grey about her. She had not gone a hundred yards before Lady Tanagra's grey car slid up beside her. "Will you take pity on me, Patricia? I'm at a loose end," cried Lady Tanagra. Patricia turned with a little cry of pleasure. "Jump in," cried Lady Tanagra. "It's no good refusing a Bowen. Our epidermises are too thick, or should it be epidermi?" Patricia shook her head and laughed as she seated herself beside Lady Tanagra. The car crooned its way up Sloane Street and across into Knightsbridge, Lady Tanagra intent upon her driving. "Is it indiscreet to ask where you are taking me?" enquired Patricia with elaborate humility. Lady Tanagra laughed as she jammed on the brake to avoid running into the stern of a motor-omnibus. "I feel like a pirate to-day. I want to run away with someone, or do something desperate. Have you ever felt like that?" "A politician's secretary must not encourage such unrespectable instincts," she replied. Lady Tanagra looked at her quickly, noting the flatness of her voice. "A wise hen should never brood upon being a hen," she remarked oracularly. Patricia laughed. "It is all very well for Dives to tell Lazarus that it is noble to withstand the pangs of hunger," she replied. "Now let us go and get tea," said Lady Tanagra, as she turned the car into the road running between Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. "Tea!" cried Patricia, "why it's past five." "Tea is a panacea for all ills and a liquid for all hours. You have only to visit a Government Department for proof of that," said Lady Tanagra, as she descended from the car and walked towards the umbrella-sheltered tea-tables dotted about beneath the trees. "And now I want to have a talk with you for a few minutes," she said as they seated themselves at an empty table. "I feel in the mood for listening," said Patricia, "provided it is not to be good advice," she added. "I've been having a serious talk with Peter," said Lady Tanagra. Patricia looked up at her. Overhead white, fleecy clouds played a game of hide-and-seek with the sunshine. The trees rustled languidly in the breeze, and in the distance a peacock screamed ominously. "I have told him," continued Lady Tanagra, "that I will not have you worried, and he has promised me not to see you, write to you, telephone to you, send you messenger-boys, chocolates, flowers or anything else in the world, in fact he's out of your way for ever and ever." Patricia looked across at Lady Tanagra in surprise, but said nothing. "I told him," continued Lady Tanagra evenly, "that I would not have my friendship with you spoiled through his impetuous blundering. I think I told him he was suburban. In fact I quite bullied the poor boy. So now," she added with the air of one who has earned a lifelong debt of gratitude, "you will be able to go your way without fear of the ubiquitous Peter." Still Patricia said nothing as she sat looking down upon the empty plate before her. "Now we will forget all about Peter and talk and think of other things. Ah! here he is," she cried suddenly. Patricia looked round quickly; but at the sight of Godfrey Elton she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment that she would not, however, admit. Her greeting of Elton was a trifle forced. Patricia was never frank with herself. If it had been suggested that for a moment she hoped that Lady Tanagra's remark referred to Bowen, she would instantly have denied it. "No, Godfrey, don't look at me like that," cried Lady Tanagra. "I am not so gauche as to arrange a parti-à-trois. I've got someone very nice coming for Patricia." Again Patricia felt herself thrill expectantly. Five minutes later Mr. Triggs was seen sailing along among the tables as if in search of someone. Again Patricia felt that sense of disappointment she had experienced on the arrival of Godfrey Elton. Suddenly Mr. Triggs saw the party and streamed towards them, waving his red silk handkerchief in one hand and his umbrella in the other. "He has found something better than the fountain of eternal youth," said Elton to Patricia. "Whatever it is he is unconscious of possessing it," replied Patricia as she turned to greet Mr. Triggs. "I'm late, I know," explained Mr. Triggs as he shook hands. "I 'ad to run in and see 'Ettie and tell 'er I was coming. It surprised 'er," and Mr. Triggs chuckled as if at some joke he could not share with the others. "Now let us have tea," said Lady Tanagra. "I'm simply dying for it." Mr. Triggs sank down heavily into a basket chair. He looked about anxiously, as it creaked beneath his weight, as if in doubt whether or no it would bear him. "All we want now is----" Mr. Triggs stopped suddenly and looked apprehensively at Lady Tanagra. "What is it you want, Mr. Triggs?" enquired Patricia quickly. "Er--er--I--I forget, I--I forget," floundered Mr. Triggs, still looking anxiously at Lady Tanagra. "When you're in the company of women, Mr. Triggs, you should never appear to want anything else. It makes an unfavourable impression upon us." "God bless my soul, I don't!" cried Mr. Triggs earnestly. "I've been looking forward to this ever since I got your wire yesterday afternoon." "Now he has given me away," cried Lady Tanagra. "How like a man!" "Given you away, me dear!" cried Mr. Triggs anxiously. "What 'ave I done?" "Why, you have told these two people here that made an assignation with you by telegram." "Made a what, me dear?" enquired Mr. Triggs, his forehead corrugated with anxiety. "Lady Tanagra is taking a mean advantage of the heat, Mr. Triggs," said Elton. "Anyway, I'll forgive you anything, Mr. Triggs, as you have come," said Lady Tanagra. Mr. Triggs's brow cleared and he smiled. "Come! I should think I would come," he said. Lady Tanagra then explained her meeting with Mr. Triggs and how he had striven to avoid her company at luncheon on the previous day. Mr. Triggs protested vigorously. During the tea the conversation was entirely in the hands of Lady Tanagra, Elton and Mr. Triggs. Patricia sat silently listening to the others. Several times Lady Tanagra and Mr. Triggs exchanged meaning glances. "Why ain't you talking, me dear?" Mr. Triggs once asked. "I like to hear you all," said Patricia, smiling across at him. "You're all too clever for me," she added. "Me clever!" cried Mr. Triggs, and then as if the humour of the thing had suddenly struck him he went off into gurgles of laughter. "You ought to tell 'Ettie that," he spluttered. "She thinks 'er old father's a fool. Me clever!" he repeated, and again he went off into ripples of mirth. "What are your views on love, Mr. Triggs?" demanded Lady Tanagra suddenly. Mr. Triggs gazed at her in surprise. Then he looked from Patricia to Elton, as if not quite sure whether or no he were expected to be serious. "If I were you I should decline to reply. Lady Tanagra treats serious subjects flippantly," said Elton. "Her attitude towards life is to prepare a pancake as if it were a soufflé." "That proves the Celt in me," cried Lady Tanagra. "If I were English I should make a soufflé as if it were a pancake." Mr. Triggs looked from one to the other in obvious bewilderment. "I am perfectly serious in my question," said Lady Tanagra, without the vestige of a smile. "Mr. Triggs is elemental." "To be elemental is to be either indelicate or overbearing," murmured Elton, "and Mr. Triggs is neither." "Love, me dear?" said Mr. Triggs, not in the least understanding the trend of the conversation. "I don't think I've got any ideas about it." "Surely you are not a cynic. Mr. Triggs," demanded Lady Tanagra. "A what?" enquired Mr. Triggs. "Surely you believe in love," said Lady Tanagra. "Me and Mrs. Triggs lived together 'appily for over thirty years," he replied gravely, "and when a man an' woman 'ave lived together for all that time they get to believe in love. It's never been the same since she died." His voice became a little husky, and Elton looked at Lady Tanagra, who lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Triggs. Will you tell us about--about----?" she broke off. "Well, you see, me dear," said Mr. Triggs in an uncertain voice, "I was a foreman when I met 'er, and she was a servant; but--somehow or other it seemed that we were just made for each other. Once I knew 'er, I didn't seem to be able to see things without her. When I was at work--I was in the building trade, foreman-carpenter," he explained, "I used to be thinking of 'er all the time. If I went anywhere without 'er--she only had one night off a week and one day a month--I would always keep thinking of how she would like what I was seeing, or eating. It was a funny feeling," he added reminiscently as if entirely unable to explain it. "Somehow or other I always wanted to 'ave 'er with me, so that she might share what I was 'aving. It was a funny feeling," he repeated, and he looked from one to another with moist eyes. "Of course," he added, "I can't explain things like that. I'm not clever." "I think, Mr. Triggs, that you've explained love in--in----" Lady Tanagra broke off and looked at Elton, who was unusually grave. "Mr. Triggs has explained it," he replied, "in the only way in which it can be explained, and that is by being defined as unexplainable." Mr. Triggs looked at Elton for a moment, then nodded his head violently. "That's it, Mr. Elton, that's it. It's a feeling, not a thing that you can put into words." Lady Tanagra looked at Patricia, who was apparently engrossed in the waving tops of the trees. "I shall always remember your definition of love, Mr. Triggs," said Lady Tanagra with a far away look in her eyes. "I think you and Mrs. Triggs must have been very happy together." "'Appy, me dear, that wasn't the word for it," said Mr. Triggs. "And when she was taken, I--I----" he broke off huskily and blew his nose vigorously. "Suppose you were very poor, Mr. Triggs," began Patricia. "I was when I married," interrupted Mr. Triggs. "Suppose you were very poor," continued Patricia, "and you loved someone very rich. What would you do?" "God bless my soul! I never thought of that. You see Emily 'adn't anything. She only got sixteen pounds a year." Lady Tanagra turned her head aside and blinked her eyes furiously. "But suppose, Mr. Triggs," persisted Patricia, "suppose you loved someone who was very rich and you were very poor. What would you do? Would you tell them?" For a moment Patricia allowed her eyes to glance in the direction of Elton, and saw that his gaze was fixed upon Mr. Triggs. "But what 'as money got to do with it?" demanded Mr. Triggs, a puzzled expression on his face. "Exactly!" said Patricia. "That's what I wanted to know." "Money sometimes has quite a lot to do with life," remarked Elton to no one in particular. "With life, Mr. Elton," said Mr. Triggs; "but not with love." "You are an idealist," said Lady Tanagra. "Am I?" said Mr. Triggs, with a smile. "And he is also a dear," said Patricia. Mr. Triggs looked at her and smiled. Lady Tanagra and Elton drove off, Patricia saying that she wanted a walk. Mr. Triggs also declined Lady Tanagra's offer of a lift. "She wanted me to bring 'er with me," announced Mr. Triggs as they strolled along by the Serpentine. "Who did?"' enquired Patricia. "'Ettie. Ran up to change 'er things and sent out for a taxi." "And what did you say?" enquired Patricia. "I didn't say anything; but when the taxi come I just slipped in and came along 'ere. Fancy 'Ettie and Lady Tanagra!" said Mr. Triggs. "No," he added a moment later. "It's no good trying to be what you ain't. If 'Ettie was to remember she's a builder's daughter, and not think she's a great lady, she'd be much 'appier," said Mr. Triggs with unconscious wisdom. "Suppose I was to try and be like Mr. Elton," continued Mr. Triggs, "I'd look like a fool." "We all love to have you just as you are, Mr. Triggs, and we won't allow you to change," said Patricia. Mr. Triggs smiled happily. He was as susceptible to flattery as a young girl. "Well, it ain't much good trying to be what you're not. I've been a working-man, and I'm not ashamed of it, and you and Lady Tanagra and Mr. Elton ain't ashamed of being seen with me. But 'Ettie, she'd no more be seen with 'er old father in Hyde Park than she'd be seen with 'im in a Turkish bath." "We all have our weaknesses, don't you think?" said Patricia. And Mr. Triggs agreed. "You, for instance, have a weakness for High Society," continued Patricia. "Me, me dear!" exclaimed Mr. Triggs in surprise. "Yes," said Patricia, "it's no good denying it. Don't you like knowing Lord Peter and Lady Tanagra, Mr. Elton and all the rest of them?" "It's not because they're in Society," began Mr. Triggs. "Oh, yes it is! You imagine that you are now a very great personage. Soon you will be moving from Streatham into Park Lane, and then you will not know me." "Oh, me dear!" said Mr. Triggs in distress. "It's no good denying it," continued Patricia. "Look at the way you made friends with Lord Peter." Patricia was priding herself on the way in which she had led the conversation round to Bowen; but Mr. Triggs was not to be drawn. "God bless my soul!" he cried, stopping still and removing his hat, mopping his brow vigorously. "I don't mind whether anyone has a title or not. It's just them I like. Now look at Lady Tanagra. No one would think she was a lady." "Really, Mr. Triggs! I shall tell her if you take her character away in this manner. She's one of the most exquisitely bred people I have ever met." Mr. Triggs looked reproachfully at Patricia. "It's a bit 'ard on a young gal when she finds 'er father drops 'is aitches," he remarked, reverting to his daughter. "I often wonder whether I was right in giving 'Ettie such an education. She went to an 'Igh School at Eastmouth," he added. "It only made 'er dissatisfied. It was 'ard luck 'er 'aving me for a father," he concluded more to himself than to Patricia. "I am perfectly willing to adopt you as a father, Mr. Triggs, if you are in want of adoption," said Patricia. Mr. Triggs turned to her with a sunny smile. "Ah! you're different, me dear. You see you're a lady born, same as Lady Tanagra; but 'Ettie ain't. That's what makes 'er sensitive like. It's a funny world," Mr. Triggs continued; "if you go about with one boot, and you 'appen to be a duke, people make a fuss of you because you're a character; but if you 'appen to be a builder and go about in the same way they call you mad." That evening Patricia was particularly unresponsive to Mr. Bolton's attempts to engage her in conversation. CHAPTER XVI PATRICIA'S INCONSTANCY Patricia's engagement and approaching marriage were the sole topics of conversation at Galvin House, at meal-times in particular. Bowen was discussed and admired from every angle and aspect. Questions rained upon Patricia. When was she likely to get married? Where was the wedding to take place? Would she go abroad for her honeymoon? Who was to provide the wedding-cake? Where did she propose to get her trousseau? Would the King and Queen be present at the wedding? At first Patricia had endeavoured to answer coherently; but finding this useless, she soon drifted into the habit of replying at random, with the result that Galvin House received much curious information. Miss Wangle's olive-branch was an announcement of how pleased the dear bishop would have been to marry Miss Brent and Lord Peter had he been alive. Mr. Bolton joked as feebly as ever. Mr. Cordal masticated with his wonted vigour. Mr. Sefton became absorbed in the prospect of the raising of the military age limit, and strove to hearten himself by constant references to the time when he would be in khaki. Miss Sikkum continued to surround herself with an atmosphere of romance, and invariably returned in the evening breathless from her chaste endeavours to escape from some "awful man" who had pursued her. The reek of cooking seemed to become more obvious, and the dreariness of Sundays more pronounced. Some times Patricia thought of leaving Galvin House for a place where she would be less notorious; but something seemed to bind her to the old associations. As she returned each evening, her eyes instinctively wandered towards the table and the letter-rack. If there were a parcel, her heart would bound suddenly, only to resume its normal pace when she discovered that it was for someone else. Of Lady Tanagra she saw little, news of Bowen she received none. Her most dexterous endeavours to cross-examine Mr. Triggs ended in failure. He seemed to have lost all interest in Bowen. Lady Tanagra never even mentioned his name. Whatever the shortcomings of Lady Tanagra and Mr. Triggs in this direction, however, they were more than compensated for by Mrs. Bonsor. Her effusive friendliness Patricia found overwhelming, and her insistent hospitality, which took the form of a flood of invitations to Patricia and Bowen to lunch, dine or to do anything they chose in her house or elsewhere, was bewildering. At last in self-defence Patricia had to tell Mrs. Bonsor that Bowen was too much occupied with his duties even to see her; but this seemed to increase rather than diminish Mrs. Bonsor's hospitable instincts, which included Lady Tanagra as well as her brother. Would not Miss Brent bring Lady Tanagra to tea or to luncheon one day? Perhaps they would take tea with Mrs. Bonsor at the Ritz one afternoon? Could they lunch at the Carlton? To all of these invitations Patricia replied with cold civility. In her heart Mrs. Bonsor was raging against the "airs" of her husband's secretary; but she saw that Lady Tanagra and Lord Peter might be extremely useful to her and to her husband in his career. Consequently she did not by any overt sign show her pique. One day when Patricia was taking down letters for Mr. Bonsor, Mr. Triggs burst into the library in a state of obvious excitement. "Where's 'Ettie?" he demanded, after having saluted Patricia and Mr. Bonsor. Mr. Bonsor looked at him reproachfully. "'Ere, ring for 'Ettie, A. B., I've got something to show you all." Mr. Bonsor pressed the bell. As he did so Mrs. Bonsor entered the room, having heard her father's voice. With great empressement Mr. Triggs produced from the tail pocket of his coat a folded copy of the "Illustrated Universe". Flattening it out upon the table he moistened his thumb and finger and, with great deliberation, turned over several leaves, then indicating a page he demanded: "What do you think of that?" "That," was a full-page picture of Lady Tanagra walking in the Park with Mr. Triggs. The portrait of Lady Tanagra was a little indistinct; but that of Mr. Triggs was as clear as daylight, and a remarkable likeness. Underneath was printed "Lady Tanagra Bowen and a friend walking in the Park." Mrs. Bonsor devoured the picture and then looked up at her father, a new respect in her eyes. "What do you think of it, 'Ettie?" enquired Mr. Triggs again. "It's a very good likeness, father," said Mrs. Bonsor weakly. It was Patricia, however, who expressed what Mr. Triggs had anticipated. "You're becoming a great personage, Mr. Triggs," she cried. "If you are not careful you will compromise Lady Tanagra." Mr. Triggs chuckled with glee as he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "I rang 'er up this morning," he said. "Rang who up, father?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor. "Lady Tan," said Mr. Triggs, watching his daughter to see the effect of the diminutive upon her. "Was she annoyed?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor. "Annoyed!" echoed Mr. Triggs. "Annoyed! She was that pleased she's asked me to lunch to-morrow. Why, she introduced me to a duchess last week, an' I'm goin' to 'er place to tea." "I wish you would bring Lady Tanagra here one day, father," said Mrs. Bonsor. "Why not ask her to lunch here to-morrow?" "Not me, 'Ettie," said Mr. Triggs wisely. "If you want the big fish, you've got to go out and catch 'em yourself." There was a pause. Patricia hid a smile in her handkerchief. Mr. Bonsor was deep in a speech upon the question of rationing fish. "Well, A. B., what 'ave you got to say?" "Dear fish may mean revolution," murmured Mr. Bonsor. Mr. Triggs looked at his son-in-law in amazement. "What's that you say?" he demanded. "I--I beg your pardon. I--I was thinking," apologised Mr. Bonsor. "Now, father," said Mrs. Bonsor, "will you come into the morning-room? I want to talk to you, and I'm sure Arthur wants to get on with his work." Mr. Triggs was reluctantly led away, leaving Patricia to continue the day's work. Patricia now saw little of Mr. Triggs, in fact since Lady Tanagra had announced that Bowen would no longer trouble her, she found life had become singularly grey. Things that before had amused and interested her now seemed dull and tedious. Mr. Bolton's jokes were more obvious than ever, and Mr. Cordal's manners more detestable. The constant interrogations levelled at her as to where Bowen was, and why he had not called to see her, she found difficult to answer. Several times she had gone alone to the theatre, or to a cinema, in order that it might be thought she was with Bowen. At last the strain became so intolerable that she spoke to Mrs. Craske-Morton, hinting that unless Galvin House took a little less interest in her affairs, she would have to leave. The effect of her words was instantly manifest. Wherever she moved she seemed to interrupt whispering groups. When she entered the dining-room there would be a sudden cessation of conversation, and everyone would look up with an innocence that was too obvious to deceive even themselves. If she went into the lounge on her return from Eaton Square, the same effect was noticeable. When she was present the conversation was forced and artificial. Sentences would be begun and left unfinished, as if the speaker had suddenly remembered that the subject was taboo. Patricia found herself wishing that they would speak out what was in their minds. Anything would be preferable to the air of mystery that seemed to pervade the whole place. She could not be unaware of the significant glances that were exchanged when it was thought she was not looking. Several times she had been asked if she were not feeling well, and her looking-glass reflected a face that was pale and drawn, with dark lines under the eyes. One evening, when she had gone to her room directly after dinner, there was a gentle knock at her door. She opened it to find Mrs. Hamilton, looking as if it would take only a word to send her creeping away again. "Come in, you dear little Grey Lady," cried Patricia, putting her arm affectionately round Mrs. Hamilton's small shoulders, and leading her over to a basket-chair by the window. For some time they talked of nothing in particular. At last Mrs. Hamilton said: "I--I hope you won't think me impertinent, my dear; but--but----" "I should never think anything you said or did impertinent," said Patricia, smiling. "You know----" began Mrs. Hamilton, and then broke off. "Anyone would think you were thoroughly afraid of me," said Patricia with a smile. "I don't like interfering," said Mrs. Hamilton, "but I am very worried." She looked so pathetic in her anxiety that Patricia bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "You dear little thing," she cried, "tell me what is on your mind, and I will do the best I can to help you." "I am very--er--worried about you, my dear," began Mrs. Hamilton hesitatingly. "You are looking so pale and tired and worn. I--I fear you have something on your mind and--and----" she broke off, words failing her. "It's the summer," replied Patricia, smiling. "I always find the hot weather trying, more trying even than Mr. Bolton's jokes," she smiled. "Are you--are you sure it's nothing else?" said Mrs. Hamilton. "Quite sure," said Patricia. "What else should it be?" She was conscious of her reddening cheeks. "You ought to go out more," said Mrs. Hamilton gently. "After sitting indoors all day you want fresh air and exercise." And with that Mrs. Hamilton had to rest content. Patricia could not explain the absurd feeling she experienced that she might miss something if she left the house. It was all so vague, so intangible. All she was conscious of was some hidden force that seemed to bind her to the house, or, when by an effort of will she broke from its influence, seemed to draw her back again. She could not analyse the feeling, she was only conscious of its existence. From Miss Brent she had received a characteristic reply to her letter. "DEAR PATRICIA," she wrote, "I have read with pain and surprise your letter. What your poor dear father would have thought I cannot conceive. "What I did was done from the best motives, as I felt you were compromising yourself by a secret engagement. "I am sorry to find that you have become exceedingly self-willed of late, and I fear London has done you no good. "As your sole surviving relative, it is my duty to look after your welfare. This I promised your dear father on his death-bed. "Gratitude I do not ask, nor do I expect it; but I am determined to do my duty by my brother's child. I cannot but deplore the tone in which you last wrote to me, and also the rather foolish threat that your letter contained. "Your affectionate aunt, "ADELAIDE BRENT. "P.S.--I shall make a point of coming up to London soon. Even your rudeness will not prevent me from doing my duty by my brother's child.--A. B." As she tore up the letter, Patricia remembered her father once saying, "Your aunt's sense of duty is the most offensive sense I have ever encountered." One day as Patricia was endeavouring to sort out into some sort of coherence a sheaf of notes that Mr. Bonsor had made upon Botulism, Mr. Triggs entered the library. After his cheery "How goes it, me dear?" he stood for some moments gazing down at her solicitously. "You ain't lookin' well, me dear," he said with conviction. "That's a sure way to a woman's heart," replied Patricia gaily. "'Ow's that, me dear?" he questioned. "Why, telling her that she's looking plain," retorted Patricia. Mr. Triggs protested. "All I want is a holiday," went on Patricia. "There are only three weeks to wait and then----" There was, however, no joy of anticipation in her voice. "You're frettin'!" Patricia turned angrily upon Mr. Triggs. "Fretting! What on earth do you mean, Mr. Triggs?" she demanded. Mr. Triggs sat down suddenly, overwhelmed by Patricia's indignation. "Don't be cross with me, me dear." Mr. Triggs looked so like a child fearing rebuke that she was forced to smile. "You must not say absurd things then," she retorted. "What have I got to fret about?" Mr. Triggs quailed beneath her challenging glance. "I--I'm sorry, me dear," he said contritely. "Don't be sorry, Mr. Triggs," said Patricia severely; "be accurate." "I'm sorry, me dear," repeated Mr. Triggs. "But that doesn't answer my question," Patricia persisted. "What have I to fret about?" Mr. Triggs mopped his brow vigorously. He invariably expressed his emotions with his handkerchief. He used it strategically, tactically, defensively, continuously. It was to him what the lines of Torres Vedras were to Wellington. He retired behind its sheltering folds, to emerge a moment later, his forces reorganised and re-arrayed. When at a loss what to say or do, it was his handkerchief upon which he fell back; if he required time in which to think, he did it behind its ample and protecting folds. "You see, me dear," said Mr. Triggs at length, avoiding Patricia's relentless gaze, as he proceeded to stuff away the handkerchief in his tail pocket. "You see, me dear----" Again he paused. "You see, me dear," he began for a third time, "I thought you was frettin' over your work or something, when you ought to be enjoyin' yourself," he lied. Patricia looked at him, her conscience smiting her. She smiled involuntarily. "I never fret about anything except when you don't come to see me," she said gaily. Mr. Triggs beamed with good-humour, his fears now quite dispelled. "You're run down, me dear," he said with decision. "You want an 'oliday. I must speak to A. B. about it." "If you do I shall be very angry," said Patricia; "Mr. Bonsor is always very kind and considerate." "It--it isn't----" began Mr. Triggs, then paused. "It isn't what?" Patricia smiled at his look of concern. "If--if it is," began Mr. Triggs. Again he paused, then added with a gulp, "Couldn't I lend you some?" For a moment Patricia failed to follow the drift of his remark, then when she appreciated that he was offering to lend her money she flushed. For a moment she did not reply, then seeing the anxiety stamped upon his kindly face, she said with great deliberation: "I think you must be quite the nicest man in all the world. If ever I decide to borrow money I'll come to you first." Mr. Triggs blushed like a schoolboy. He had fully anticipated being snubbed. He had found from experience that Patricia had of late become very uncertain in her moods. They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Bonsor. "'Ere, A. B.!" cried Mr. Triggs. "What do you mean by it?" "Mean by what?" enquired Mr. Bonsor, busy with an imaginary speech upon street noises, suggested by a barrel-piano in the distance. "You're working 'er too 'ard, A. B.," said Mr. Triggs with conviction. "Working who too hard?" Mr. Bonsor looked helplessly at Patricia. He was always at a disadvantage with his father-in-law, whose bluntness of speech seemed to demoralise him. "Mr. Triggs thinks that you are slowly killing me," laughed Patricia. Mr. Bonsor looked uncertainly at Patricia, and Mr. Triggs gazed at Mr. Bonsor. He had no very high opinion of his daughter's husband. "Well, mind you don't overwork 'er," said Mr. Triggs as he rose to go. A few minutes later Patricia was deep in the absorbing subject of the life history of the potato-beetle. "Ugh!" she cried as the clock in the hall chimed five. "I hate beetles, and," she paused a moment to tuck away a stray strand of hair, "I never want to see a potato as long as I live." That evening when she reached Galvin House she went to her room, and there subjected herself to a searching examination in the looking-glass, she was forced to confess to the paleness of her face and dark marks beneath her eyes. She explained them by summer in London, coupled with the dreariness of Arthur Bonsor, M.P., and his mania for statistics. "You're human yeast, Patricia!" she murmured to her reflection; "at least you're paid two-and-a-half guineas a week to try to leaven the unleavenable, and you mustn't complain if sometimes you get a little tired. Fretting!" There was indignation in her voice. "What have you got to fret about?" With the passage of each day, however, she grew more listless and weary. She came to dread meal-times, with their irritating chatter and uninspiring array of faces that she had come almost to dislike. She was conscious of whisperings and significant looks among her fellow-boarders. She resented even Gustave's cow-like gaze of sympathetic anxiety as she declined the food he offered her. Lady Tanagra and Mr. Triggs never asked her out. Everybody seemed suddenly to have deserted her. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of them in the Park on Sunday morning Once she saw Bowen; but he did not see her. "The daily round and common task" took on a new and sinister meaning for her. Sometimes her thoughts would travel on a few years into the future. What did it hold for her? Instinctively she shuddered at the loneliness of it all. One afternoon on her return to Galvin House, Gustave opened the door. He had evidently been on the watch. His kindly face was beaming with goodwill. "Oh, mees!" he cried. "Mees Brent is here." "Aunt Adelaide!" cried Patricia, her heart sinking. Then seeing the comical lock of indecision upon Gustave's face caused by her despairing exclamation she laughed. When she entered the lounge, it was to find Miss Brent sitting upright upon the stiffest chair in the middle of the room. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe were seated together in the extreme corner, Mrs. Barnes and two or three others were grouped by the window. The atmosphere was tense. Something had apparently happened. Patricia learned that from the grim set of Miss Brent's mouth. "I want to talk to you, Patricia," Miss Brent announced after the customary greeting. "Yes, Aunt Adelaide," said Patricia, sinking into a chair with a sigh of resignation. "Somewhere private," said Miss Brent. "There is no privacy at Galvin House," murmured Patricia, "except in the bathroom." "Patricia, don't be indelicate," snapped Miss Brent. "I'm not indelicate, Aunt Adelaide, I'm merely being accurate," said Patricia wearily. "Cannot we go to your room?" enquired Miss Brent. "Impossible!" announced Patricia. "It's like an oven by now. The sun is on it all the afternoon. Besides," continued Patricia, "my affairs are public property here. We are quite a commune. We have everything in common--except our toothbrushes," she added as an afterthought. "Well! Let us get over there." Miss Brent rose and made for the corner farthest from Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Patricia followed her wearily. "I've just snubbed those two women," announced Miss Brent, as she seated herself in a basket-chair that squeaked protestingly. "There were indications of electricity in the air," remarked Patricia calmly. "I want to have a serious talk with you, Patricia," said Miss Brent in her best it's-my-duty-cost-it-what-it-may manner. "How can anyone be serious in this heat?" protested Patricia. "I owe it to your poor dear father to----" "This debtor and creditor business is killing romance," murmured Patricia. "I have your welfare to consider," proceeded Miss Brent. "I----" "Don't you think you've done enough mischief already, Aunt Adelaide?" enquired Patricia coolly. "Mischief! I?" exclaimed Miss Brent in astonishment. Patricia nodded. "As your sole surviving relative it is my duty----" "Don't you think," interrupted Patricia, "that just for once you could neglect your duty? Sin is wonderfully exhilarating." "Patricia!" almost shrieked Miss Brent, horror in her eyes. "Are you mad?" "No," replied Patricia, "only a little weary." "You must have a tonic," announced Miss Brent. Patricia shuddered. She still remembered her childish sufferings resulting from Miss Brent's interpretation and application of The Doctor at Home. She was convinced that she had swallowed every remedy the book contained, and been rubbed with every liniment its pages revealed. "No, Aunt Adelaide," she said evenly. "All I require is that you should cease interfering in my affairs." "How dare you! How----" Miss Brent paused wordless. "I am prepared to accept you as an aunt," continued Patricia, outwardly calm; but almost stifled by the pounding of her heart. "It is God's will; but if you persist in assuming the mantle of Mrs. Grundy, combined with the Infallibility of the Pope, then I must protest." "Protest!" repeated Miss Brent, repeating the word as if not fully comprehending its meaning. "If I am able to earn my own living, then I am able to conduct my own love affairs." "But----" began Miss Brent. "I am sorry to appear rude, Aunt Adelaide, but it is much better to be frank. I am sure you mean well; but the fact of your being my sole surviving relative places me at a disadvantage. If there were two of you or three, you could quarrel about me, and thus preserve the balance. Now let us talk about something else." For once in her life Miss Brent was nonplussed. She regarded her niece as if she had been a two-tailed giraffe, or a double-headed mastodon. Had she been American she would have known it to be brain-storm; as it was she decided that Patricia was sickening for some serious illness that had produced a temperature. In all her experience of "the Family" never once had Miss Brent been openly defied in this way, and she had no reserves upon which to fall back. She held personal opinion and inclination must always take secondary place to "the Family." The individual must be sacrificed to the group, provided the individual were not herself. Births, deaths, marriages, christenings, funerals, weddings, were solemn functions that must be regarded as involving not the principals themselves so much as their relatives. Her doctrine was, although she would not have expressed it so philosophically, that the individual is mortal; but the family is immortal. That anyone lived for himself or herself never seemed to occur to Miss Brent. If their actions were acceptable to the family and at the same time pleased the principals, then so much the better for the principals; if, on the other hand, the family disapproved, then the duty of the principals was clear. This open flouting of her prides and her prejudices was to Miss Brent a great blow. It seemed to stun her. She was at a loss how to proceed; all she realised was that she must save "the Family" at any cost. "Now tell me what happened when you came in," said Patricia sweetly. "I must be going," said Miss Brent solemnly. "Must you?" enquired Patricia politely; but rising lest her aunt should change her mind. "Now remember," said Patricia as they walked along the hall, "you've lost me one matrimonial fish. If I get another nibble you must keep out of----" But Miss Brent had fled. "Well, that's that!" sighed Patricia as she walked slowly upstairs. CHAPTER XVII LADY PEGGY MAKES A FRIEND One Sunday morning as Patricia was sitting in the Park watching the promenaders and feeling very lonely, she saw coming across the grass towards her Godfrey Elton accompanied by a pretty dark girl in an amber costume and a black hat. She bowed her acknowledgment of Elton's salute, and watched the pair as they passed on in the direction of Marble Arch. Suddenly the girl stopped and turned. For a moment Elton stood irresolute, then he also turned and they both walked in Patricia's direction. "Lady Peggy insisted that we should break in upon your solitude," said Elton, having introduced the two girls. "You will forgive me, won't you?" said Lady Peggy, "but I so wanted to know you. You see Peter has the reputation of being invulnerable. We're all quite breathless from our fruitless endeavours to entangle him, and I wanted to see what you were like." "I'm afraid you'll find I'm quite common-place," said Patricia, smiling. It was impossible to be annoyed with Lady Peggy. Her frankness was disarming, and her curiosity that of a child. "I always say," bubbled Lady Peggy, "that there are only two men in London worth marrying, and they neither of them will have me, although I've worked most terribly hard." "Who are they?" enquired Patricia. "Oh! Goddy's one," she said, indicating Elton with a nod, "and Peter's the other. They are both prepared to be brothers to me; but they're not sufficiently generous to save me from dying an old maid." "I must apologise for inflicting Peggy upon you, Miss Brent," said Elton; "but when you get to know her you may even like her." "I'm not going to wait until I know her," said Patricia. "Bravo!" cried Lady Peggy, clapping her hands. "That's a snub for you, Goddy," she said, then turning again to Patricia, "I know we're going to be friends, and you can afford to be generous to a defeated rival." "I must warn you against Lady Peggy," said Elton quietly. "She's a most dangerous young woman." "And now, Patricia," said Lady Peggy, "I'm going to call you Patricia, and you must call me Peggy. I want you to do me a very great favour." Patricia looked at the girl, rather bewildered and breathless by the precipitancy with which she made friends. "I'm sure I will if I possibly can," she replied. "I want you to come and lunch with us," said Lady Peggy. "It's very kind of you, I shall be delighted some day," replied Patricia conventionally. "No, now!" said Lady Peggy. "This very day that ever is. I want you to meet Daddy. He's such a dear. Goddy will come, so you won't be lonely," she added. "I'm afraid I've got----" began Patricia. "Please don't be afraid you've got anything," pleaded Lady Peggy. "If you've got an engagement throw it over. Everybody throws over engagements for me." "But----" began Patricia. "Oh, please don't be tiresome," said Lady Peggy, screwing up her eyebrows. "I shall have all I can do to persuade Goddy to come, and it's so exhausting." "I will come with pleasure," said Elton, "if only to protect Miss Brent from your overwhelming friendliness." "Oh, you odious creature!" cried Lady Peggy, then turning to Patricia she added with mock tragedy in her voice, "Oh! the love I've languished on that man, the gladness of the eyes I have turned upon him, the pressures of the hand I've been willing to bestow on him, and this is how he treats me." Then with a sudden change she added, "But you will come, won't you? I do so want you to meet Daddy." "If the truth must be told," said Elton, "Peggy merely wants to be able to exploit you, as everybody is wanting to know about you and what you are like. Now she will be a celebrity, and able to describe you in detail to all her many men friends and to her women enemies." Lady Peggy deliberately turned her back upon Elton. "Now we are going to have another little walk and then we'll go and get our nosebags on," she announced. "No, you're not going to walk between us"--this to Elton--"I want to be next to Patricia," she announced. Patricia felt bewildered by the suddenness with which Lady Peggy had descended upon her. She scarcely listened to the flow of small talk she kept up. She was conscious that Elton's hand was constantly at the salute, and that Lady Peggy seemed to be indulging in a series of continuous bows. "Oh! do let's get away somewhere," cried Lady Peggy at length. "My neck aches, and I feel my mouth will set in a silly grin. Why on earth do we know so many people, Goddy? Do you know," she added mischievously, "I'd love to have a big megaphone and stand on a chair and cry out who you are. Then everybody would flock round, because they all want to know who it is that has captured Peter the Hermit, as we call him." She looked at Patricia appraisingly. "I think I can understand now," she said. "Understand what?" said Patricia. "What it is in you that attracts Peter." Patricia gasped. "Really," she began. "Yes, we girls have all been trying to make love to Peter and fuss over him, whereas you would rather snub him, and that's very good for Peter. It's just the sort of thing that would attract him." Then with another sudden change she turned to Elton and said, "Goddy, in future I'm going to snub you, then perhaps you'll love me." Patricia laughed outright. She felt strongly drawn to this inconsequent child-girl. She found herself wondering what would be the impression she would create upon the Galvin House coterie, who would find all their social and moral virtues inverted by such directness of speech. She could see Miss Wangle's internal struggle, disapproval of Lady Peggy's personality mingling with respect for her rank. "Oh, there's Tan!" Lady Peggy broke in upon Patricia's thoughts "Goddy, call to her, shout, wave your hat. Haven't you got a whistle?" But Lady Tanagra had seen the party, and was coming towards them accompanied by Mr. Triggs. Lady Peggy danced towards Lady Tanagra. "Oh, Tan, I've found her!" she cried, nodding to Mr. Triggs, whom she appeared to know. "Found whom?" enquired Lady Tanagra. "Patricia. The captor of St. Anthony, and we're going to be friends, and she's coming to lunch with me to meet Daddy, and Goddy's coming too, so don't you dare to carry him off. Oh, Mr. Triggs! isn't it a lovely day," she cried, turning to Mr. Triggs, who, hat in hand, was mopping his brow. "Beautiful, me dear, beautiful," he exclaimed, beaming upon her and turning to shake hands with Patricia. "Well, me dear, how goes it?" he enquired. Then looking at her keenly he added, "Why, you're looking much better." Patricia smiled, conscious that the improvement in her looks was not a little due to Lady Peggy and her bright chatter. "You've become such a gad-about, Mr. Triggs, that you forget poor me," she said. "Oh no, he doesn't!" broke in Lady Peggy, "he's always talking about you. Whenever I try to make love to him he always drags you in. I've really come to hate you, Patricia, because you seem to come between me and all my love affairs. Oh! I wish we could find Peter," cried Lady Peggy suddenly, "that would complete the party." Patricia hoped fervently that they would not come across Bowen. She saw that it would make the situation extremely awkward. "And now we must dash off for lunch," cried Lady Peggy, "or we shall be late and Daddy will be cross." She shook hands with Mr. Triggs, blew a kiss at Lady Tanagra and, before Patricia knew it, she was walking with Lady Peggy and Elton in the direction of Curzon Street. Patricia was in some awe of meeting the Duke of Gayton. Hitherto she had encountered only the smaller political fry, friends and acquaintances of Mr. Bonsor, who had always treated her as a secretary. The Duke had been in the first Coalition Ministry, but had been forced to retire on account of a serious illness. "Look whom I've caught!" cried Lady Peggy as she bubbled into the dining-room, where some twelve or fourteen guests were in process of seating themselves at the table. "Look whom I've caught! Daddy," she addressed herself to a small clean-shaven man, with beetling eyebrows and a broad, intellectual head. "It's the captor of Peter the Hermit." The Duke smiled and shook hands with Patricia. "You must come and sit by me," he said in particularly sweet and well-modulated voice, which seemed to give the lie to the somewhat stern and searching appearance of his eyes. "Peter is a great friend of mine." Patricia was conscious of flushed cheeks as she took her seat next to the Duke. Later she discovered that these Sunday luncheons were always strictly informal, no order of precedence being observed. Young and old were invited, grave and gay. The talk was sometimes frivolous, sometimes serious. Sunday was, in the Duke's eyes, a day of rest, and conversation must follow the path of least resistance. Whilst the other guests were seating themselves, Patricia looked round the table with interest. She recognised a well-known Cabinet Minister and a bishop. Next to her on the other side was a man with hungry, searching eyes, whose fair hair was cropped so closely to his head as to be almost invisible. Later she learned that he was a Serbian patriot, who had prepared a wonderful map of New Serbia, which he always carried with him. Elton had described it as "the map that passeth all understanding." It embraced Bulgaria, Roumania, Transylvania, Montenegro, Greece, Albania, Bessarabia, and portions of other countries. "It's a sort of game," Lady Peggy explained later. "If you can escape without his having produced his map, then you've won," she added. At first the Duke devoted himself to Patricia, obviously with the object of placing her at her ease. She was fascinated by his voice. He had the reputation of being a brilliant talker; but Patricia decided that even if he had possessed the most commonplace ideas, he would have invested them with a peculiar interest on account of the whimsical tones in which he expressed them. He was a man of remarkable dignity of bearing, and Patricia decided that she would be able to feel very much afraid of him. In answer to a question Patricia explained that she had only met Lady Peggy that morning. "And what do you think of Peggy's whirlwind methods?" asked the Duke with a smile. "I think they are quite irresistible," replied Patricia. "She makes friends quicker than anyone I ever met and keeps them longer," said the Duke. Presently the conversation turned on the question of the re-afforestation of Great Britain, springing out of a remark made by the Cabinet Minister to the Duke. Soon the two, aided by a number of other guests, were deep in the intricacies of politics. During a lull in the conversation the Duke turned to Patricia. "I am afraid this is all very dull for you, Miss Brent," he remarked pleasantly. "On the contrary," said Patricia, "I am greatly interested." "Interested in politics?" questioned the Duke with a tinge of surprise in his voice. Gradually Patricia found herself drawn into the conversation. For the first time in her life she found her study of Blue Books and her knowledge of statistics of advantage and use. The Cabinet Minister leaned forward with interest. The other guests had ceased their local conversation to listen to what it was that was so clearly interesting their host and the Cabinet Minister. In Patricia's remarks there was the freshness of unconvention. The old political war-horses saw how things appeared to an intelligent contemporary who was not trammelled by tradition and parliamentary procedure. Suddenly Patricia became aware that she had monopolised the conversation and that everyone was listening to her. She flushed and stopped. "Please go on," said the Cabinet Minister; "don't stop, it's most interesting." But Patricia had become self-conscious. However, the Duke with great tact picked up the thread, and soon the conversation became general. As they rose from the table the Duke whispered to Patricia, "Don't hurry away, please, I want to have a chat with you after the others have gone." As they went to the drawing-room, Lady Peggy came up to Patricia and linking her arm in hers, said: "I'm dreadfully afraid of you now, Patricia. Why everybody was positively drinking in your words. Wherever did you learn so much?" "You cannot be secretary to a rising politician," said Patricia with a smile, "without learning a lot of statistics. I have to read up all sorts of things about pigs and babies and beet-root and street-noises and all sorts of objectionable things." "What do you think of her, Goddy?" cried Lady Peggy to Elton as he joined them. "I'm afraid she has made me feel very ignorant," replied Elton. "Just as you, Peggy, always make me feel very wise." In the drawing-room the Serbian attached himself to Patricia and produced his "map of obliteration," as the Duke had once called it, explaining to her at great length how nearly all the towns and cities in Europe were for the most part populated by Serbs. It was obvious to her, from the respect with which she was treated, that her remarks at luncheon had made a great impression. When most of the other guests had departed, the Duke walked over to her, and dismissing Peggy, entered into a long conversation on political and parliamentary matters. He was finally interrupted by Lady Peggy. "Look here, Daddy, if you steal my friends I shall----" she paused, then turning to Elton she said, "What shall I do, Goddy?" "Well, you might marry and leave him," suggested Elton helpfully. "That's it. I will marry and leave you all alone, Daddy." "Cannot we agree to share Miss Brent?" suggested the Duke, smiling at Patricia. "Isn't he a dear?" enquired Lady Peggy of Patricia. "When other men propose to me, and quite a lot have," she added with almost childish simplicity, "I always mentally compare them with Daddy, and then of course I know I don't want them." "That is my one reason, Peggy, for not proposing," said Elton. "I could never enter the lists with the Duke." "You're a pair of ridiculous children," laughed the Duke. In response to a murmur from Patricia that she must be going, Lady Peggy insisted that she should first come upstairs and see her den. The "den" was a room of orderly disorder, which seemed to possess the freshness and charm of its owner. Lady Peggy looked at Patricia, a new respect in her eyes. "You must be frightfully clever," she said with accustomed seriousness. "I wish I were like that. You see I should be more of a companion to Daddy if I were." "I think you are an ideal companion for him you are," said Patricia. "Oh! he's so wonderful," said Lady Peggy dreamily. "You know I'm not always such a fool I appear," she added quite seriously, "and I do sometimes think of other things than frills and flounces and chocolates." Then with a sudden change of mood she cried, "Wasn't it clever of me capturing you to-day? As soon as you're alone Daddy will tell me what he thinks of you, and I shall feel so self-important." As Patricia looked about the room, charmed with its dainty freshness, her eyes lighted upon a large metal tea-tray. Lady Peggy following her gaze cried: "Oh, the magic carpet!" "The what?" enquired Patricia. "That's the magic carpet. Come, I'll show you," and seizing it she preceded Patricia to the top of the stairs. "Now sit on it," she cried, "and toboggan down. It's priceless." "But I couldn't." "Yes you could. Everybody does," cried Lady Peggy. Not quite knowing what she was doing Patricia found herself forced down upon the tea-tray, and the next thing she knew was she was speeding down the stairs at a terrific rate. Just as she arrived in the hall with flushed cheeks and a flurry of skirts, the door of the library opened and the Duke and Elton came out. Patricia gathered herself together, and with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes stood like a child expecting rebuke, instead of which the Duke merely smiled. Turning to Elton he remarked: "So Miss Brent has received her birth certificate." As he spoke the butler with sedate decorum picked up the tray and carried it into his pantry as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for guests to toboggan down the front staircase. "To ride on Peggy's 'magic carpet,' as she calls it," said the Duke, "is to be admitted to the household as a friend. Come again soon," he added as he shook hands in parting. "Any Sunday at lunch you are always sure to catch us. We never give special invitations to the friends we want, do we, Peggy? and I want to have some more talks with you." As Patricia and Elton walked towards the Park he explained that Lady Peggy's tea-tray had figured in many little comedies. Bishops, Cabinet Ministers, great generals and admirals had all descended the stairs in the way Patricia had. "In fact," he added, "when the Duke was in the Cabinet, it was the youngest and brightest collection of Ministers in the history of the country. Every one of them was devoted to Peggy, and I think they would have made war or peace at her command." When Patricia arrived at Galvin House, she was conscious of the world having changed since the morning. All her gloom had been dispelled, the drawn look had passed from her face, and she felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. CHAPTER XVIII THE AIR RAID "Miss Brent, please get up. There's an air raid." Mechanically Patricia sat up in bed and listened. Outside a police-whistle was droning its raucous warning; within there was the sound of frightened whispers and the noise of the opening and shutting of doors. Suddenly there was a shriek, followed by a low murmur of several voices. The sound of the police-whistle continued, gradually dying away in the distance, and the noises within the house ceased. Patricia strained her ears to catch the first sound of the defensive guns. She had no intention of getting up for a false alarm. For some minutes there was silence, then came a slight murmur, half sob, half sigh, as if London were breathing heavily in her sleep, another followed, then half a dozen in quick succession growing louder with every report. Suddenly came the scream of a "whiz-bang" and the thunder of a large gun. Soon the orchestra was in full swing. Still Patricia listened. She was fascinated. Why did guns sound exactly as if large plank were being dropped? Why did the report seem as if something were bouncing? Suddenly a terrific report, a sound as if a giant plank had been dropped and had "bounced." A neighbouring gun had given tongue, another followed. She jumped out of bed and proceeded to pull on her stockings. There was a gentle tapping at her door, not the peremptory summons that had awakened her and which, by the voice that had accompanied it, she recognised as that of Mrs. Craske-Morton. "What is it?" she called out. "It's me, mees." Patricia could scarcely recognise in the terrified accents the voice of Gustave. "It's a raid. Oh! mees, please come down." "All right, Gustave. I shall be down in a minute," replied Patricia, and she heard a flurry of retreating footsteps. Gustave was descending to safety. There was about him nothing of the Roman sentry. Patricia proceeded with her toilette, hastened, in spite of herself, by a tremendous crash which she recognised as a bomb. At Galvin House "Raid Instructions" had been posted in each room. Guests were instructed to hasten with all possible speed downstairs to the basement-kitchen, where tea and coffee would be served and, if necessary, bandages and first-aid applied. Miss Sikkum had made a superficial study of Red Cross work from a shilling manual but as, according to her own confession, she fainted at the sight of blood, no very great reliance was placed in her ministrations. As Patricia entered the kitchen her first inclination was to laugh at the amazing variety, not only of toilettes, but of expressions that met her eyes. Self-confident in the knowledge that she was fully dressed, she looked about her with interest. "Oh, here you are, Miss Brent!" exclaimed Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was busily engaged in preparing the tea and coffee of the "Raid Instructions." "Gustave would insist on going up to call you a second time. We were----" Mrs. Craske-Morton broke off her sentence and dashed for the gas-stove, where the milk was boiling over. "Oh, mees!" Patricia turned to Gustave. She bit her lip fiercely to restrain the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of the major-domo of Galvin House. Above a pair of black trousers, tucked in the tops of unlaced boots, and from which the braces flapped aimlessly, was visible the upper part of a red flannel night-shirt. The remainder was bestowed beneath the upper part of the trousers, giving to his figure a curiously knobbly appearance. His face was leaden-coloured and his upstanding hair more erect than ever, whilst in his eyes was Fear. He was trembling in every limb, and his jaw shook as he uttered his expression of relief at the sight of Patricia. She smiled at him, then suddenly remembering that, in spite of his terror, he had voluntarily gone up to the top of the house to call her, she felt something strangely uncomfortable at the back of her throat. "Come along, Gustave!" she cried brightly. "Let us help get the tea. I'm so thirsty." From that moment Gustave appeared to take himself in hand, and save for a violent start, at the more vigorous reports, seemed to have overcome his terror. As Patricia proceeded to assist Mrs. Craske-Morton, a veritable heroine in a pink flannel wrapper, she took stock of her fellows. Miss Wangle was engaged in prayer and tears, her wig was awry, her face drawn and yellow and her clothes the garb of advanced maidenhood. On her feet were bed-socks, half thrust into felt slippers. From beneath a black quilted dressing-gown peeped with virtuous pride the longcloth of a nightdress of Victorian severity. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was in curl-papers and a faded blue kimono that allowed no suggestion to escape of the form beneath. Miss Sikkum had seized a grey raincoat, above which a forest of curl papers looked strangely out of place. Her fingers moved restlessly. The two top buttons of the raincoat were missing, displaying a wealth of blue ribbon and openwork that none had suspected in her. The lateness at which the ribbon and openwork began gave an interesting demonstration in feminine bone structure. Mr. Sefton was splendid in a purple dressing-gown with orange cord and tassels, and red and white striped pyjamas beneath. Mr. Sefton had chosen his raid-costume with elaborate care; but the suddenness of the alarm had not allowed of the arrangement of his hair, most of which hung down behind in a sandy cascade. His manner was the forced heroic. He was smoking a cigarette with a too obvious nonchalance to deceive. The heroes of Mr. Sefton's imagination always lit cigarettes when facing death. They were of the type that seizes a revolver when the ship is sinking and, with one foot placed negligently upon the capstan (Mr. Sefton had not the most remote idea of what a capstan was like) shouted, "Women and children first." He walked about the kitchen with what he meant to be a smile upon his pale lips. The cigarette he found a nuisance. If he held it between his lips the smoke got in his eyes and made them stream with water; if, on the other hand, he held it between his fingers, it emphasized the shaking of his hand. He compromised by letting it go out between his lips, arguing that the effect was the same. Mr. Bolton had donned his fez and velvet smoking-jacket above creased white pyjama trousers that refused to meet the tops of his felt slippers. Mr. Bolton continued to make "jokes," for the same reason that Mr. Sefton smoked a cigarette. Mr. Cordal was negative in a big ulster with a hem of nightshirt beneath, leaving about eight inches of fleshless shin before his carpet slippers with the fur-tops were reached. He sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the cook huddled up opposite, moaning as she held her heart with a fat, dirty hand. Mrs. Barnes, the victim of indecision, had leapt straight out of bed, gathered her clothes in her arms and had flown to safety. She walked about the kitchen aimlessly, dropping and retrieving various garments, which she stuffed back again into the bundle she carried under her arm. Mrs. Craske-Morton was practical and courageous. Her one thought was to prepare the promised refreshments. Her staff, with the exception of Gustave, was useless, and she was grateful to Patricia for her assistance. Outside pandemonium was raging, the noise of the barrage was diabolical, the "bouncing" of the heavy guns, the screams of the "whiz-bangs," the cackle of machine-guns from aeroplanes overhead; all seemed to tell of death and chaos. Suddenly the puny sound of guns was drowned in one gigantic uproar. For a moment the place was plunged in darkness, then the electric light shuddered into being again. The glass flew from the windows, the house rocked as if uncertain whether or no it should collapse. Miss Wangle slipped on to her knees, her wig slipped on to her left ear. "Oh, my God!" screamed the cook, as if to ensure exclusive rights to the Deity's attention. Jenny, the housemaid, entirely unconscious that her nightdress was her sole garment, threw herself flat on her face. Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was pouring out tea, let the teapot slip from her hand, smashing the cup and pouring the contents on to the table. Gustave's knees refused their office and he sank down, grasping with both hands the edge of the table. Mrs. Barnes dropped her clothes without troubling to retrieve them. Suddenly there was a terrifying scream outside, then a motor-car drew up and the sound of men's voices was heard. Still the guns thundered. Patricia felt herself trembling. For a moment a rush of blood seemed to suffocate her, then she found herself gazing at Miss Wangle, wondering whether she were praying to God or to the bishop. She laughed in a voice unrecognisable to herself. She looked about the kitchen. Mr. Sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the cigarette still attached to his bloodless lower lip, his arms hanging limply down beside him. Mr. Cordal was looking about him as if dazed, whilst Mr. Bolton was gazing at the glassless window-frames, as if expecting some apparition to appear. "It's a bomb next door," gasped Mrs. Craske-Morton, then remembering her responsibilities, she caught Patricia's eye. There was appeal in her glance. "Come along, Gustave," cried Patricia in a voice that she still found it difficult to recognise as her own. Gustave, still on his knees, looked round and up at her with the eyes of a dumb animal that knows it is about to be tortured. "Gustave, get up and help with the tea," said Patricia. A look of wonder crept into Gustave's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of Patricia's voice. Slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body. "There's brandy there," said Mrs. Craske-Morton, pointing to a spirit-case she had brought down with her. "Here's the key." Patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was shaking violently. "Mrs. Morton," she whispered, "you are splendid." Mrs. Morton smiled wanly, and Patricia felt that in that moment she had got to know the woman beneath the boarding-house keeper. "Shall we put it in their tea?" enquired Patricia, holding the decanter of brandy. Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded. "Now, Gustave!" cried Patricia, "make everybody drink tea." Gustave looked at his own hands, and then down at his knees as if in doubt as to whether he possessed the power of making them obey his wishes. Miss Wangle was still on her knees, the cook was appealing to the Almighty with tiresome reiteration. Jenny had developed hysterics, and was seated on the ground drumming with her heels upon the floor, Miss Sikkum gazing at her as if she had been some phenomenon from another world. Mr. Bolton had valiantly pulled himself together and was endeavouring to persuade Mrs. Barnes to accept the various garments that he was picking up from the floor. Her only acknowledgment of his gallantry was to gaze at him with dull, unseeing eyes, and to wag her head from side to side as if in repudiation of the ownership of what he was striving to get her to take from him. Mr. Sefton, valiant to the end, was with trembling fingers endeavouring to extract a cigarette from his case, apparently unconscious that one was still attached to his lip. Mrs. Craske-Morton, Patricia and Gustave set themselves to work to pour tea and brandy down the throats of the others. Mr. Sefton took his mechanically and put it to his lips, oblivious of the cigarette that still dangled there. Finding an obstruction he put up his hand and pulled the cigarette away and with it a portion of the skin of his lip. For the rest of the evening he was dabbing his mouth with his pocket-handkerchief. Gustave had valiantly gone to the assistance of Jenny, and was endeavouring to pour tea through her closed teeth, with the result that it streamed down the neck of her nightdress. The effect was the same, however. As she felt the hot fluid on her chest she screamed, stopped drumming with her heels and looked about the kitchen. "You've scalded me, you beast!" she cried, whereat Gustave, who was sitting on his heels, started and fell backwards, bringing Miss Sikkum down on top of him together with her cup of tea. Mrs. Craske-Morton was ministering to Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Mr. Bolton and Mr. Cordal were both drinking neat brandy out of teacups. Outside the guns still thundered and screamed. Patricia went to the assistance of the cook; kneeling down she persuaded her to drink a cup of tea and brandy, which had the effect of silencing her appeals to the Almighty. For an hour the "guests" of Galvin House waited, exactly what for no one knew. Then the noise of the firing began to die away in waves of sound. There would be a few minutes' silence but for the distant rumble of guns, then suddenly a spurt of firing as if the guns were reluctant to forget their former anger. Another period of silence would follow, then two or three isolated reports, like the snarl of dogs that had been dragged from their prey. Finally quiet. For a further half-hour Galvin House waited, praying that the attack would not be renewed. There were little spurts of conversation. Mr. Sefton was slowly returning to the "foot on the Capstan" attitude, and actually had a cigarette alight. Mr. Bolton and Mr. Cordal were speculating as to where the bomb had fallen. Mrs. Craske-Morton was wondering if the Government would pay promptly for the damage to her glass. Outside there were sounds of life and movement, cars were throbbing and passing to and fro, and men's voices could be heard. Suddenly there was a loud peal of the street-door bell. All looked at each other in consternation. Gustave looked about him as if he had lost a puppy. Mrs. Craske-Morton looked at Gustave. "Gustave!" said Patricia, surprised at her own calm. Gustave looked at her for a moment then, remembering his duties, went slowly to the door, listening the while as if expecting a further bombardment to break out. With the exception of Miss Wangle and the cook, everybody was on the qui vive of expectation. "It's the police," suggested Mrs. Craske-Morton, with conviction. "Or the ambulance," ventured Miss Sikkum in a trembling voice. "They're collecting the dead," she added optimistically. All eyes were riveted upon the kitchen door. Steps were heard descending the stairs. A moment later the door was thrown open and Gustave in a voice strangely unlike his own announced: "'Ees Lordship, madame." Bowen entered the kitchen and cast a swift look about him. A light of relief passed over his face as he saw Patricia. Some instinct that she could neither explain nor control caused her to go over to him, and before she knew what was taking place both her hands were in his. "Thank God!" he breathed. "I was afraid it was this house. I heard a bomb had dropped here. Oh, my dear! I've been in hell!" There was something in his voice that thrilled her as she had never been thrilled before. She looked up at him smiling, then suddenly with a great content she remembered that she had dressed herself with care. Bowen looked about him, and seeing Mrs. Craske-Morton, went over and shook hands. "She's a regular heroine, Peter," said Patricia, unconscious that she had used his name. "She's been so splendid." Mrs. Craske-Morton smiled at Patricia, again her human smile. "Oh! go away, make him go away!" It was Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe who spoke. Her words had an electrifying effect upon everyone. Miss Wangle sat up and made feverish endeavours to straighten her wig. Jenny, the housemaid, looked round for cover that was nowhere available. The cook became aware of her lack of clothing. Miss Sikkum strove to minimise the exhibition of feminine bone-structure. Mrs. Barnes made a dive for Mr. Bolton, who was still holding various of her garments that he had retrieved. These she seized from him as if he had been a pickpocket, and thrust them under her arm. "Oh, please go away!" moaned the cook. "Come upstairs," said Patricia as she led the way out of the kitchen, to the relief of those whose reawakened modesty saw in Bowen's presence an outrage to decorum. Switching on the light in the lounge, Patricia threw herself into a chair. She was beginning to feel the reaction. "Why did you come?" she asked. "I heard that a bomb had fallen in this street and---well, I had to come. I was never in such a funk in all my life." "How did you get round here; did you bring the car?" "No, I couldn't get the car out, I walked it," said Bowen briefly. "That was very sweet of you," said Patricia gratefully, looking up at him in a way she had never looked at him before. "And now I think you must be going. We must all go to bed again." "Yes, the 'All Clear' will sound soon, I think," replied Bowen. They moved out into the hall. For a moment they stood looking at each other, then Bowen took both her hands in his. "I am so glad, Patricia," he said, gazing into her eyes, then suddenly he bent down and kissed her full on the lips. Dropping her hands and without another word he picked up his cap and let himself out, leaving Patricia standing gazing in front of her. For a moment she stood, then turning as one in a dream, walked slowly upstairs to her room. "I wonder why I let him do that?" she murmured as she stood in front of the mirror unpinning her hair. CHAPTER XIX GALVIN HOUSE AFTER THE RAID The next day and for many days Galvin House abandoned itself to the raid. The air was full of rumours of the appalling casualties resulting from the bomb that had been dropped in the next street. No one knew anything, everyone had heard something. The horrors confided to each other by the residents at Galvin House would have kept the Grand Guignol in realism for a generation. Silent herself, Patricia watched with interest the ferment around her. With the exception of Mrs. Craske-Morton, all seemed to desire most of all to emphasize their own attitude of splendid intellectual calm during the raid. They spoke scornfully of acquaintances who had flown from London because of the danger from bomb-dropping Gothas, they derided the Thames Valley aliens, they talked heroically and patriotically about "standing their bit of bombing." In short Galvin House had become a harbour of heroism. Mrs. Craske-Morton, who had shown a calmness and courage that none of the others seemed to recognise, had nothing to say except about her broken glass; on this subject, however, she was eloquent. Miss Wangle managed to convey to those who would listen that her own safety, and in fact that of Galvin House, was directly due to the intercession of the bishop, who when alive was particularly noted for the power and sustained eloquence of his prayers. Mr. Bolton was frankly sceptical. If the august prelate was out to save Galvin House, he suggested, it wasn't quite cricket to let them drop a bomb in the next street. Everyone was extremely critical of everyone else. Mr. Bolton said things about Mrs. Barnes and her clothes that made Miss Sikkum blush, particularly about the nose, where, with her, emotion always first manifested itself. Mr. Sefton had permanently returned to the "women and children first" phase and, as two cigarettes were missing from his case, he was convinced that he had acquitted himself with that air of reckless bravado that endeared a man to women. He talked pityingly and tolerantly of Gustave's obvious terror. Mr. Bolton saw in the adventure material for jokes for months to come. He laboured at the subject with such misguided industry that Patricia felt she almost hated him. Some of his allusions, particularly to the state of sartorial indecision in which the maids had sought cover, were "not quite nice," as Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe expressed it to Mrs. Hamilton, who returned from a visit the day following. At breakfast everyone had talked, and in consequence everyone who worked was late for work; the general opinion being, what was the use of a raid unless you could be late for work? Punctuality on such occasions being regarded as the waste of an opportunity, and a direct rebuke to Providence who had placed it there. Patricia did not take part in the general babel, beyond pointing out, when Gustave was coming under discussion, that it was he who had gone to the top of the house to call her. She looked meaningly at Mr. Bolton and Mr. Sefton, who had the grace to appear a little ashamed of themselves. When Patricia returned in the evening, she found Lady Tanagra awaiting her in the lounge, literally bombarded with different accounts of what had happened--all narrated in the best "eye-witness" manner of the alarmist press. Following the precept of Charles Lamb, Galvin House had apparently striven to correct the bad impression made through lateness in beginning work by leaving early. It was obvious that Lady Tanagra had made herself extremely popular. Everyone was striving to gain her ear for his or her story of personal experiences. "Ah, here you are!" cried Lady Tanagra as Patricia entered. "I hear you behaved like a heroine last night." Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded her head with conviction. "Mrs. Morton was the real heroine," said Patricia. "She was splendid!" Mrs. Craske-Morton flushed. To be praised before so distinguished a caller was almost embarrassing, especially as no one had felt it necessary to comment upon her share in the evening's excitement. "Come up with me while I take off my things," said Patricia, as she moved towards the door. She saw that any private talk between herself and Lady Tanagra would be impossible in the lounge with Galvin House in its present state of ferment. In Patricia's room Lady Tanagra subsided into a chair with a sigh. "I feel as if I were a celebrity arriving at New York," she laughed. "They're rather excited," smiled Patricia, "but then we live such a humdrum life here--the expression is Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's--and much should be forgiven them. A book could be written on the boarding-house mind, I think. It moves in a vicious circle. If someone would only break out and give the poor dears something to talk about." "Didn't you do that?" enquired Lady Tanagra slily. Patricia smiled wearily. "I take second place now to the raid. Think of living here for the next few weeks. They will think raid, read raid, talk raid and dream raid." She shuddered. "Thank heavens I'm off to-morrow." "Off to-morrow?" Lady Tanagra raised her eyes in interrogation. "Yes, to Eastbourne for a fortnight's holiday as provided for in the arrangement existing between one Patricia Brent and Arthur Bonsor, Esquire, M.P. It's part of the wages of the sin of secretaryship." Patricia sighed. "I hope you'll enjoy----" "Please don't be conventional," interrupted Patricia. "I shall not enjoy it in the least. Within twenty-four hours I shall long to be back again. I shall get up in the morning and I shall go to bed at night. In between I shall walk a bit, read a bit, get my nose red (thank heavens it doesn't peel) and become bored to extinction. One thing I won't do, that is wear openwork frocks. The sun shall not print cheap insertion kisses upon Patricia Brent." "You're quite sure that it is a holiday," Lady Tanagra looked up quizzically at Patricia as she stood gazing out of the window. "A holiday!" repeated Patricia, looking round. "It sounded just a little depressing," said Lady Tanagra. "It will be exactly what it sounds," Patricia retorted; "only depressing is not quite the right word, it's too polite. You don't know what it is to be lonely, Tanagra, and live at Galvin House, and try to haul or push a politician into a rising posture. It reminds me of Carlyle on the Dutch." There was a note of fierce protest in her voice. "You have all the things that I want, and I wonder I don't scratch your face and tear your hair out. We are all primitive in our instincts really." Then she laughed. "Well! I had to cry out to someone, and I shall feel better. It's rather a beastly world for some of us, you know; but I suppose I ought to be spanked for being ungrateful." "Do you know why I've come?" enquired Lady Tanagra, thinking it wise to change the subject. Patricia shook her head. "A more conceited person might have suggested that it was to see me," she said demurely. "To apologise for Peter," said Lady Tanagra. "He disobeyed orders and I am very angry with him." Patricia flushed at the memory of their good-night. For a few seconds she stood silent, looking out of the window. "I think it was rather sweet of him," she said without looking round. Lady Tanagra smiled slightly. "Then I may forgive him, you think?" she enquired. Patricia turned and looked at her. Lady Tanagra met the gaze innocently. "He wanted to write to you and send some flowers and chocolates; but I absolutely forbade it. We almost had our first quarrel," she added mendaciously. For the space of a second Patricia hated Lady Tanagra. She would have liked to turn and rend her for interfering in a matter that could not possibly be regarded as any concern of hers. The feeling, however, was only momentary and, when Lady Tanagra rose to go, Patricia was as cordial as ever. From Galvin House Lady Tanagra drove to the Quadrant. "Peter!" she cried as she entered the room and threw herself into an easy chair, "if ever I again endeavour to divert true love from its normal----" "How is she?"' interrupted Bowen. "Now you've spoiled it," cried Lady Tanagra, "and it was----" "Spoiled what?" demanded Bowen. "My beautiful phrase about true love and its normal channel, and I have been saying it over to myself all the way from Galvin House." She looked reproachfully at her brother. "How's Patricia?" demanded Bowen eagerly. "Fair to moderately fair, rain later, I should describe her," replied Lady Tanagra, helping herself to a cigarette which Bowen lighted. "She's going away." "Good heavens! Where?" cried Bowen. "Eastbourne." "When?" "To-morrow." "Damn!" "My dear Peter," remarked Lady Tanagra lazily, "this primitive profanity ill becomes----" "Please don't rot me, Tan," he pleaded. "I've had a rotten time lately." There was helpless and hopeless pain in Bowen's voice that caused Lady Tanagra to spring up from her chair and go over to him. "Carry on, old boy," she cried softly, as she caressed his coat-sleeve. "It's your only chance. You're going to win." "I must see her!" blurted out Bowen. "If you do you'll spoil everything," announced Lady Tanagra with conviction. "But, last night," began Bowen and paused. "Last night, I think," said Lady Tanagra, "was a master-stroke. She is touched; it's taken us forward at least a week." "But look here, Tan," said Bowen gloomily, "you told me to leave it all in your hands and you make me treat her rottenly, then you say----" "That you know about as much of how to make a woman like Patricia fall in love with you as an ostrich does of geology," said Lady Tanagra calmly. "But what will she think?" demanded Bowen. "At present she is thinking that Eastbourne will be a nightmare of loneliness." "I'll run down and see her," announced Bowen. "If you do, Peter!" There was a note of warning in Lady Tanagra's voice. "All right," he conceded gloomily. "I'll give you another week, and then I'll go my own way." "Peter, if you were smaller and I were bigger I think I should spank you," laughed Lady Tanagra. Then with great seriousness she said, "I want you to marry her, and I'm going the only way to work to make her let you. Do try and trust me, Peter." Bowen looked down at her with a smile, touched by the look in her eyes. For a moment his arm rested across her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards the door. "Clear out, Tan. I'm not fit for a bear-pit to-night." The Bowens were never demonstrative with one another. For half an hour Bowen sat smoking one cigarette after another until he was interrupted by the entrance of Peel, who, after a comprehensive glance round the room, proceeded to administer here and there those deft touches that emphasize a patient and orderly mind. Bowen watched him as he moved about on the balls of his feet. "Have you ever been to Eastbourne, Peel?" enquired Bowen presently. Just why he asked the question he could not have said. "Only once, my lord," replied Peel as he replaced the full ash-tray on the table by Bowen with a clean one. There was a note in his voice implying that nothing would ever tempt him to go there again. "You don't like it?" suggested Bowen. "I dislike it intensely, my lord," replied Peel as he refolded a copy of _The Times_. "Why?" "It has unpleasant associations, my lord," was the reply. Bowen smiled. After a moment's silence he continued: "Been sowing wild oats there?" "No, my lord, not exactly." "Well, if it's not too private," said Bowen, "tell me what happened. At the moment I'm particularly interested in the place." Peel gazed reproachfully at a copy of _The Sphere_, which had managed in some strange way to get its leaves dog-eared. As he proceeded to smooth them out he continued: "It was when I was young, my lord. I was engaged to be married. I thought her a most excellent young woman, in every way suitable. She went down to Eastbourne for a holiday." He paused. "Well, there doesn't seem much wrong in that," said Bowen. "From Eastbourne she wrote, saying that she had changed her mind," proceeded Peel. "The devil she did!" exclaimed Bowen. "And what did you do?" "I went down to reason with her, my lord," said Peel. "Does one reason with a woman, Peel?" enquired Bowen with a smile. "I was very young then, my lord, not more than thirty-two." Peel's tone was apologetic. "I discovered that she had received an offer of marriage from another." "Hard luck!" murmured Bowen. "Not at all, my lord, really," said Peel philosophically. "I discovered that she had re-engaged herself to a butcher, a most offensive fellow. His language when I expostulated with him was incredibly coarse, and I am sure he used marrow for his hair." "And what did you do?" enquired Bowen. "I had taken a return ticket, my lord. I came back to London." Bowen laughed. "I'm afraid you couldn't have been very badly hit, Peel, or you would not have been able to take it quite so philosophically." "I have never allowed my private affairs to interfere with my professional duties, my lord," replied Peel unctuously. For five minutes Bowen smoked in silence. "So you do not believe in marriage," he said at length. "I would not say that, my lord; but I do not think it suitable for a man of temperament such as myself. I have known marriages quite successful where too much was not required of the contracting parties." "But don't you believe in love?" enquired Bowen. "Love, my lord, is like a disease. If you are on the look out for it you catch it, if you ignore it, it does not trouble you. I was once with a gentleman who was very nervous about microbes. He would never eat anything that had not been cooked, and he had everything about him disinfected. He even disinfected me," he added as if in proof of the extreme eccentricity of his late employer. "So I suppose you despise me for having fallen in love and contemplating marriage," said Bowen with a smile. "There are always exceptions, my lord," responded Peel tactfully. "I have prepared the bath." "Peel," remarked Bowen as he rose and stretched himself, "disinfected or not disinfected, you are safe from the microbe of romance." "I hope so, my lord," responded Peel as he opened the door. "I wonder if history will repeat itself," murmured Bowen as he walked through his bedroom into the bathroom. "I, too, hate Eastbourne." CHAPTER XX A RACE WITH SPINSTERHOOD Before she had been at Eastbourne twenty-four hours Patricia was convinced that she had made a mistake in going there. With no claims upon her time, the restlessness that had developed in London increased until it became almost unbearable. The hotel at which she was staying was little more than a glorified boarding-house, full of "the most jungly of jungle-people," as she expressed it to herself. Their well-meant and kindly efforts to engage her in their pursuits and pleasures she received with apathetic negation. At length her fellow-guests, seeing that she was determined not to respond to their overtures, left her severely alone. The men were the last to desist. She came to dislike the pleasure-seekers about her and grew critical of everything she saw, the redness of the women's faces, the assumed youthfulness of the elderly men, the shapelessness of matrons who seemed to delight in bright open-work blouses and juvenile hats. She remembered Elton's remark that Fashion uncovers a multitude of shins. The shins exposed at Eastbourne were she decided, sufficient to undermine one's belief in the early chapters of Genesis. At one time she would have been amused at the types around her, and their various conceptions of "one crowded hour of glorious life." As it was, everything seemed sordid and trivial. Why should people lose all sense of dignity and proportion at a set period of the year? It was, she decided, almost as bad as being a hare. All she wanted was to be alone, she told herself; yet as soon as she had discovered some secluded spot and had settled herself down to read, the old restlessness attacked her, and fight against it as she might, she was forced back again to the haunts of men. For the first few days she watched eagerly for letters. None came. She would return to the hotel several times a day, look at the letter-rack, then, to hide her disappointment, make a pretence of having returned for some other purpose. "Why had not Bowen written?" she asked herself, then a moment after she strove to convince herself that he had forgotten, or at least that she was only an episode in his life. His sudden change from eagerness to indifference caused her to flush with humiliation; yet he had gone to Galvin House during the raid to assure himself of her safety. Why had he not written after what had occurred? Perhaps Aunt Adelaide was right about men after all. Patricia wrote to Lady Tanagra, Mrs. Hamilton, Lady Peggy, Mr. Triggs, even to Miss Sikkum. In due course answers arrived; but in only Miss Sikkum's letter was there any reference to Bowen, a gush of sentiment about "how happy you must be, dear Miss Brent, with Lord Bowen running down to see you every other day. I know!" she added with maidenly prescience. Patricia laughed. Mr. Triggs committed himself to nothing more than two and three-quarter pages, mainly about his daughter and "A. B.," Mr. Triggs was not at his best as a correspondent. Lady Tanagra ran to four pages; but as her handwriting was large, five lines filling a page, her letter was disappointing. Lady Peggy was the most productive. In the course of twelve pages of spontaneity she told Patricia that the Duke and the Cabinet Minister had almost quarrelled about her, Patricia. "Peter has been to lunch with us and Daddy has told him how lucky he is, and how wonderful you are. If Peter is not very careful, I shall have you presented to me as a stepmother. Wouldn't it be priceless!" she wrote. "Oh! What am I writing?" She ended with the Duke's love, and an insistence that Patricia should lunch at Curzon Street the first Sunday after her return. Patricia found Lady Peggy's letter charming. She was pleased to know that she had made a good impression and was admired--by the right people. Twenty-four hours, however, found her once more thrown back into the trough of her own despondency. Instinctively she began to count the days until this "dire compulsion of infertile days" should end. She could not very well return to London and say that she was tired of holiday-making. Galvin House would put its own construction upon her action and words, and whatever that construction might be, it was safe to assume that it would be an unpleasant one. There were moments when a slight uplifting of the veil enabled her to see herself as she must appear to others. "Patricia!" she exclaimed one morning to her reflection in a rather dubious mirror. "You're a cumberer of the earth and, furthermore, you've got a beastly temper," and she jabbed a pin through her hat and partly into her head. As the days passed she found herself wondering what was the earliest day she could return. If she made it the Friday night, would it arouse suspicion? She decided that it would, and settled to leave Eastbourne on the Saturday afternoon. As the train steamed out of the station she made a grimace in the direction of the town, just as an inoffensive and prematurely bald little man opposite looked up from his paper. He gave Patricia one startled look through his gold-rimmed spectacles and, for the rest of the journey, buried himself behind his paper, fearful lest Patricia should "make another face at him," as he explained to his mother that evening. "She's come home in a nice temper!" was Miss Wangle's diagnosis of the mood in which Patricia reached Galvin House. Gustave regarded her with anxious concern. The first dinner drove her almost mad. The raid, as a topic of conversation, was on the wane, although Mr. Bolton worked at it nobly, and Patricia found herself looked upon to supply the necessary material for the evening's amusement. What had she done? Where had she been? Had she bathed? Were the dresses pretty? How many times had Bowen been down? Had she met any nice people? Was it true that the costumes of the women were disgraceful? At last, with a forced laugh, Patricia told them that she must have "notice" of such questions, and everybody had looked at her in surprise, until Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out, and he explained the parliamentary allusion. When at last, under pretence of being tired, she was able to escape to her room, she felt that another five minutes would have turned her brain. Sunday dawned, and with it the old panorama of iterations unfolded itself: Mr. Bolton's velvet coat and fez, Mr. Cordal's carpet slippers with the fur tops, Mrs. Barnes' indecision, Mr. Sefton's genial and romantic optimism, Miss Sikkum's sumptuary excesses; all presented themselves in due sequence just as they had done for--"was it centuries?" Patricia asked herself. To crown all it was a roast-pork Sunday, and the reek of onions preparing for the seasoning filled the house. Patricia felt that the fates were fighting against her. In nerving herself for the usual human Sunday ordeal, she had forgotten the vegetable menace, in other words that it was "pork Sunday." Mr. Bolton was always more than usually trying on Sundays; but reinforced by onions he was almost unbearable. Patricia fled. It was the Sunday before August Bank Holiday. Patricia shuddered at the remembrance. It meant that people were away. She did not pause to think that her world was at home, pursuing its various paths whereby to cultivate an appetite worthy of the pork that was even then sizzling in the Galvin House kitchen under the eagle eye of the cook, who prided herself on her "crackling," which Galvin House crunched with noisy gusto. Patricia sank down upon a chair far back under the trees opposite the Stanhope Gate. Here she remained in a vague way watching the people, yet unconscious of their presence. From time to time some snatch of meaningless conversation would reach her. "You know Betty's such a sport?" one man said to another. Patricia found herself wondering what Betty was like and what, to the speaker's mind, constituted being a sport. Was Betty pretty? She must be, Patricia decided; no one cared whether or no a plain girl were a sport. She found herself wanting to know Betty. What were the lives of all these people, these shadows, that were moving to and fro in front of her, each intent upon something that seemed of vital importance? Were they----? "I doubt if Cassandra could have looked more gloomily prophetic." She turned with a start and saw Geoffrey Elton smiling down upon her. "Did I look as bad as that?" she enquired, as he took a seat beside her. "You looked as if you were gratuitously settling the destinies of the world," he replied. "In a way I suppose I was," she said musingly. "You see they all mean something," indicating the paraders with a nod of her head, "tragedy, comedy, farce, sometimes all three. If you only stop to think about life, it all seems so hopeless. I feel sometimes that I could run away from it all." "That in the Middle Ages would have been diagnosed as the monastic spirit," said Elton. "It arose, and no doubt continues in most cases to arise from a sluggish liver." "How dreadful!" laughed Patricia. "The inference is obvious." "The world's greatest achievements and greatest tragedies could no doubt be traced directly to rebellious livers: Waterloo and 'Hamlet' are instances." "Are you serious?" enquired Patricia. She was never quite certain of Elton. "In a way I suppose I am," he replied. "If I were a pathologist I should write a book upon _The Influence of Disease upon the Destinies of the World_. The supreme monarch is the microbe. The Germans have shown that they recognise this." "Ugh!" Patricia shuddered. "Of course you have to make some personal sacrifice in the matter of self-respect first," continued Elton, "but after that the rest becomes easy." "I suppose that is what a German victory would mean," said Patricia. "Yes; we should give up lead and nickel and T.N.T., and invent germ distributors. Essen would become a great centre of germ-culture, and----" "Oh! please let us talk about something else," cried Patricia. "It's horrible!" "Well!" said Elton with a smile, "shall we continue our talk over lunch, if you have no engagement?" "Lady Peggy asked me----" began Patricia. "They're away in Somerset," said Elton, "so now I claim you as my victim. It is your destiny to save me from my own thoughts." "And yours to save me from roast pork and apple sauce," said Patricia, rising. As they walked towards Hyde Park Corner she explained the Galvin House cuisine. They lunched at the Ritz and, to her surprise Patricia found herself eating with enjoyment, a thing she had not done for weeks past. She decided that it must be a revulsion of feeling after the menace of roast pork. Elton was a good talker, with a large experience of life and a considerable fund of general information. "I should like to travel," said Patricia as she sipped her coffee in the lounge. "Why?" Elton held a match to her cigarette. "Oh! I suppose because it is enjoyable," replied Patricia; "besides, it educates," she added. "That is too conventional to be worthy of you," said Elton. "How?" queried Patricia. "Most of the dull people I know ascribe their dullness to lack of opportunities for travel. They seem to think that a voyage round the world will make brilliant talkers of the toughest bores." "Am I as tedious as that?" enquired Patricia, looking up with a smile. "Your friend, Mr. Triggs, for instance," continued Elton, passing over Patricia's remark. "He has not travelled, and he is always interesting. Why?" "I suppose because he is Mr. Triggs," said Patricia half to herself. "Exactly," said Elton. "If you were really yourself you would not be----" "So dull," broke in Patricia with a laugh. "So lonely," continued Elton, ignoring the interruption. "Why do you say that?" demanded Patricia. "It's not exactly a compliment." "Intellectual loneliness may be the lot of the greatest social success." "But why do you think I am lonely?" persisted Patricia. "Let us take Mr. Triggs as an illustration. He is direct, unversed in diplomacy, golden-hearted, with a great capacity for friendship and sentiment. When he is hurt he shows it as plainly as a child, therefore we none of us hurt him." "He's a dear!" murmured Patricia half to herself. "If he were in love he would never permit pride to disguise it." Patricia glanced up at Elton: but he was engaged in examining the end of his cigarette. "He would credit the other person with the same sincerity as himself," continued Elton. "The biggest rogue respects an honest man, that is why we, who are always trying to disguise our emotions, admire Mr. Triggs, who would just as soon wear a red beard and false eyebrows as seek to convey a false impression." Patricia found herself wondering why Elton had selected this topic. She was conscious that it was not due to chance. "Is it worth it?" Elton's remark, half command, half question, seemed to stab through her thoughts. She looked up at him, her eyes a little widened with surprise. "Is what worth what?" she enquired. "I was just wondering," said Elton, "if the Triggses are not very wise in eating onions and not bothering about what the world will think." "Eating onions!" cried Patricia. "My medical board is on Tuesday up North," said Elton, "and I shall hope to get back to France. You see things in a truer perspective when you're leaving town under such conditions." Patricia was silent for some time. Elton's remarks sometimes wanted thinking out. "You think we should take happiness where we can find it?" she asked. "Well! I think we are too much inclined to render unto Cæsar the things which are God's," he replied gravely. "Do you appreciate that you are talking in parables?" said Patricia. "That is because I do not possess Mr. Triggs's golden gift of directness." Suddenly Patricia glanced at her watch. "Why, it's five minutes to three!" she cried. "I had no idea it was so late." "I promised to run round to say good-bye to Peter at three," Elton remarked casually, as he passed through the lounge. "Good-bye!" cried Patricia in surprise. "He is throwing up his staff appointment, and has applied to rejoin his regiment in France." For a moment Patricia stopped dead, then with a great effort she passed through the revolving door into the sunlight. Her knees seemed strangely shaky, and she felt thankful when she saw the porter hail a taxi. Elton handed her in and closed the door. "Galvin House?" he interrogated. "When does he go?" asked Patricia in a voice that she could not keep even in tone. "As soon as the War Office approves," said Elton. "Does Lady Tanagra know?" she asked. "No, Peter will not tell her until everything is settled," he replied. As the taxi sped westwards Patricia was conscious that some strange change had come over her. She had the feeling that follows a long bout of weeping. Peter was going away! Suddenly everything was changed! Everything was explained! She must see him! Prevent him from going back to France! He was going because of her! He would be killed and it would be her fault! Arrived at Galvin House she went straight to her room. For two hours she lay on her bed, her mind in a turmoil, her head feeling as if it were being compressed into a mould too small for it. No matter how she strove to control them, her thoughts inevitably returned to the phrase, "Peter is going to France." Unknown to herself, she was fighting a great fight with her pride. She must see him, but how? If she telephoned it would be an unconditional surrender. She could never respect herself again. "When you are in love you take pleasure in trampling your pride underfoot." The phrase persisted in obtruding itself. Where had she heard it? What was pride? she asked herself. One might be very lonely with pride as one's sole companion. What would Mr. Triggs say? She could see his forehead corrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love. Even Elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that Mr. Triggs was right. If she let Peter go? A year hence, a month perhaps, she might have lost him. Of what use would her pride be then? She had not known before; but now she knew how much Peter meant to her. Since he had come into her life everything had changed, and she had grown discontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly accepted as her portion. "You're fretting, me dear!" Mr. Triggs's remark came back to her. She recalled how indignant she had been. Why? Because it was true. She had been cross. She remembered the old man's anxiety lest he had offended her. She almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort to explain away his remark. She had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, three times. She made no response. Then Gustave's voice whispered, "Tea is served in the looaunge, mees." She heard him creep away with clumsy stealth. There was a sweet-natured creature. He could never disguise an emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious terror, in order to save her. Mr. Triggs, Gustave, Elton, all were against her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working to fight _her_ pride. For some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. First she bathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock and powdered her nose. "Hurry up, Patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to her reflection in the glass. "This is a race with spinsterhood." Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone. "Gerrard 60000," she called, conscious that both her voice and her knees were unsteady. After what seemed an age there came the reply, "Quadrant Hotel." "Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" she enquired. "Thank you," she added in response to the clerk's promise to enquire. Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must be out, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. If he were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already started for---- "Who is that?" It was Bowen's voice. Patricia felt she could sing. So he had not gone! Would her knees play her false and cheat her? "It's--it's me," she said, regardless of grammar. "That's delightful; but who is me?" came the response. No wonder woman liked him if he spoke like that to them, she decided. Suddenly she realised that even she herself could not recognise as her own the voice with which she was speaking. "Patricia," she said. "Patricia!" There was astonishment, almost incredulity in his voice. So Elton had said nothing. "Where are you? Can I see you?" Patricia felt her cheeks burn at the eagerness of his tone. "I'm--I'm going out. I--I'll call for you if you like," she stammered. "I say, how ripping of you. Come in a taxi or shall I come and fetch you?" "No, I--I'm coming now, I'm----" then she put up the receiver. What was she going to do or say? For a moment she swayed. Was she going to faint? A momentary deadly sickness seemed to overcome her. She fought it back fiercely. She must get to the Quadrant. "I shall have to be a sort of reincarnation of Mrs. Triggs, I think," she murmured as she staggered past the astonished Gustave, who was just coming from the lounge, and out of the front door, where she secured a taxi. CHAPTER XXI THE GREATEST INDISCRETION I In the vestibule of the Quadrant stood Peel, looking a veritable colossus of negation. As Patricia approached he bowed and led the way to the lift. As it slid upwards Patricia wondered if Peel could hear the thumping of her heart, and if so, what he thought of it. She followed him along the carpeted corridor conscious of a mad desire to turn and fly. What would Peel do? she wondered. Possibly in the madness of the moment his mantle of discretion might fall from him, and he would dash after her. What a sensation for the Quadrant! A girl tearing along as if for her life pursued by a gentleman's servant. It would look just like the poster of "Charley's Aunt." Peel opened the door of Bowen's sitting-room, and Patricia entered with the smile still on her lips that the thought of "Charley's Aunt" had aroused. Something seemed to spring towards her from inside the room, and she found herself caught in a pair of arms and kissed. She remembered wondering if Peel were behind, or if he had closed the door, then she abandoned herself to Bowen's embrace. Everything seemed somehow changed. It was as if someone had suddenly shouldered her responsibilities, and she would never have to think again for herself. Her lips, her eyes, her hair, were kissed in turn. She was being crushed; yet she was conscious only of a feeling of complete content. Suddenly the realisation of what was happening dawned upon her, and she strove to free herself. With all her force she pushed Bowen from her. He released her. She stood back looking at him with crimson cheeks and unseeing eyes. She was conscious that something unusual was happening to her, something in which she appeared to have no voice. Perhaps it was all a dream. She swayed a little. The same sensation she had fought back at the telephone was overcoming her. Was she going to faint? It would be ridiculous to faint in Bowen's rooms. Why did people faint? Was it really, as Aunt Adelaide had told her, because the heart missed a beat? One beat---- She felt Bowen's arm round her, she seemed to sway towards a chair. Was the chair really moving away from her? Then the mist seemed to clear. Someone was kneeling beside her. Bowen gazed at her anxiously. Her face was now colourless, and her eyes closed wearily. She sighed as a tired child sighs before falling asleep. "Patricia! what is the matter?" cried Bowen In alarm. "You haven't fainted, have you?" She was conscious of the absurdity of the question. She opened her eyes with a curious fluttering movement of the lids, as if they were uncertain how long they could remain unclosed. A slow, tired smile played across her face, like a passing shaft of sunshine, then the lids closed again and the life seemed to go out of her body. Bowen gently withdrew his arm and, rising, strode across to a table on which was a decanter of whisky and syphon of soda. With unsteady hands, he poured whisky and soda into a glass and, returning to Patricia, he passed his arm gently behind her head, placing the glass against her lips. She drank a little and then, with a shudder, turned her head aside. A moment later her eyes opened again. She looked round the room, then fixed her gaze on Bowen as if trying to explain to herself his presence. Gradually the colour returned to her cheeks and she sighed deeply. She shook her head as Bowen put the glass against her lips. "I nearly fainted," she whispered, sighing again. "I've never done such a thing." Then after a pause she added, "I wonder what has happened. My head feels so funny." "It's all my fault," said Bowen penitently. "I've waited so long, and I seemed to go mad. You will forgive me, dearest, won't you?" his voice was full of concern. Patricia smiled. "Have I been here long?" she asked. "It seems ages since I came." "No; only about five minutes. Oh, Patricia! you won't do it again, will you?" Bowen drew her nearer to him and upset the glass containing the remains of the whisky and soda that he had placed on the floor beside him. "I didn't quite faint, really," she said earnestly, as if defending herself from a reproach. "I mean throw me over," explained Bowen. "It's been hell!" "Please go and sit down," she said, moving restlessly. "I'm all right now. I--I want to talk and I can't talk like this." Again she smiled, and Bowen lifted her hand and kissed it gently. Rising he drew a chair near her and sat down. "You see all this comes of trying to be a Mrs. Triggs," she said regretfully. "Mrs. Triggs!" Bowen looked at her anxiously. Slowly and a little wearily Patricia explained her conversation with Elton. "Didn't he tell you he had seen me?" "No," replied Bowen, relieved at the explanation; "Godfrey is a perfect dome of silence on occasion." "Why did you suddenly leave me all alone, Peter?" Patricia enquired presently. "I couldn't understand. It hurt me terribly. I didn't realise"--she paused--"oh, everything, until I heard you were going away. Oh, my dear!" she cried in a low voice, "be gentle with me. I'm all bruises." Bowen bent across to her. "I'm a brute," he said, "but----" She shook her head. "Not that sort," she said. "It's my pride I've bruised. I seem to have turned everything upside down. You'll have to be very gentle with me at first, please." She looked up at him with a flicker of a smile. "Not only at first, dear, but always," said Bowen gently as he rose and seated himself beside her. "Patricia, when did you--care?" he blurted out the last word hurriedly. "I don't know," she replied dreamily. "You see," she continued after a pause, "I've not been like other girls. Do you know, Peter," she looked up at him shyly, "you're the first man who has ever kissed me, except my father. Isn't it absurd?" "It's nothing of the sort," Bowen declared, tilting up her chin and gazing down into her eyes. "But you haven't answered my question." "Well!" continued Patricia, speaking slowly, "when you sent me flowers and messengers and telegraph-boys and things I was angry, and then when you didn't I----" she paused. "Wanted them," he suggested. "U-m-m-m!" she nodded her head. "I suppose so," she conceded. "But," she added with a sudden change of mood, "I shall always be dreadfully afraid of Peel. He seems so perfect." Bowen laughed. "I'll try and balance matters," he said. "But you haven't told me," said Patricia, "why you left me alone all at once. Why did you?" She looked up enquiringly at him. During the next half an hour Patricia slowly drew from Bowen the whole story of the plot engineered by Lady Tanagra. "But why," questioned Patricia, "were you going away if you knew that--that everything would come all right?" "I had given up hope, and I couldn't break my promise to Tan. I convinced myself that you didn't care." Patricia held out her hand with a smile. Bowen bent and kissed it. "I wonder what you are thinking of me?" She looked up at him anxiously. "I'm very much at your mercy now, Peter, aren't I? You won't let me ever regret it, will you?" "Do you regret it?" he whispered, bending towards her, conscious of the fragrance of her hair. "It's such an unconditional surrender," she complained. "All my pride is bruised and trampled underfoot. You have me at such a disadvantage." "So long as I've got you I don't care," he laughed. "Peter," said Patricia after a few minutes of silence, "I want you to ring up Tanagra and Godfrey Elton and ask them to dine here this evening. They must put off any other engagement. Tell them I say so." "But can't we----?" began Bowen. "There, you are making me regret already," she said with a flash of her old vivacity. Bowen flew to the telephone. By a lucky chance Elton was calling at Grosvenor Square, and Bowen was able to get them both with one call. He was a little disappointed, however, at not having Patricia to himself that evening. "When shall we get married?" Bowen asked eagerly, as Patricia rose and announced that she must go and repair damages to her face and garments. "I will tell you after dinner," she said as she walked towards the door. II "It is only the impecunious who are constrained to be modest," remarked Elton as the four sat smoking in Bowen's room after dinner. "Is that an apology, or merely a statement of fact?" asked Lady Tanagra. "I think," remarked Patricia quietly, "that it is an apology." Elton looked across at her with one of those quick movements of his eyes that showed how alert his mind was, in spite of the languid ease of his manner. "And now," continued Patricia, "I have something very important to say to you all." "Oh!" groaned Lady Tanagra, "spare me from the self-importance of the newly-engaged girl." "It has come to my knowledge, Tanagra," proceeded Patricia, "that you and Mr. Elton did deliberately and wittingly conspire together against my peace of mind and happiness. There!" she added, "that's almost legal in its ambiguity, isn't it?" Lady Tanagra and Elton exchanged glances. "What do you mean?" demanded Lady Tanagra gaily. Patricia explained that she had extracted from Bowen the whole story. Lady Tanagra looked reproachfully at her brother. Then turning to Patricia she said with unwonted seriousness: "I saw that was the only way to--to--well get you for a sister-in-law and," she paused a moment uncertainly. "I knew you were the only girl for that silly old thing there, who was blundering up the whole business." "Your mania for interfering in other people's affairs will be your ruin, Tanagra," said Patricia as she turned to Elton, her look clearly enquiring if he had any excuse to offer. "The old Garden of Eden answer," he said. "A woman tempted me." "Then we will apply the old Garden of Eden punishment," announced Patricia. Elton, who was the first to grasp her meaning, looked anxiously at Lady Tanagra, who with knitted brows was endeavouring to penetrate to Patricia's meaning. Bowen was obviously at sea. Suddenly Lady Tanagra's face flamed and her eyes dropped. Elton stroked the back of his head, a habit he had when preoccupied--he was never nervous. "You two," continued Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself, "have precipitated yourselves into my most private affairs, and in return I am going to take a hand in yours. Peter has asked me when I will marry him. I said I would tell him after dinner this evening." Bowen looked across at her eagerly, Elton lit another cigarette, Lady Tanagra toyed nervously with her amber cigarette-holder. "I will marry Peter," announced Patricia, "when you, Tanagra," she paused slightly, "marry Godfrey Elton." Lady Tanagra looked up with a startled cry. Her eyes were wide with something that seemed almost fear, then without warning she turned and buried her head in a cushion and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Bowen started up. With a swift movement Patricia went over to his side and, before he knew what was happening, he was in the corridor stuttering his astonishment to Patricia. For an hour the two sat in the lounge below, talking and listening to the band. Patricia explained to Bowen how from the first she had known that Elton and Tanagra were in love. "But we've known him all our lives!" expostulated Bowen. "The very thing that blinded you all to a most obvious fact." "But why didn't he----?" began Bowen. "Because of her money," explained Patricia. "Anyhow," she continued gaily, "I had lost my own tail, and I wasn't going to see Tanagra wagging hers before my eyes. Now let's go up and see what has happened." Just as Bowen's hand was on the handle of the sitting-room door, Patricia cried out that she had dropped a ring. When they entered the room Elton and Lady Tanagra were standing facing the door. One glance at their faces, told Patricia all she wanted to know. Without a word Elton came forward and bending low, kissed her hand. There was something so touching in his act of deference that Patricia felt her throat contract. She went across to Lady Tanagra and put her arm round her. "You darling!" whispered Lady Tanagra. "How clever of you to know." "I knew the first time I saw you together," whispered Patricia. Lady Tanagra hugged her. "And now we must all run round to Grosvenor Square. Poor Mother--what a surprise for her!" III Elton's medical board took a more serious view of his state of health than was anticipated, and he was temporarily given an appointment in the Intelligence Department. Bowen's application to be allowed to rejoin his regiment was refused, and thus the way was cleared for the double wedding that took place at St. Margaret's, Westminster. Patricia was given away by the Duke of Gayton. Lady Peggy declared that it would rank as the most heroic act he had ever performed. Mr. Triggs reached the highest sartorial pinnacle of his career in a light grey, almost white frock-coated suit with a high hat to match, a white waistcoat, and a white satin tie. As Elton expressed it, he looked like a musical-comedy conception of a bookmaker turned philanthropist. Galvin House was there in force. Even Gustave obtained an hour off and, with a large white rose in his button-hole, beamed on everyone and everything with the utmost impartiality. Miss Brent, like Achilles, sulked in her tent. "The only two men I ever loved," wailed Lady Peggy to a friend, "and both gone at one shot." "She's a lucky girl," said an old dowager, "and only a secretary." "Some girl. What!" muttered an embryo field-marshal to a one-pip strategist in the uniform of the Irish Guards, who concurred with an emphatic, "Lucky devil!" At Galvin House for the rest of the chapter they talked, dreamed and lived the Bowen-Brent marriage. It was the one ineffaceable sunspot in the greyness of their lives. HERBERT JENKINS' SHILLING LIBRARY BINDLE HERBERT JENKINS WITHOUT MERCY JOHN GOODWIN PICCADILLY JIM P. G. WODEHOUSE THE FRINGE OF THE DESERT R. S. MACNAMARA THE CHARING CROSS MYSTERY J. S. FLETCHER THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT VALENTINE WILLIAMS ALF'S BUTTON W. A. DARLINGTON HIDDEN FIRES MRS. PATRICK MACGILL THE LUCK OF THE VAILS E. F. BENSON THE WHISKERED FOOTMAN EDGAR JEPSON THE DIAMOND CROSS MYSTERY CHESTER K. S. STEELE THE MYSTERY OF THE SCENTED DEATH ROY VICKERS ANTHONY TRENT, MASTER CRIMINAL WYNDHAM MARTYN THE MARKENMORE MYSTERY J. S. FLETCHER A DAUGHTER IN REVOLT JOHN GOODWIN THE BARTERED BRIDE MRS. PATRICK MACGILL A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS P. G. WODEHOUSE HIS OTHER WIFE ROY VICKERS THE COMPULSORY WIFE JOHN GLYDER THE WINNING CLUE JAMES HAY, Jun. PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER HERBERT JENKINS THE SECRET OF THE SILVER CAR WYNDHAM MARTYN ISAACS JOSEPH GEE PLAYING WITH SOULS COUNTESS DE CHAMBRUN THE MYSTERIOUS CHINAMAN J. S. FLETCHER THE FLAME OF LIFE MRS. PATRICK MACGILL BLACKMAIL JOHN GOODWIN THAT RED-HEADED GIRL LOUISE HEILGERS MOLESKIN JOE PATRICK MACGILL SALLY ON THE ROCKS WINIFRED BOGGS THE UNLIGHTED HOUSE JAMES HAY, Jun. THE EDGE OF THE WORLD EDITH BLINN 3 YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S LONDON S.W.1 
32401	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 32401-h.htm or 32401-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32401/32401-h/32401-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32401/32401-h.zip) THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST FARM Or The Secret of the Rocks by AMY BELL MARLOWE Author of The Oldest of Four, A Little Miss Nobody, The Girl from Sunset Ranch, Etc. [Illustration: LUCAS TORE DOWN THE BANK AND WADED RIGHT INTO THE STREAM. Frontispiece (Page 61.)] New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Made in the United States of America Copyright, 1914, by Grosset & Dunlap _The Girls of Hillcrest Farm_ CONTENTS Chapter Page I. EVERYTHING AT ONCE! 1 II. AUNT JANE PROPOSES 10 III. THE DOCTOR DISPOSES 24 IV. THE PILGRIMAGE 37 V. LUCAS PRITCHETT 51 VI. NEIGHBORS 61 VII. HILLCREST 73 VIII. THE WHISPER IN THE DARK 85 IX. MORNING AT HILLCREST 96 X. THE VENTURE 109 XI. AT THE SCHOOLHOUSE 126 XII. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER 134 XIII. LYDDY DOESN'T WANT IT 144 XIV. THE COLESWORTHS 161 XV. ANOTHER BOARDER 171 XVI. THE BALL KEEPS ROLLING 184 XVII. THE RUNAWAY GRANDMOTHER 192 XVIII. THE QUEER BOARDER 199 XIX. WIDOW HARRISON'S TROUBLES 208 XX. THE TEMPERANCE CLUB AGAIN 216 XXI. CAUGHT 224 XXII. THE HIDDEN TREASURE 236 XXIII. THE VENDUE 248 XXIV. PROFESSOR SPINK'S BOTTLES 258 XXV. IN THE OLD DOCTOR'S OFFICE 269 XXVI. A BLOW-UP 276 XXVII. THEY LOSE A BOARDER 283 XXVIII. THE SECRET REVEALED 289 XXIX. AN AUTOMOBILE RACE 298 XXX. THE HILLCREST COMPANY, LIMITED 303 THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST FARM CHAPTER I EVERYTHING AT ONCE! Whenever she heard the siren of the ladder-truck, as it swung out of its station on the neighboring street, Lydia Bray ran to the single window of the flat that looked out on Trimble Avenue. They were four flights up. There were twenty-three other families in this "double-decker." A fire in the house was the oldest Bray girl's nightmare by night and haunting spectre by day. Lydia just couldn't get used to these quarters, and they had been here now three months. The old, quiet home on the edge of town had been so different. To it she had returned from college so short a time ago to see her mother die and find their affairs in a state of chaos. For her father was one of those men who leave everything to the capable management of their wives. Euphemia, or "'Phemie," was only a schoolgirl, then, in her junior year at high school; "Lyddy" was a sophomore at Littleburg when her mother died, and she had never gone back. She couldn't. There were two very good reasons why her own and even 'Phemie's education had to cease abruptly. Their mother's income, derived from their grandmother's estate, ceased with her death. They could not live, let alone pursue education "on the heights," upon Mr. Bray's wages as overseer in one of the rooms of the hat factory. "Mother's hundred dollars a month was just the difference between poverty and comfort," Lyddy had decided, when she took the strings of the household into her own hands. "I haven't that hundred dollars a month; father makes but fifteen dollars weekly; _you_ will have to go to work at something, 'Phemie, and so will I." And no longer could they pay twenty-five dollars a month house rent. Lyddy had first placed her sister with a millinery firm at six dollars weekly, and had then found this modest tenement about half-way between her father's factory and 'Phemie's millinery shop, so that it would be equally handy for both workers. As for herself, Lyddy wished to obtain some employment that would occupy only a part of her day, and in this she had been unsuccessful as yet. She religiously bought a paper every morning, and went through the "help wanted" columns, answering every one that looked promising. She had tried many kinds of "work at home for ladies," and canvassing, and the like. The latter did not pay for shoe-leather, and the "work at home" people were mostly swindlers. Lyddy was no needle-woman, so she could not make anything as a seamstress. She had promised her mother to keep the family together and make a home for her father. Mr. Bray was not well. For almost two years now the doctor had been warning him to get out of the factory and into some other business. The felt-dust was hurting him. He had come in but the minute before and had at once gone to lie down, exhausted by his climb up the four flights of stairs. 'Phemie had not yet returned from work, for it was nearing Easter, despite the rawness of the days, and the millinery shop was busy until late. They always waited supper for 'Phemie. Now, when Lyddy ran to the window at the raucous shriek of the ladder-truck siren, she hoped she would see her sister turning the corner into the avenue, where the electric arc-light threw a great circle of radiance upon the wet walk. But although there was the usual crowd at the corner, and all seemed to be in a hurry to-night, Lyddy saw nothing of either her sister or the ladder-truck. She went back to the kitchen, satisfied that the fire apparatus had not swung into their street, so the tenement must be safe for the time being. She finished laying the table for supper. Once she looked up. There was that man at the window again! That is, he _would_ be a man some day, Lyddy told herself. But she believed, big as he was, he was just a hobbledehoy-boy. He was a boy who, if one looked at him, just _had_ to smile. And he was always working in a white apron and brown straw cuff-shields at that window which was a little above the level of Lyddy's kitchen window. Lyddy Bray abominated flirting and such silly practises. And although the boy at the window was really good to look upon--cleanly shaven, rosy-cheeked, with good eyes set wide apart, and a firm, broad chin--Lyddy did not like to see him every time she raised her eyes from her own kitchen tasks. Often, even on dark days, she drew the shade down so that she should have more privacy. For sometimes the young man looked idly out of the window and Lyddy believed that, had she given him any encouragement, he would have opened his own window and spoken to her. The place in which he worked was a tall loft building; she believed he was employed in some sort of chemical laboratory. There were retorts, and strange glass and copper instruments in partial view upon his bench. Now, having lighted the gas, Lyddy stepped to the window to pull down the shade closely and shut the young man out. He was staring with strange eagerness at her--or, at least, in her direction. "Master Impudence!" murmured Lyddy. He flung up his window just as she reached for the shade. But she saw then that he was looking above her story. "It's those Smith girls, I declare," thought Lyddy. "Aren't they bold creatures? And--really--I thought he was too nice a boy----" That was the girl of it! She was shocked at the thought of having any clandestine acquaintance with the young man opposite; yet it cheapened him dreadfully in Lyddy's eyes to see him fall prey to the designing girls in the flat above. The Smith girls had flaunted their cheap finery in the faces of Lyddy and 'Phemie Bray ever since the latter had come here to live. She did not pull the shade down for a moment. That boy certainly was acting in a most outrageous manner! His body was thrust half-way out of the window as he knelt on his bench among the retorts. She saw several of the delicate glass instruments overturned by his vigorous motions. She saw his lips open and he seemed to be shouting something to those in the window above. "How rude of him," thought the disappointed Lyddy. He had looked to be _such_ a nice young man. Again she would have pulled down the shade, but the boy's actions stayed her hand. He leaped back from the window and disappeared--for just a moment. Then he staggered into view, thrust a long and wide plank through his open window, and, bearing down upon it, shoved hard and fast, thrusting the novel bridge up to the sill of the window above Lyddy's own. "What under the sun does that fellow mean to do?" gasped the girl, half tempted to raise her own window so as to look up the narrow shaft between the two buildings. "He never would attempt to cross over to their flat," thought Lyddy. "That would be quite too--ri--dic--u--lous----" The youth was adjusting the plank. At first he could not steady it upon the sill above Lyddy's kitchen window. And how dangerous it would be if he attempted to "walk the plank." And then there was a roaring sound above, a glare of light, a crash of glass and a billow of black smoke suddenly--but only for a moment--filled the space between the two buildings! The girl almost fell to the floor. She had always been afraid of fire, and it had been ever in her mind since they moved into this big tenement house. And now it had come without her knowing it! While she thought the young man to be trying to enter into a flirtation with the girls in the flat above, the house was afire! No wonder so many people had seemed running at the corner when she looked out of the front window. The ladder-truck had swung around into the avenue without her seeing it. Doubtless the street in front of the tenement was choked with fire-fighting apparatus. "Oh, dear me!" gasped Lyddy, reeling for the moment. Then she dashed for the bedroom where her father lay. Smoke was sifting in from the hall through the cracks about the ill-hung door. "Father! Father!" she gasped. He lay on the bed, as still as though sleeping. But the noise above should have aroused him by this time, had her own shrill cry not done so. Yet he did not move. Lyddy leaped to the bedside, seizing her father's shoulder with desperate clutch. She shook his frail body, and the head wagged from side to side on the pillow in so horrible a way--so lifeless and helpless--that she was smitten with terror. Was he dead? He had never been like this before, she was positive. She tore open his waistcoat and shirt and placed her hand upon his heart. It was beating--but, oh, how feebly! And then she heard the flat door opened with a key--'Phemie's key. Her sister cried: "Dear me, Lyddy! the hall is full of smoke. It isn't your stove that's smoking so, I hope? And here's Aunt Jane Hammond come to see us. I met her on the street, and these four flights of stairs have almost killed her----Why! what's happened, Lyddy?" the younger girl broke off to ask, as her sister's pale face appeared at the bedroom door. "Everything--everything's happened at once, I guess," replied Lyddy, faintly. "Father's sick--we've got company--and the house is afire!" CHAPTER II AUNT JANE PROPOSES Aunt Jane Hammond stalked into the meagerly furnished parlor, and looked around. It was the first time she had been to see the Bray girls since their "come down" in the world. She was a tall, gaunt woman--their mother's half-sister, and much older than Mrs. Bray would have been had she lived. Aunt Jane, indeed, had been married herself when her father, Dr. "Polly" Phelps, had married his second wife. "I must--say I--expected to--see some--angels sit--ting a--round--when I got up here," panted Aunt Jane, grimly, and dropping into the most comfortable chair. "Couldn't you have got a mite nearer heaven, if you'd tried, Lyddy Bray?" "Ye-es," gasped Lyddy. "There's another story on top of this; but it's afire just now." "_What?_" shrieked Aunt Jane. "Do you really mean it, Lyddy?" cried her sister. "And that's what the smoke means?" "Well," declared their aunt, "them firemen will have to carry me out, then. I couldn't walk downstairs again right now, for no money!" 'Phemie ran to the hall door. But when she opened it a great blast of choking smoke drove in. "Oh, oh!" she cried. "We can't escape by the stairway. What'll we do? What _shall_ we do?" "There's the fire-escape," said Lyddy, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. "What?" cried Aunt Jane again. "_Me_ go down one o' them dinky little ladders--and me with a hole as big as a half-dollar in the back of my stockin'? I never knowed it till I got started from home; the seam just gave." "I'd look nice going down that ladder. I guess not, says Con!" and she shook her head so vigorously that all the little jet trimmings upon her bonnet danced and sparkled in the gaslight just as her beadlike, black eyes snapped and danced. "We--we're in danger, Lyddy!" cried 'Phemie, tremulously. "Oh, the boy!" exclaimed Lyddy, and flew to the kitchen, just in time to see the Smith family sliding down the plank into the laboratory--the two girls ahead, then Mother Smith, then Johnny Smith, and then the father. And all while the boy next door held the plank firmly in place against the window-sill of the burning flat. Lyddy threw up the window and screamed something to him as the last Smith passed him and disappeared. She couldn't have told what she said, for the very life of her; but the young man across the shaft knew what she meant. He drew back the plank a little way, swung his weight upon the far end of it, and then let it drop until it was just above the level of her sill. "Grab it and pull, Miss!" he called across the intervening space. Lyddy obeyed. There was great confusion in the hall now, and overhead the fire roared loudly. The firemen were evidently pressing up the congested stairway with a line or two of hose, and driving the frightened people back into their tenements. If the fire was confined to the upper floor of the double-decker there would be really little danger to those below. But Lyddy was too frightened to realize this last fact. She planted the end of the plank upon her own sill and saw that it was secure. But it sloped upward more than a trifle. How would they ever be able to creep up that inclined plane--and four flights from the bottom of the shaft? But to her consternation, the young fellow across the way deliberately stepped out upon the plank, sat down, and slid swiftly across to her. Lyddy sprang back with a cry, and he came in at the window and stood before her. "I don't believe you're in any danger, Miss," he said. "The firemen are on the roof, and probably up through the halls, too. The fire has burned a vent through the roof and----Yes! hear the water?" She could plainly hear the swish of the streams from the hosepipes. Then the water thundered on the floor above their heads. Almost at once small streams began to pour through the ceiling. "Oh, oh!" cried Lyddy. "Right on the supper table!" A stream fell hissing on the stove. The big boy drew her swiftly out of the room into her father's bedroom. "That ceiling will come down," he said, hastily. "I'm sorry--but if you're insured you'll be all right." Lyddy at that moment remembered that she had never taken out insurance on the poor sticks of furniture left from the wreck of their larger home. Yet, if everything was spoiled---- "What's the matter with him?" asked the young fellow, looking at the bed where Mr. Bray lay. He had wonderfully sharp eyes, it seemed. "I don't know--I don't know," moaned Lyddy. "Do you think it is the smoke? He has been ill a long time--almost too sick to work----" "Your father?" "Yes, sir," said the girl. "I'll get an ambulance, if you say so--and a doctor. Are you afraid to stay here now? Are you all alone but for him?" "My sister--and my aunt," gasped Lyddy. "They're in the front room." "Keep 'em there," said the young man. "Maybe they won't pour so much water into those front rooms. Look out for the ceilings. You might be hurt if they came down." He found the key and unlocked and opened the door from the bedroom to the hall. The smoke cloud was much thinner. But a torrent of water was pouring down the stairs, and the shouting and stamping of the firemen above were louder. Two black, serpent-like lines of hose encumbered the stairs. "Take care of yourself," called the young man. "I'll be back in a jiffy with the doctor," and, bareheaded, and in shirt-sleeves as he was, he dashed down the dark and smoky stairway. Lyddy bent over her father again; he was breathing more peacefully, it seemed. But when she spoke to him he did not answer. 'Phemie ran in, crying. "What is the matter with father?" she demanded, as she noted his strange silence. Then, without waiting for an answer, she snapped: "And Aunt Jane's got her head out of the window scolding at the firemen in the street because they do not come up and carry her downstairs again." "Oh, the fire's nearly out, I guess," groaned Lyddy. Then the girls clutched each other and were stricken speechless as a great crash sounded from the kitchen. As the young man from the laboratory had prophesied, the ceiling had fallen. "And I had the nicest biscuits for supper I ever made," moaned Lyddy. "They were just as fluffy----" "Oh, bother your biscuits!" snapped 'Phemie. "Have you had the doctor for father?" "I--I've sent for one," replied Lyddy, faintly, suddenly conscience-stricken by the fact that she had accepted the assistance of the young stranger, to whom she had never been introduced! "Oh, dear! I hope he comes soon." "How long has he been this way, Lyd? Why didn't you send for me?" demanded the younger sister, clasping her hands and leaning over the unconscious man. "Why, he came home from work just as usual. I--I didn't notice that he was worse," replied the older girl, breathlessly. "He said he'd lie down----" "You should have called the doctor then." "Why, dear, I tell you he seemed just the same. He almost always lies down when he comes home now. You know that." "Forgive me, Lyddy!" exclaimed 'Phemie, contritely. "Of course you are just as careful of father as you can be. But--but it's so _awful_ to see him lie like this." "He fainted without my knowing a thing about it," moaned Lyddy. "Oh! if it's only just a faint----" "He couldn't even have heard the noise upstairs over the fire." Just then a stream of water descended through the cracked bedroom ceiling, first upon the back of 'Phemie's neck, and then upon the drugget which covered the floor. "Suppose _this_ ceiling falls, too?" wailed Lyddy, wringing her hands. "I hope not! And we'll have to pay the doctor when he comes, Lyd. Have you got money enough in your purse?" "I--I guess so." "I'll not have any more after this week," broke out 'Phemie, suddenly. "They told me to-day the rush for Easter would be over Saturday night and they would have to let me go till next season. Isn't that mean?" Lydia Bray had sat down upon the edge of their father's bed. "I guess everything _has_ happened at once," she sighed. "I don't see what we shall do, 'Phemie." There came a scream from Aunt Jane. She charged into the bedroom wildly, the back of her dress all wet and her bonnet dangling over one ear. "Why, your parlor ceiling is just spouting water, girls!" she cried. Then she turned to look closely at the man on the bed. "John Bray looks awful bad, Lyddy. What does the doctor say?" Before her niece could reply there came a thundering knock at the hall door. "The doctor!" cried 'Phemie. Lyddy feared it was the young stranger returning, and she could only gasp. What should she say to him if he came in? How introduce him to Aunt Jane? But the latter lady took affairs into her own hands at this juncture and went to the door. She unlocked and threw it open. Several helmets and glistening rubber coats appeared vaguely in the hall. "Getting wet down here some; aren't you?" asked one of the firemen. "We'll spread some tarpaulins over your stuff. Fire's out--about." "And the water's _in_," returned Aunt Jane, tartly. "Nice time to come and try to save a body's furniture----" "Get it out of the adjusters. They'll be around," said the fireman, with a grin. "How much insurance have you, Lyddy?" demanded the aunt, when the firemen, after covering the already wet and bedraggled furniture, had clumped out in their heavy boots. "Not a penny, Aunt Jane!" cried her niece, wildly. "I never thought of it!" "Ha! you're not so much like your mother, then, as I thought. _She_ would never have overlooked such a detail." "I know it! I know it!" moaned Lyddy. "Now, you stop that, Aunt Jane!" exclaimed the bolder 'Phemie. "Don't you hound Lyd. She's done fine--of course she has! But anybody might forget a thing like insurance." "Humph!" grunted the old lady. Then she began again: "And what's the matter with John?" "It's the shop, Aunt," replied Lyddy. "He cannot stand the work any longer. I wish he might never go back to that place again." "And how are you going to live? What's 'Phemie getting a week?" "Nothing--after this week," returned the younger girl, shortly. "I sha'n't have any work, and I've only been earning six dollars." "Humph!" observed Aunt Jane for a second time. There came a light tap on the door. They could hear it, for the confusion and shouting in the house had abated. The fire scare was over; but the floor above was gutted, and a good deal of damage by water had been done on this floor. It was a physician, bag in hand. 'Phemie let him in. Lyddy explained how her father had come home and lain down and she had found him, when the fire scare began, unconscious on the bed--just as he lay now. A few questions explained to the physician the condition of Mr. Bray, and his own observation revealed the condition of the tenement. "He will be better off at the hospital. You are about wrecked here, I see. That young man who called me said he would ring up the City Hospital." The girls were greatly troubled; but Aunt Jane was practical. "Of course, that's the best place for him," she said. "Why! this flat isn't fit for a well person to stay in, let alone a sick man, until it is cleared up. I shall take you girls out with me to my boarding house for the night. Then--we'll see." The physician brought Mr. Bray to his senses; but the poor man knew nothing about the fire, and was too weak to object when they told him he was to be removed to the hospital for a time. The ambulance came and the young interne and the driver brought in the stretcher, covered Mr. Bray with a gray blanket, and took him away. The interne told the girls they could see their father in the morning and he, too, said it was mainly exhaustion that had brought about the sudden attack. Aunt Jane had been stalking about the sloppy flat--from the ruined kitchen to the front window. "Shut and lock that kitchen window, and lock the doors, and we'll go out and find a lodging," she said, briefly. "You girls can bring a bag for the night. Mine's at the station hard by; I'm glad I didn't bring it up here." It was when Lyddy shut and locked the kitchen window that she remembered the young man again. The plank had been removed, the laboratory window was closed, and the place unlighted. "I guess he has some of the instincts of a gentleman, after all," she told herself. "He didn't come back to bother me after doing what he could to help." Two hours later the Bray girls were seated in their aunt's comfortable room at a boarding house on a much better block than the one on which the tenement stood. Aunt Jane had ordered up tea and toast, and was sipping the one and nibbling the other contentedly before a grate fire. "This is what I call comfort," declared the old lady, who still kept her bonnet on--nor would she remove it save to change it for a nightcap when she went to bed. "This is what I call comfort. A pleasant room in a house where I have no responsibilities, and enough noise outside to assure me that I am in a live town. My goodness me! when Hammond came along and wanted to marry me, and I knew I could leave Hillcrest and never have to go back----Well, I just about jumped down that man's throat I was so eager to say 'Yes!' Marry him? I'd ha' married a Choctaw Injun, if he'd promised to take me to the city." "Why, Aunt Jane!" exclaimed Lyddy. "Hillcrest Farm is a beautiful place. Mother took us there once to see it. Don't you remember, 'Phemie? _She_ loved it, too." "And I wish she'd had it as a gift from the old doctor," grumbled Aunt Jane. "But it wasn't to be. It's never been anything but a nuisance to me, if I _was_ born there." "Why, the view from the porch is the loveliest I ever saw," said Lyddy. "And all that romantic pile of rocks at the back of the farm!" exclaimed 'Phemie. "Ha! what's a view?" demanded the old lady, in her brusk way. "Just dirt and water. And that's what they say _we're_ made of. I like to study human bein's, I do; so I'd ruther have my view in town." "But it's so pretty----" "Fudge!" snapped Aunt Jane. "I've seen the time, when I was a growin' gal, and the old doctor was off to see patients, that I've stood on that same porch at Hillcrest and just _cried_ for the sight of somethin' movin' on the face of Natur' besides a cow. "View, indeed!" she pursued, hotly. "If I've got to look at views, I want plenty of 'life' in 'em; and I want the human figgers to be right up close in the foreground, too!" 'Phemie laughed. "And I think it would be just _blessed_ to get out of this noisy, dirty city, and live in a place like Hillcrest. Wouldn't you like it, Lyd?" "I'd love it!" declared her sister. "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Aunt Jane, sitting bolt upright, and looking actually startled. "Ain't that a way out, mebbe?" "What do you mean, Aunt Jane?" asked Lydia, quickly. "You know how I'm fixed, girls. Hammond left me just money enough so't I can live as I like to live--and no more. The farm's never been aught but an expense to me. Cyrus Pritchett is supposed to farm a part of it on shares; but my share of the crops never pays more'n the taxes and the repairs to the roofs of the old buildings. "It'd be a shelter to ye. The furniture stands jest as it did in the old doctor's day. Ye could move right in--and I expect it would mean a lease of life to your father. "A second-hand man wouldn't give ye ten dollars for your stuff in that flat. It's ruined. Ye couldn't live comfortable there any more. But if ye wanter go to Hillcrest I'm sure ye air more than welcome to the use of the place, and perhaps ye might git a bigger share of the crops out of Cyrus if ye was there, than I've been able to git. "What d'you say, girls--what d'you say?" CHAPTER III THE DOCTOR DISPOSES The Bray girls scarcely slept a wink that night. Not alone were they excited by the incidents of the evening, and the sudden illness of their father; but the possibilities arising out of Aunt Jane Hammond's suggestion fired the imagination of both Lyddy and 'Phemie. These sisters were eminently practical girls, and they came of practical stock--as note the old-fashioned names which their unromantic parents had put upon them in their helpless infancy. Yet there is a dignity to "Lydia" and a beauty to "Euphemia" which the thoughtless may not at once appreciate. Practical as they were, the thought of going to the old farmhouse to live--if their father could be moved to it at once--added a zest to their present situation which almost made their misfortune seem a blessing. Their furniture was spoiled, as Aunt Jane had said. And father was sick--a self-evident fact. This sudden ill turn which Mr. Bray had suffered worried both of his daughters more than any other trouble--indeed, more than all the others in combination. Their home was ruined--but, somehow, they would manage to find a shelter. 'Phemie would have no more work in her present position after this week, and Lyddy had secured no work at all; but fortune must smile upon their efforts and bring them work in time. These obstacles seemed small indeed beside the awful thought of their father's illness. How very, very weak and ill he had looked when he was carried out of the flat on that stretcher! The girls clung together in their bed in the lodging house, and whispered about it, far into the night. "Suppose he never comes out of that hospital?" suggested 'Phemie, in a trembling voice. "Oh, 'Phemie! don't!" begged her sister. "He _can't_ be so ill as all that. It's just a breakdown, as that doctor said. He has overworked. He--he mustn't ever go back to that hat shop again." "I know," breathed 'Phemie; "but what _will_ he do?" "It isn't up to him to do anything--it's up to _us_," declared Lyddy, with some measure of her confidence returning. "Why, look at us! Two big, healthy girls, with four capable hands and the average amount of brains. "I know, as city workers, we are arrant failures," she continued, in a whisper, for their room was right next to Aunt Jane's, and the partition was thin. "Do you suppose we could do better in the country?" asked 'Phemie, slowly. "And if I am not mistaken the house is full of old, fine furniture," observed Lyddy. "Well!" sighed the younger sister, "we'd be sheltered, anyway. But how about eating? Lyddy! I have _such_ an appetite." "She says we can have her share of the crops if we will pay the taxes and make the necessary repairs." "Crops! what do you suppose is growing in those fields at this time of the year?" "Nothing much. But if we could get out there early we might have a garden and see to it that Mr. Pritchett planted a proper crop. And we could have chickens--I'd love that," said Lyddy. "Oh, goodness, gracious me! Wouldn't we _all_ love it--father, too? But how can we even get out there, much more live till vegetables and chickens are ripe, on nothing a week?" "That--is--what--I--don't--see--yet," admitted Lyddy, slowly. "It's very kind of Aunt Jane," complained 'Phemie. "But it's just like opening the door of Heaven to a person who has no wings! We can't even reach Hillcrest." "You and I could," said her sister, vigorously. "How, please?" "We could walk." "Why, Lyd! It's fifty miles if it's a step!" "It's nearer seventy. Takes two hours on the train to the nearest station; and then you ride up the mountain a long, long way. But we could walk it." "And be tramps--regular tramps," cried 'Phemie. "Well, I'd rather be a tramp than a pauper," declared the older sister, vigorously. "But poor father!" "That's just it," agreed Lydia. "Of course, we can do nothing of the kind. We cannot leave him while he is sick, nor can we take him out there to Hillcrest if he gets on his feet again----" "Oh, Lyddy! don't talk that way. He _is_ going to be all right after a few days' rest." "I do not think he will ever be well if he goes back to work in that hat factory. If we could only get him to Hillcrest." "And there we'd all starve to death in a hurry," grumbled 'Phemie, punching the hard, little boarding-house pillow. "Oh, dear! what's the use of talking? There is no way out!" "There's always a way out--if we think hard enough," returned her sister. "Wish you'd promulgate one," sniffed 'Phemie. "I am going to think--and you do the same." "I'm going to----" "Snore!" finished 'Phemie. That ended the discussion for the time being. But Lydia lay awake and racked her tired brain for hours. The pale light of the raw March morning streaked the window-pane when Lydia was awakened by her sister hurrying into her clothes for the day's work at the millinery store. There would be but two days more for her there. And then? It was a serious problem. Lydia had perhaps ten dollars in her reserve fund. Father might not be paid for his full week if he did not go back to the shop. His firm was not generous, despite the fact that Mr. Bray had worked so long for them. A man past forty, who is frequently sick a day or two at a time, soon wears out the patience of employers, especially when there is young blood in the firm. 'Phemie would get her week's pay Saturday night. Altogether, Lyddy might find thirty dollars in her hand with which to face the future for all three of them! What could she get for their soaked furniture? These thoughts were with her while she was dressing. 'Phemie had hurried away after making her sister promise to telephone as to her father's condition the minute they allowed Lyddy to see him at the hospital. Aunt Jane was a luxurious lie-abed, and had ordered tea and toast for nine o'clock. Her oldest niece put on her shabby hat and coat and went out to the nearest lunch-room, where coffee and rolls were her breakfast. Then she walked down to Trimble Avenue and approached the huge, double-decker where they had lived. Salvage men were already carrying away the charred fragments of the furniture from the top floor. Lyddy hoped that, unlike herself, the Smiths and the others up there had been insured against fire. She plodded wearily up the four flights and unlocked one of the flat doors and entered. Two of the salvage men followed her in and removed the tarpaulins--which had been worse than useless. "No harm done but a little water, Miss," said one of them, consolingly. "But you talk up to the adjuster and he'll make it all right." They all thought, of course, that the Brays' furniture was insured. Lyddy closed the door and looked over the wrecked flat. The parlor furniture coverings were all stained, and the carpet's colors had "run" fearfully. Many of their little keepsakes and "gim-cracks" had been broken when the tarpaulins were spread. The bedrooms were in better shape, although the bedding was somewhat wet. But the kitchen was ruined. "Of course," thought Lyddy, "there wasn't much to ruin. Everything was cheap enough. But what a mess to clean up!" She looked out of the window across the air-shaft. There was the boy! He nodded and beckoned to her. He had his own window open. Lydia considered that she had no business to talk with this young man; yet he had played the "friend in need" the evening before. "How's your father?" he called, the moment she opened her window. "I do not know yet. They told me not to come to the hospital until nine-thirty." "I guess you're in a mess over there--eh?" he said, with his most boyish smile. But Lyddy was not for idle converse. She nodded, thanked him for his kindness the evening before, and firmly shut the window. She thought she knew how to keep _that_ young man in his place. But she hadn't the heart to do anything toward tidying up the flat now. And how she wished she might not _have_ to do it! "If we could only take our clothing and the bedding and little things, and walk out," she murmured, standing in the middle of the little parlor. To try to "pick up the pieces" here was going to be dreadfully hard. "I wish some fairy would come along and transport us all to Hillcrest Farm in the twinkling of an eye," said Lyddy to herself. "I--I'd rather starve out there than live as we have for the past three months here." She went to the door of the flat just as somebody tapped gently on the panel. A poorly dressed Jewish man stood hesitating on the threshold. "I'm sorry," said Lyddy, hastily; "but we had trouble here last night--a fire. I can't cook anything, and really haven't a thing to give----" Her mother had boasted that she had never turned away a beggar hungry from her door, and the oldest Bray girl always tried to feed the deserving. The man shook his head eagerly. "You ain't de idee got, lady," he said. "I know dere vas a fire. I foller de fires, lady." "You follow the fires?" returned Lyddy, in wonder. "Yes, lady. Don'dt you vant to sell de house-holdt furnishings? I pay de highest mar-r-ket brice for 'em. Yes, lady--I pay cash." "Why--why----" "You vas nodt insured--yes?" "No," admitted Lyddy. "Den I bay you cash for de goots undt you go undt puy new--ain'dt idt?" But Lyddy wasn't thinking of buying new furniture--not at all. She opened the door wider. "Come in and look," she invited. "What will you pay?" "Clodings, too?" he asked, shrewdly. "No, no! We will keep the clothing, bedding and kitchenware, and the like. Just the furniture." The man went through the flat quickly, but his bright, beady eyes missed nothing. Finally he said: "I gif you fifteen tollar, lady." "Oh, no! that is too little," gasped Lyddy. She had begun to figure mentally what it would cost to replace even the poor little things they had. And yet, if she could get any fair price for the goods she was almost tempted to sell out. "Lady! believe me, I make a goot offer," declared the man. "But I must make it a profit--no?" "I couldn't sell for so little." "How much you vant, den?" he asked shrewdly. "Oh! a great deal more than that. Ten dollars more, at least." "Twenty-fife tollars!" he cried, wringing his hands. "Belief me, lady, I shouldt be shtuck!" His use of English would have amused Lyddy at another time; but the girl's mind was set upon something more important. If she only _could_ get enough money together to carry them all to Hillcrest Farm--and to keep them going for a while! "Fifteen dollars would not do me much good, I am afraid," the girl said. "Oh, lady! you could buy a whole new house-furnishings mit so much money down--undt pay for de rest on de installment." "No," replied Lyddy, firmly. "I want to get away from here altogether. I want to get out into the country. My father is sick; we had to send him to the hospital last night." The second-hand man shook his head. "You vas a kindt-hearted lady," he said, with less of his professional whine. "I gif you twenty." And above that sum Lyddy could not move him. But she would not decide then and there. She felt that she must see her father, and consult with 'Phemie, and possibly talk to Aunt Jane, too. "You come here to-morrow morning and I'll tell you," she said, finally. She locked the flat again and followed the man down the long flights to the street. It was not far to the hospital and Lyddy did not arrive there much before the visitors' hour. The house physician called her into his office before she went up to the ward in which her father had been placed. Already she was assured that he was comfortable, so the keenness of her anxiety was allayed. "What are your circumstances, Miss Bray?" demanded the medical head of the hospital, bluntly. "I mean your financial circumstances?" "We--we are poor, sir. And we were burned out last night, and have no insurance. I do not know what we really shall do--yet." "You are the house-mother--eh?" he demanded. "I am the oldest. There are only Euphemia and me, beside poor papa----" "Well, it's regarding your father I must speak. He's in a bad way. We can do him little good here, save that he will rest and have nourishing food. But if he goes back to work again----" "I know it's bad for him!" cried Lyddy, with clasped hands. "But what can we do? He _will_ crawl out to the shop as long as they will let him come----" "He'll not crawl out for a couple of weeks--I'll see to that," said the doctor, grimly. "He'll stay here. But beyond that time I cannot promise. Our public wards are very crowded, and of course, you have no relatives, nor friends, able to furnish a private room----" "Oh, no, sir!" gasped Lyddy. "Nor is _that_ the best for him. He ought to be out of the city altogether--country air and food--mountain air especially----" "Hillcrest!" exclaimed Lyddy, aloud. "What's that?" the doctor snapped at her, quickly. She told him about the farm--where it was, and all. "That's a good place for him," replied the physician, coolly. "It's three or four hundred feet higher above sea-level than the city. It will do him more good to live in that air than a ton of medicine. And he can go in two weeks, or so. Good-morning, Miss Bray," and the busy doctor hurried away to his multitude of duties, having disposed of Mr. Bray's case on the instant. CHAPTER IV THE PILGRIMAGE Lydia Bray was shocked indeed when they allowed her in the ward to see her father. A nurse had drawn a screen about the bed, and nodded to her encouragingly. The pallor of Mr. Bray's countenance, as he lay there with his eyes closed, unaware of her presence, frightened the girl. She had never seen him utterly helpless before. He had managed to get around every day, even if sometimes he could not go to work. But now the forces of his system seemed to have suddenly given out. He had overtaxed Nature, and she was paying him for it. "Lyddy!" he whispered, when finally his heavy-lidded eyes opened and he saw her standing beside the cot. The girl made a brave effort to look and speak cheerfully; and Mr. Bray's comprehension was so dulled that she carried the matter off very successfully while she remained. She spoke cheerfully; she chatted about their last night's experiences; she even laughed over some of Aunt Jane's sayings--Aunt Jane was always a source of much amusement to Mr. Bray. But the nurse had warned her to be brief, and soon she was beckoned away. She knew he was in good hands at the hospital, and that they would do all that they could for him. But what the house physician had told her was uppermost in her mind as she left the institution. How were they to get to Hillcrest--and live after arriving there? "If that man paid me twenty dollars for our furniture, I might have fifty dollars in hand," she thought. "It will cost us something like two dollars each for our fares. And then there would be the freight and baggage, and transportation for ourselves up to Hillcrest from the station. "And how would it do to bring father to an old, unheated house--and so early in the spring? I guess the doctor didn't think about that. "And how will we live until it is time for us to go--until father is well enough to be moved? All our little capital will be eaten up!" Lyddy's practical sense then came to her aid. Saturday night 'Phemie would get through at the millinery shop. They must not remain dependent upon Aunt Jane longer than over Sunday. "The thing to do," she decided, "is for 'Phemie and me to start for Hillcrest immediately--on Monday morning at the latest. If one of us has to come back for father when he can be moved, all right. The cost will not be so great. Meanwhile we can be getting the old house into shape to receive him." She found Aunt Jane sitting before her fire, with a tray of tea and toast beside her, and her bonnet already set jauntily a-top of her head, the strings flowing. "You found that flat in a mess, I'll be bound!" observed Aunt Jane. Lydia admitted it. She also told her what the second-hand man had offered. "Twenty dollars?" cried Aunt Jane. "Take it, quick, before he has a change of heart!" But when Lyddy told her of what the doctor at the hospital had said about Mr. Bray, and how they really seemed forced into taking up with the offer of Hillcrest, the old lady looked and spoke more seriously. "You're just as welcome to the use of the old house, and all you can make out of the farm-crop, as you can be. I stick to what I told you last night. But I dunno whether you can really be comfortable there." "We'll find out; we'll try it," returned Lyddy, bravely. "Nothing like trying, Aunt Jane." "Humph! there's a good many things better than trying, sometimes. You've got to have sense in your trying. If it was me, I wouldn't go to Hillcrest for any money you could name! "But then," she added, "I'm old and you are young. I wish I could sell the old place for a decent sum; but an abandoned farm on the top of a mountain, with the railroad station six miles away, ain't the kind of property that sells easy in the real estate market, lemme tell you! "Besides, there ain't much of the two hundred acres that's tillable. Them romantic-looking rocks that 'Phemie was exclaimin' over last night, are jest a nuisance. Humph! the old doctor used to say there was money going to waste up there in them rocks, though. I remember hearing him talk about it once or twice; but jest what he meant I never knew." "Mineral deposits?" asked Lyddy, hopefully. "Not wuth anything. Time an' agin there's been college professors and such, tappin' the rocks all over the farm for 'specimens.' But there ain't nothing in the line of precious min'rals in that heap of rocks at the back of Hillcrest Farm--believe me! "Dr. Polly useter say, however, that there was curative waters there. He used 'em some in his practise towards the last. But he died suddent, you know, and nobody ever knew where he got the water--'nless 'twas Jud Spink. And Jud had run away with a medicine show years before father died. "Well!" sighed Aunt Jane. "If you can find any way of makin' a livin' out of Hillcrest Farm, you're welcome to it. And--just as that hospital doctor says--it may do your father good to live there for a spell. But _me_--it always give me the fantods, it was that lonesome." It seemed, as Aunt Jane said, "a way opened." Yet Lyddy Bray could not see very far ahead. As she told 'Phemie that night, they could get to the farm, bag and baggage; but how they would exist after their arrival was a question not so easy to answer. Lyddy had gone to one of the big grocers and bought and paid for an order of staple groceries and canned goods which would be delivered at the railroad station nearest to Hillcrest on Monday morning. Thus all their possessions could be carted up to the farm at once. She had spent the afternoon at the flat collecting the clothing, bedding, and other articles they proposed taking with them. These goods she had taken out by an expressman and shipped by freight before six o'clock. In the morning she met the second-hand man at the ruined flat and he paid her the twenty dollars as promised. And Lyddy was glad to shake the dust of the Trimble Avenue double-decker from her feet. As she turned away from the door she heard a quick step behind her and an eager voice exclaimed: "I say! I say! You're not moving; are you?" Lydia was exceedingly disturbed. She knew that boy in the laboratory window had been watching closely what was going on in the flat. And now he had _dared_ follow her. She turned upon him a face of pronounced disapproval. "I--I beg your pardon," he stammered. "But I hope your father's better? Nothing's happened to--to him?" "We are going to take him away from the city--thank you," replied Lyddy, impersonally. She noted with satisfaction that he had run out without his cap, and in his work-apron. He could not follow her far in such a rig through the public streets, that was sure. "I--I'm awful sorry to have you go," he said, stammeringly. "But I hope it will be beneficial to your father. I--I---- You see, my own father is none too well and we have often talked of his living out of town somewhere--not so far but that I could run out for the week-end, you know." Lyddy merely nodded. She would not encourage him by a single word. "Well--I wish you all kinds of luck!" exclaimed the young fellow, finally, holding out his hand. "Thank you," returned the very proper Lyddy, and failed to see his proffered hand, turning promptly and walking away, not even vouchsafing him a backward look when she turned the corner, although she knew very well that he was still standing, watching her. "He may be a very nice young man," thought Lyddy; "but, then----" Sunday the two girls spent a long hour with their father. They found him prepared for the move in prospect for the family--indeed, he was cheerful about it. The house physician had evidently taken time to speak to the invalid about the change he advised. "Perhaps by fall I shall be my own self again, and we can come back to town and all go to work. We'll worry along somehow in the country for one season, I am sure," said Mr. Bray. But that was what troubled Lyddy more than anything else. They were all so vague as to what they should do at Hillcrest--how they would be able to live there! Father said something about when he used to have a garden in their backyard, and how nice the fresh vegetables were; and how mother had once kept hens. But Lyddy could not see yet how they were to have either a garden or poultry. They were all three enthusiastic--to each other. And the father was sure that in a fortnight he would be well enough to travel alone to Hillcrest; they must not worry about him. Aunt Jane was to remain in town all that time, and she promised to report frequently to the girls regarding their father's condition. "I certainly wish I could help you gals out with money," said the old lady that evening. "You're the only nieces I've got, and I feel as kindly towards you as towards anybody in this wide world. "Maybe we can get a chance to sell the farm. If we can, I'll help you then with a good, round sum. Now, then! you fix up the old place and make it look less like the Wrath o' Fate had struck it and maybe some foolish rich man will come along and want to buy it. If you find a customer, I'll pay you a right fat commission, girls." But this was "all in the offing;" the Bray girls were concerned mostly with their immediate adventures. To set forth on this pilgrimage to Hillcrest Farm--and alone--was an event fraught with many possibilities. Both Lyddy and 'Phemie possessed their share of imagination, despite their practical characters; and despite the older girl's having gone to college for two years, she, or 'Phemie, knew little about the world at large. So they looked forward to Monday morning as the Great Adventure. It was a moist, sweet morning, even in the city, when they betook themselves early to the railway station, leaving Aunt Jane luxuriously sipping tea and nibbling toast in bed--_this_ time with her nightcap on. March had come in like a lion; but its lamblike qualities were now manifest and it really did seem as though the breath of spring permeated the atmosphere--even down here in the smoky, dirty city. The thought of growing things inspired 'Phemie to stop at a seed store near the station and squander a few pennies in sweet-peas. "I know mother used to put them in just as soon as she could dig at all in the ground," she told her sister. "I don't believe they'll be a very profitable crop," observed Lyddy. "My goodness me!" exclaimed 'Phemie, "let's retain a little sentiment, Lyd! We can't eat 'em--no; but they're sweet and restful to look at. I'm going to have moon-flowers and morning-glories, too," and she recklessly expended more pennies for those seeds. Their train was waiting when they reached the station and the sisters boarded it in some excitement. 'Phemie's gaiety increased the nearer they approached to Bridleburg, which was their goal. She was a plump, rosy girl, with broad, thick plaits of light-brown hair ("molasses-color" she called it in contempt) which she had begun to "do up" only upon going to work. She had a quick blue eye, a laughing mouth, rather wide, but fine; a nose that an enemy--had laughing, good-natured Euphemia Bray owned one--might have called "slightly snubbed," and her figure was just coming into womanhood. Lydia's appearance was entirely different. They did not look much like sisters, to state the truth. The older girl was tall, straight as a dart, with a dignity of carriage beyond her years, dark hair that waved very prettily and required little dressing, and a clear, colorless complexion. Her eyes were very dark gray, her nose high and well chiseled, like Aunt Jane's. She was more of a Phelps. Aunt Jane declared Lyddy resembled Dr. Apollo, or "Polly," Phelps more than had either of his own children. The train passed through a dun and sodden country. The late thaw and the rains had swept the snow from these lowlands; the unfilled fields were brown and bare. Here and there, however, rye and wheat sprouted green and promising, and in the distance a hedge of water-maples along the river bank seemed standing in a purple mist, for their young leaves were already pushing into the light. "There will be pussy-willows," exclaimed 'Phemie, "and hepaticas in the woods. Think of _that_, Lyddy Bray!" "And the house will be as damp as the tomb--and not a stick of wood cut--and no stoves," returned the older girl. "Oh, dear, me! you're such an old grump!" ejaculated 'Phemie. "Why try to cross bridges before you come to them?" "Lucky for you, Miss, that I _do_ think ahead," retorted Lyddy with some sharpness. There was a grade before the train climbed into Bridleburg. Back of the straggling old town the mountain ridge sloped up, a green and brown wall, breaking the wind from the north and west, thus partially sheltering the town. There was what farmers call "early land" about Bridleburg, and some trucking was carried on. But the town itself was much behind the times--being one of those old-fashioned New England settlements left uncontaminated by the mill interests and not yet awakened by the summer visitor, so rife now in most of the quiet villages of the six Pilgrim States. The rambling wooden structure with its long, unroofed platform, which served Bridleburg as a station, showed plainly what the railroad company thought of the town. Many villages of less population along the line boasted modern station buildings, grass plots, and hedges. All that surrounded Bridleburg's barrack-like depôt was a plaza of bare, rolled cinders. On this were drawn up the two 'buses from the rival hotels--the "New Brick Hotel," built just after the Civil War, and the Eagle House. Their respective drivers called languidly for customers as the passengers disembarked from the train. Most of these were traveling men, or townspeople. It was only mid-forenoon and Lyddy did not wish to spend either time or money at the local hostelries, so she shook her head firmly at the 'bus drivers. "We want to get settled by night at Hillcrest--if we can," she told 'Phemie. "Let's see if your baggage and freight are here, first of all." She waited until the station agent was at leisure and learned that all their goods--a small, one-horse load--had arrived. "You two girls goin' up to the old Polly Phelps house?" ejaculated the agent, who was a "native son" and knew all about the "old doctor," as Dr. Apollo Phelps had been known throughout two counties and on both sides of the mountain ridge. "Why, it ain't fit for a stray cat to live in, I don't believe--that house ain't," he added. "More'n twenty year since the old doctor died, and it's been shut up ever since. "What! you his grandchildren? Sho! Mis' Bray--I remember. She was the old doctor's daughter by his secon' wife. Ya-as. "Well, if I was you, I'd go to Pritchett's house to stop first. Can't be that the old house is fit to live in, an' Pritchett is your nighest neighbor." "Thank you," Lyddy said, quietly. "And can you tell me whom we could get to transport our goods--and ourselves--to the top of the ridge?" "Huh? Why! I seen Pritchett's long-laiged boy in town jest now--Lucas Pritchett. He ain't got away yet," responded the station agent. "I ventur' to say you'll find him up Market Street a piece--at Birch's store, or the post-office. This train brung in the mail. "If he's goin' up light he oughter be willin' to help you out cheap. It's a six-mile tug, you know; you wouldn't wanter walk it." He pointed up the mountainside. Far, far toward the summit of the ridge, nestling in a background of brown and green, was a splash of vivid white. "That's Pritchett's," vouchsafed the station agent. "If Dr. Polly Phelps' house had a coat of whitewash you could see it, too--jest to the right and above Pritchett's. Highest house on the ridge, it is, and a mighty purty site, to my notion." CHAPTER V LUCAS PRITCHETT The Bray girls walked up the village street, which opened directly out of the square. It might have been a quarter of a mile in length, the red brick courthouse facing them at the far end, flanked by the two hotels. When "court sat" Bridleburg was a livelier town than at present. On either hand were alternately rows of one, or two-story "blocks" of stores and offices, or roomy old homesteads set in the midst of their own wide, terraced lawns. There were a few pleasant-looking people on the walks and most of these turned again to look curiously after the Bray girls. Strangers--save in court week--were a novelty in Bridleburg, that was sure. Market Street was wide and maple-shaded. Here and there before the stores were "hitching racks"--long wooden bars with iron rings set every few feet--to which a few horses, or teams, were hitched. Many of the vehicles were buckboards, much appreciated in the hill country; but there were farm wagons, as well. It was for one of these latter the Bray girls were in search. The station agent had described Lucas Pritchett's rig. "There it is," gasped the quick-eyed 'Phemie, "Oh, Lyd! _do_ look at those ponies. They're as ragged-looking as an old cowhide trunk." "And that wagon," sighed Lyddy. "Shall we ride in it? We'll be a sight going through the village." "We'd better wait and see if he'll take us," remarked 'Phemie. "But I should worry about what people here think of us!" As she spoke a lanky fellow, with a lean and sallow face, lounged out of the post-office and across the walk to the heads of the disreputable-looking ponies. He wore a long snuff-colored overcoat that might have been in the family for two or three generations, and his overalls were stuck into the tops of leg-boots. "That's Lucas--sure," whispered 'Phemie. But she hung back, just the same, and let her sister do the talking. And the first effect of Lyddy's speech upon Lucas Pritchett was most disconcerting. "Good morning!" Lyddy said, smiling upon the lanky young farmer. "You are Mr. Lucas Pritchett, I presume?" He made no audible reply, although his lips moved and they saw his very prominent Adam's apple rise and fall convulsively. A wave of red suddenly washed up over his face like a big breaker rolling up a sea-beach; and each individual freckle at once took on a vividness of aspect that was fairly startling to the beholder. "You _are_ Mr. Pritchett?" repeated Lyddy, hearing a sudden half-strangled giggle from 'Phemie, who was behind her. "Ya-as--I be," finally acknowledged the bashful Lucas, that Adam's apple going up and down again like the slide on a trombone. "You are going home without much of a load; aren't you, Mr. Pritchett?" pursued Lyddy, with a glance into the empty wagon-body. "Ya-as--I be," repeated Lucas, with another gulp, trying to look at both girls at once and succeeding only in looking cross-eyed. "We are going to be your nearest neighbors, Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, briskly. "Our aunt, Mrs. Hammond, has loaned us Hillcrest to live in and we have our baggage and some other things at the railway station to be carted up to the house. Will you take it--and us? And how much will you charge?" Lucas just gasped--'Phemie declared afterward, "like a dying fish." This was altogether too much for Lucas to grasp at once; but he had followed Lyddy up to a certain point. He held forth a broad, grimed, calloused palm, and faintly exclaimed: "You're Mis' Hammon's nieces? Do tell! Maw'll be pleased to see ye--an' so'll Sairy." He shook hands solemnly with Lyddy and then with 'Phemie, who flashed him but a single glance from her laughing eyes. The "Italian sunset effect," as 'Phemie dubbed Lucas's blushes, began to fade out of his countenance. "Can you take us home with you?" asked Lyddy, impatient to settle the matter. "I surely can," exclaimed Lucas. "You hop right in." "No. We want to know what you will charge first--for us and the things at the depôt?" "Not a big load; air they?" queried Lucas, doubtfully. "You know the hill's some steep." Lyddy enumerated the packages, Lucas checking them off with nods. "I see," he said. "We kin take 'em all. You hop in----" But 'Phemie was pulling the skirt of her sister's jacket and Lyddy said: "No. We have some errands to do. We'll meet you up the street. That is your way home?" and she indicated the far end of Market Street. "Ya-as." "And what will you charge us?" "Not more'n a dollar, Miss," he said, grinning. "I wouldn't ax ye nothin'; but this is dad's team and when I git a job like this he allus expects his halvings." "All right, Mr. Pritchett. We'll pay you a dollar," agreed Lyddy, in her sedate way. "And we'll meet you up the street." Lucas unhitched the ponies and stepped into the wagon. When he turned them and gave them their heads the ragged little beasts showed that they were a good deal like the proverbial singed cat--far better than they looked. "I thought you didn't care what people thought of you here?" observed Lyddy to her sister, as the wagon went rattling down the street. "Yet it seems you don't wish to ride through Bridleburg in Mr. Pritchett's wagon." "My goodness!" gasped 'Phemie, breathless from giggling. "I don't mind the wagon. But _he's_ a freak, Lyd!" "Sh!" "Did you ever see such a face? And those freckles!" went on the girl, heedless of her sister's admonishing voice. "Somebody may hear you," urged Lyddy. "What if?" "And repeat what you say to him." "And _that_ should worry me!" returned 'Phemie, gaily. "Oh, dear, Lyd! don't be a grump. This is all a great, big joke--the people and all. And Lucas is certainly the capsheaf. Did you ever in your life before even imagine such a freak?" But Lyddy would not join in her hilarity. "These country people may seem peculiar to us, who come fresh from the city," she said, with some gravity. "But I wonder if we don't appear quite as 'queer' and 'green' to them as they do to us?" "We couldn't," gasped 'Phemie. "Hurry on, Lyd. Don't let him overtake us before we get to the edge of town." They passed the courthouse and waited for Lucas and the farm wagon on the outskirts of the village--where the more detached houses gave place to open fields. No plow had been put into these lower fields as yet; still, the coming spring had breathed upon the landscape and already the banks by the wayside were turning green. 'Phemie became enthusiastic at once and before Lucas hove in view, evidently anxiously looking for them, the younger girl had gathered a great bunch of early flowers. "They're mighty purty," commented the young farmer, as the girls climbed over the wheel with their muddy boots and all. 'Phemie, giggling, took her seat on the other side of him. She had given one look at the awkwardly arranged load on the wagon-body and at once became helpless with suppressed laughter. If the girls she had worked with in the millinery store for the last few months could see them and their "lares and penates" perched upon this farm wagon, with this son of Jehu for a driver! "I reckon you expect to stay a spell?" said Lucas, with a significant glance from the conglomerate load to Lyddy. "Yes--we hope to," replied the oldest Bray girl. "Do you think the house is in very bad shape inside?" "I dunno. We never go in it, Miss," responded Lucas, shaking his head. "Mis' Hammon' never left us the key--not to upstairs. Dad's stored cider and vinegar in the cellar under the east ell for sev'ral years. It's a better cellar'n we've got. "An' I dunno what dad'll say," he added, "to your goin' up there to live." "What's he got to do with it?" asked 'Phemie, quickly. "Why, we work the farm on shares an' we was calc'latin' to do so this year." "Our living in the house doesn't interfere with that arrangement," said Lyddy, quietly. "Aunt Jane told us all about that. I have a letter from her for your father." "Aw--well," commented Lucas, slowly. The ponies had begun to mount the rise in earnest now. They tugged eagerly at the load, and trotted on the level stretches as though tireless. Lyddy commented upon this, and Lucas flushed with delight at her praise. "They're hill-bred, they be," he said, proudly. "Tackle 'em to a buggy, or a light cart, an' up hill or down hill means the same to 'em. They won't break their trot. "When it comes plowin' time we clip 'em, an' then they don't look so bad in harness," confided the young fellow. "If--if you like, I'll take you drivin' over the hills some day--when the roads git settled." "Thank you," responded Lyddy, non-committally. But 'Phemie giggled "How nice!" and watched the red flow into the young fellow's face with wicked appreciation. The roads certainly had not "settled" after the winter frosts, if this one they were now climbing was a proper sample. 'Phemie and Lyddy held on with both hands to the smooth board which served for a seat to the springless wagon--and they were being bumped about in a most exciting way. 'Phemie began to wonder if Lucas was not quite as much amused by their unfamiliarity with this method of transportation as she was by his bashfulness and awkward manners. Lyddy fairly wailed, at last: "Wha--what a dread--dreadful ro-o-o-ad!" and she seized Lucas suddenly by the arm nearest to her and frankly held on, while the forward wheel on her side bounced into the air. "Oh, this ain't bad for a mountain road," the young farmer declared, calmly. "Oh, oh!" squealed 'Phemie, the wheel on her side suddenly sinking into a deep rut, so that she slid to the extreme end of the board. "Better ketch holt on me, Miss," advised Lucas, crooking the arm nearest 'Phemie. "You city folks ain't useter this kind of travelin', I can see." But 'Phemie refused, unwilling to be "beholden" to him, and the very next moment the ponies clattered over a culvert, through which the brown flood of a mountain stream spurted in such volume that the pool below the road was both deep and angry-looking. There was a washout gullied in the road here. Down went the wheel on 'Phemie's side, and with the lurch the young girl lost her insecure hold upon the plank. With a screech she toppled over, plunging sideways from the wagon-seat, and as the hard-bitted ponies swept on 'Phemie dived into the foam-streaked pool! CHAPTER VI NEIGHBORS Lucas Pritchett was not as slow as he seemed. In one motion he drew in the plunging ponies to a dead stop, thrust the lines into Lyddy's hands, and vaulted over the wheel of the farm wagon. "Hold 'em!" he commanded, pulling off the long, snuff-colored overcoat. Flinging it behind him he tore down the bank and, in his high boots, waded right into the stream. Poor 'Phemie was beyond her depth, although she rose "right side up" when she came to the surface. And when Lucas seized her she had sense enough not to struggle much. "Oh, oh, oh!" she moaned. "The wa--water is s-so cold!" "I bet ye it is!" agreed the young fellow, and gathering her right up into his arms, saturated as her clothing was, he bore her to the bank and clambered to where Lyddy was doing all she could to hold the restive ponies. "Whoa, Spot and Daybright!" commanded the young farmer, soothing the ponies much quicker than he could his human burden. "Now, Miss, you're all right----" "All r-r-right!" gasped 'Phemie, her teeth chattering like castanets. "I--I'm anything _but_ right!" "Oh, 'Phemie! you might have been drowned," cried her anxious sister. "And now I'm likely to be frozen stiff right here in this road. Mrs. Lot wasn't a circumstance to me. She only turned to salt, while I am be-be-coming a pillar of ice!" But Lucas had set her firmly on her feet, and now he snatched up the old overcoat which had so much amused 'Phemie, and wrapped it about her, covering her from neck to heel. "In you go--sit 'twixt your sister and me this time," panted the young man. "We'll hustle home an' maw'll git you 'twixt blankets in a hurry." "She'll get her death!" moaned Lyddy, holding the coat close about the wet girl. "Look out! We'll travel some now," exclaimed Lucas, leaping in, and having seized the reins, he shook them over the backs of the ponies and shouted to them. The remainder of that ride up the mountain was merely a nightmare for the girls. Lucas allowed the ponies to lose no time, despite the load they drew. But haste was imperative. A ducking in an icy mountain brook at this time of the year might easily be fraught with serious consequences. Although it was drawing toward noon and the sun was now shining, there was no great amount of warmth in the air. Lucas must have felt the keen wind himself, for he was wet, too; but he neither shivered nor complained. Luckily they were well up the mountainside when the accident occurred. The ponies flew around a bend where a grove of trees had shut off the view, and there lay the Pritchett house and outbuildings, fresh in their coat of whitewash. "Maw and Sairy'll see to ye now," cried Lucas, as he neatly clipped the gatepost with one hub and brought the lathered ponies to an abrupt stop in the yard beside the porch. "Hi, Maw!" he added, as a very stout woman appeared in the doorway--quite filling the opening, in fact. "Hi, Maw! Here's Mis' Hammon's nieces--an' one of 'em's been in Pounder's Brook!" "For the land's sake!" gasped the farmer's wife, pulling a pair of steel-bowed spectacles down from her brows that she might peer through them at the Bray girls. "Ain't it a mite airly for sech didoes as them?" "Why, Maw!" sputtered Lucas, growing red again. "She didn't _go_ for to do it--no, ma'am!" "Wa-al! I didn't know. City folks is funny. But come in--do! Mis' Hammon's nieces, d'ye say? Then you must be John Horrocks Bray's gals--ain't ye?" "We are," said Lyddy, who had quickly climbed out over the wheel and now eased down the clumsy bundle which was her sister. "Can you stand, 'Phemie?" "Ye-es," chattered her sister. "I hope you can take us in for a little while, Mrs. Pritchett," went on the older girl. "We are going up to Hillcrest to live." "Take ye in? Sure! An' 'twon't be the first city folks we've harbored," declared the lady, chuckling comfortably. "They're beginnin' to come as thick as spatters in summer to Bridleburg, an' some of 'em git clear up this way---- For the land's sake! that gal's as wet as sop." "It--it was wet water I tumbled into," stuttered 'Phemie. Mrs. Pritchett ushered them into the big, warm kitchen, where the table was already set for dinner. A young woman--not so _very_ young, either--as lank and lean as Lucas himself, was busy at the stove. She turned to stare at the visitors with near-sighted eyes. "This is my darter, Sairy," said "Maw" Pritchett. "She taught school two terms to Pounder's school; but it was bad for her eyes. I tell her to git specs; but she 'lows she's too young for sech things." "The oculists advise glasses nowadays for very young persons," observed Lyddy politely, as Sairy Pritchett bobbed her head at them in greeting. "So I tell her," declared the farmer's wife. "But she won't listen to reason. Ye know how young gals air!" This assumption of Sairy's extreme youth, and that Lyddy would understand her foibles because she was so much older, amused the latter immensely. Sairy was about thirty-five. Meanwhile Mrs. Pritchett bustled about with remarkable spryness to make 'Phemie comfortable. There was a warm bedroom right off the kitchen--for this was an old-fashioned New England farmhouse--and in this the younger Bray girl took off her wet clothing. Lyddy brought in their bag and 'Phemie managed to make herself dry and tidy--all but her great plaits of hair--in a very short time. She would not listen to Mrs. Pritchett's advice that she go to bed. But she swallowed a bowl of hot tea and then declared herself "as good as new." The Bray girls had now to tell Mrs. Pritchett and her daughter their reason for coming to Hillcrest, and what they hoped to do there. "For the land's sake!" gasped the farmer's wife. "I dunno what Cyrus'll say to this." It struck Lyddy that they all seemed to be somewhat in fear of what Mr. Pritchett might say. He seemed to be a good deal of a "bogie" in the family. "We shall not interfere with Mr. Pritchett's original arrangement with Aunt Jane," exclaimed Lyddy, patiently. "Well, ye'll hafter talk to Cyrus when he comes in to dinner," said the farmer's wife. "I dunno how he'll take it." "_We_ should worry about how he 'takes it,'" commented 'Phemie in Lyddy's ear. "I guess we've got the keys to Hillcrest and Aunt Jane's permission to live in the house and make what we can off the place. What more is there to it?" But the older Bray girl caught a glimpse of Cyrus Pritchett as he came up the path from the stables, and she saw that he was nothing at all like his rotund and jolly wife--not in outward appearance, at least. The Pritchett children got their extreme height from Cyrus--and their leanness. He was a grizzled man, whose head stooped forward because he was so tall, and who looked fiercely on the world from under penthouse brows. Every feature of his countenance was grim and forbidding. His cheeks were gray, with a stubble of grizzled beard upon them. When he came in and was introduced to the visitors he merely grunted an acknowledgment of their names and immediately dropped into his seat at the head of the table. As the others came flocking about the board, Cyrus Pritchett opened his lips just once, and not until the grace had been uttered did the visitors understand that it was meant for a reverence before meat. "For wha' we're 'bout to r'ceive make us tru' grat'ful--pass the butter, Sairy," and the old man helped himself generously and began at once to stow the provender away without regard to the need or comfort of the others about his board. But Maw Pritchett and her son and daughter seemed to be used to the old man's way, and they helped each other and the Bray girls with no niggard hand. Nor did the shuttle of conversation lag. "Why, I ain't been in the old doctor's house since he died," said Mrs. Pritchett, reflectively. "Mis' Hammon', she's been up here two or three times, an' she allus goes up an' looks things over; but I'm too fat for walkin' up to Hillcrest--I be," concluded the lady, with a chuckle. She seemed as jolly and full of fun as her husband was morose. Cyrus Pritchett only glowered on the Bray girls when he looked at them at all. But Lyddy and 'Phemie joined in the conversation with the rest of the family. 'Phemie, although she had made so much fun of Lucas at first, now made amends by declaring him to be a hero--and sticking to it! "I'd never have got out of that pool if it hadn't been for Lucas," she repeated; "unless I could have drunk up the water and walked ashore that way! And o-o-oh! wasn't it cold!" "Hope you're not going to feel the effects of it later," said her sister, still anxious. "I'm all right," assured the confident 'Phemie. "I dunno as it'll be fit for you gals to stay in the old house to-night," urged Mrs. Pritchett. "You'll hafter have some wood cut." "I'll do that when I take their stuff up to Hillcrest," said Lucas, eagerly, but flushing again as though stricken with a sudden fever. "There are no stoves in the house, I suppose?" Lyddy asked, wistfully. "Bless ye! Dr. Polly wouldn't never have a stove in his house, saving a cook-stove in the kitchen, an' of course, that's ate up with rust afore this," exclaimed the farmer's wife. "He said open fireplaces assured every room its proper ventilation. He didn't believe in these new-fangled ways of shuttin' up chimbleys. My! but he was powerful sot on fresh air an' sunshine. "Onct," pursued Mrs. Pritchett, "he was called to see Mis' Fibbetts--she that was a widder and lived on 'tother side of the ridge, on the road to Adams. She had a mis'ry of some kind, and was abed with all the winders of her room tight closed. "'Open them winders,' says Dr. Polly to the neighbor what was a-nussin' of Mis' Fibbetts. "Next time he come the winders was down again. Dr. Polly warn't no gentle man, an' he swore hard, he did. He flung up the winders himself, an' stamped out o' the room. "It was right keen weather," chuckled Mrs. Pritchett, her double chins shaking with enjoyment, "and Mis' Fibbetts was scart to death of a leetle air. Minute Dr. Polly was out o' sight she made the neighbor woman shet the winders ag'in. "But when Dr. Polly turned up the ridge road he craned out'n the buggy an' he seen the winders shet. He jerked his old boss aroun', drove back to the house, stalked into the sick woman's room, cane in hand, and smashed every pane of glass in them winders, one after another. "'Now I reckon ye'll git air enough to cure ye 'fore ye git them mended,' says he, and marched him out again. An' sure 'nough old Mis' Fibbetts got well an' lived ten year after. But she never had a good word for Dr. Polly Phelps, jest the same," chuckled the narrator. "Well, we'll make out somehow about fires," said Lyddy, cheerfully, "if Lucas can cut us enough wood to keep them going." "I sure can," declared the ever-ready youth, and just here Cyrus Pritchett, having eaten his fill, broke in upon the conversation in a tone that quite startled Lyddy and 'Phemie Bray. "I wanter know what ye mean to do up there on the old Polly Phelps place?" he asked, pushing back his chair, having set down his coffee-cup noisily, and wiped his cuff across his lips. "I gotta oral contract with Jane Hammon' to work that farm. It's been in force year arter year for more'n ten good year. An' that contract ain't to be busted so easy." "Now, Father!" admonished Mrs. Pritchett; but the old man glared at her and she at once subsided. Cyrus Pritchett certainly was a masterful man in his own household. Lucas dropped his gaze to his plate and his face flamed again. But Sairy turned actually pale. Somehow the cross old man did not make Lyddy Bray tremble. She only felt angry that he should be such a bully in his own home. "Suppose you read Aunt Jane's letter, Mr. Pritchett," she said, taking it from her handbag and laying it before the farmer. The old man grunted and slit the flap of the envelope with his greasy tableknife. He drew his brows down into even a deeper scowl as he read. "So she turns her part of the contract over to you two chits of gals; does she?" said Mr. Pritchett, at last. "Humph! I don't think much of that, now I tell ye." "Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, firmly, "if you don't care to work the farm for us on half shares, as you have heretofore with Aunt Jane, pray say so. I assure you we will not be offended." "And what'll you do then?" he growled. "If you refuse to put in a crop for us?" "Ya-as." "Get some other neighboring farmer to do so," replied Lyddy, promptly. "Oh, you will, eh?" growled Cyrus Pritchett, sitting forward and resting his big hands on his knees, while he glared like an angry dog at the slight girl before him. The kitchen was quite still save for his booming voice. The family was evidently afraid of the old man's outbursts of temper. But Lyddy Bray's courage rose with her indignation. This cross old farmer was a mere bully after all, and there was never a bully yet who was not a moral coward! "Mr. Pritchett," she told him, calmly, "you cannot frighten me by shouting at me. I may as well tell you right now that the crops you have raised for Aunt Jane of late years have not been satisfactory. We expect a better crop this year, and if you do not wish to put it in, some other neighbor will. "This is a good time to decide the matter. What do you say?" CHAPTER VII HILLCREST Mrs. Pritchett and Sairy really were frightened by Lyddy Bray's temerity. As for Lucas, he still hung his head and would not look at his father. Cyrus Pritchett had bullied his family so long that to be bearded in his own house certainly amazed him. He glared at the girl for fully a minute, without being able to formulate any reply. Then he burst out with: "You let me ketch any other man on this ridge puttin' a plow inter the old doctor's land! I've tilled it for years, I tell ye----" "And you can till it again, Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, softly. "You needn't holler so about it--we all hear you." The coolness of the girl silenced him. "So, now it's understood," she went on, smiling at him brightly. "And we'll try this year to make a little better crop. We really must get something more out of it than the taxes." "Jane Hammon' won't buy no fertilizer," growled Mr. Pritchett, put on the defensive--though he couldn't tell why. "An' ye can't grow corn on run-down land without potash an' kainit, and the like." "Well, you shall tell us all about that later," declared Lyddy, "and we'll see. I understand that you can't get blood from a turnip. We want to put Hillcrest in better shape--both in and out of the house--and then there'll be a better chance to sell it." Cyrus Pritchett's eyes suddenly twinkled with a shrewd light. "Does Jane Hammon' really want to sell the farm?" he queried. "If she gets a good offer," replied Lyddy. "That's what we hope to do while we're at Hillcrest--make the place more valuable and more attractive to the possible buyer." "Ha!" grunted Cyrus, sneeringly. "She'll get a fancy price for Hillcrest--not!" But that ended the discussion. "Maw" Pritchett looked on in wonder. She had seen her husband beaten in an argument by a "chit of a girl"--and really, Cyrus did not seem to be very ugly, or put out about it, either! He told Lucas to put the ponies to the wagon again, and to take the Bray girls and their belongings up to Hillcrest; and to see that they were comfortable for the night before he came back. This encouraged Mrs. Pritchett, when Lyddy took out her purse to pay for their entertainment, to declare: "For the good land, no! We ain't goin' to charge ye for a meal of vittles--and you gals Dr. Polly Phelps's own grandchildren! B'sides, we want ye to be neighborly. It's nice for Sairy to have young companions, too. I tell her she'll git to be a reg'lar old maid if she don't 'sociate more with gals of her own age." Sairy bridled and blushed at this. But she wasn't an unkind girl, and she helped 'Phemie gather their possessions--especially the latter's wet clothing. "I'm sure I wish ye joy up there at the old house," said Sairy, with a shudder. "But ye wouldn't ketch me." "Catch you doing what?" asked 'Phemie, wonderingly. "Stayin' in Dr. Phelps's old house over night," explained Sairy. "Why not?" The farmer's daughter drew close to 'Phemie's ear and whispered: "It's ha'nted!" "_What?_" cried 'Phemie. "Ghosts," exclaimed Sairy, in a thrilling voice. "All old houses is ha'nted. And that's been give up to ghosts for years an' years." "Oh, goody!" exclaimed 'Phemie, clasping her hands and almost dancing in delight. "Do you mean it's a really, truly haunted house?" Sairy Pritchett gazed at her with slack jaw and round eyes for a minute. Then she sniffed. "Wa-al!" she muttered. "I re'lly thought you was _bright_. But I see ye ain't got any too much sense, after all," and forthwith refused to say anything more to 'Phemie. But the younger Bray girl decided to say nothing about the supposed ghostly occupants of Hillcrest to her sister--for the present, at least. There was still half a mile of road to climb to Hillcrest, for the way was more winding than it had been below; and as the girls viewed the summit of the ridge behind Aunt Jane's old farm they saw that the heaped-up rocks were far more rugged than romantic, after all. "There's two hundred acres of it," Lucas observed, chirruping to the ponies. "But more'n a hundred is little more'n rocks. And even the timber growin' among 'em ain't wuth the cuttin'. Ye couldn't draw it out. There's firewood enough on the place, and a-plenty! But that's 'bout all--'nless ye wanted to cut fence rails, or posts." "What are those trees at one side, near the house?" queried Lyddy, interestedly. "The old orchard. _There's_ your nearest firewood. Ain't been much fruit there since I can remember. All run down." And, indeed, Hillcrest looked to be, as they approached it, a typical run-down farm. Tall, dry weed-stalks clashed a welcome to them from the fence corners as the ponies turned into the lane from the public road. The sun had drawn a veil of cloud across his face and the wind moaned in the gaunt branches of the beech trees that fringed the lane. The house was set upon a knoll, with a crumbling, roofed porch around the front and sides. There were trees, but they were not planted near enough to the house to break the view on every side but one of the sloping, green and brown mountainside, falling away in terraced fields, patches of forest, tablelands of rich, tillable soil, and bush-cluttered pastures, down into the shadowy valley, through which the river and the railroad wound. Behind Hillcrest, beyond the outbuildings, and across the narrow, poverty-stricken fields, were the battlements of rock, shutting out all view but that of the sky. Lonely it was, as Aunt Jane had declared; but to the youthful eyes of the Bray girls the outlook was beautiful beyond compare! "Our land jines this farm down yonder a piece," explained Lucas, drawing in the ponies beside the old house. "Ye ain't got nobody behind ye till ye git over the top of the ridge. Your line follers the road on this side, and on the other side of the road is Eben Brewster's stock farm of a thousand acres--mostly bush-parsture an' rocks, up this a-way." The girls were but momentarily interested in the outlook, however. It was the old house itself which their bright eyes scanned more particularly as they climbed down from the wagon. There were two wings, or "ells." In the west wing was the kitchen and evidently both sitting and sleeping rooms, upstairs and down--enough to serve all their present needs. Aunt Jane had told them that there were, altogether, twenty-two rooms in the old house. Lucas hitched his horses and then began to lift down their luggage. Lyddy led the way to the side door, of which she had the key. The lower windows were defended by tight board shutters, all about the house. The old house had been well guarded from the depredations of casual wayfarers. Had tramps passed this way the possible plunder in the old house had promised to be too bulky to attract them; and such wanderers could have slept as warmly in the outbuildings. Lyddy inserted the key and, after some trouble, for the lock was rusty, turned it. There was an ancient brass latch, and she lifted it and pushed the door open. "My! isn't it dark--and musty," the older sister said, hesitating on the threshold. "Welcome to the ghosts of Hillcrest," spoke 'Phemie, in a sepulchral voice. "Oh, don't!" gasped Lyddy. She had not been afraid of Cyrus Pritchett, but 'Phemie's irreverence for the spirits of the old house shocked her. "All right," laughed the younger girl. "We'll cut out the ghosts, then." "We most certainly _will_. If I met a ghost here I'd certainly cut him dead!" 'Phemie went forward boldly and opened the door leading into the big kitchen. It was gloomy there, too, for the shutters kept out most of the light. The girls could see, however, that it was a well-furnished room. They were delighted, too, for this must be their living-room until they could set the house to rights. "Dust, dust everywhere," said 'Phemie, making a long mark in it with her finger on the dresser. "But _only_ dust. We can get cleaned up here all right by evening. Come! unhook the shutters and let in the light of day." The younger girl raised one of the small-paned window sashes, unbolted the shutter, and pushed both leaves open. The light streamed in and almost at once Lucas's head appeared. "How does it look to ye--eh?" he asked, grinning. "Gee! the hearth's all cleared and somebody's had a fire here." "It must have been a long time ago," returned Lyddy, noting the crusted ashes between the andirons. "Wa-al," said Lucas, slowly. "I'll git to work with the axe an' soon start ye a fire there, B-r-r-r! it's cold as a dog's nose in there," and he disappeared again. But the sunlight and air which soon flooded the room through all the windows quickly gave the long-shut-up kitchen a new atmosphere. 'Phemie already had on a working dress, having changed at the Pritchett house after her unfortunate ducking; Lyddy soon laid aside her own better frock, too. Then they found their bundle of brooms and brushes, and set to work. There was a pump on the back porch and a well in the yard. During all these empty years the leather valve of the pump had rotted away; but Lucas brought them water from the well. "I kin git the shoemaker in town to cut ye out a new leather," said the young farmer. "He's got a pattern. An' I can put it in for ye. The pump'll be a sight handier than the well for you two gals." "Now, isn't he a nice boy?" demanded Lyddy of her sister. "And you called him a freak." "Don't rub it in, Lyd," snapped 'Phemie. "But it is hard to have to accept a veritable gawk of a fellow like Lucas--for that's what he _is_!--as a sure-enough hero." This was said aside, of course, and while Lucas was doing yeoman's work at the woodpile. He had brought in a huge backlog, placed it carefully, laid a forestick and the kindling, and soon blue and yellow flames were weaving through the well-built structure of the fire. There was a swinging crane for the kettle and a long bar with hooks upon it, from which various cooking pots could dangle. Built into the chimney, too, was a brick oven with a sheet-iron door. The girls thought all these old-fashioned arrangements delightful, whether they proved convenient, or not. They swept and dusted the old kitchen thoroughly, and cleaned the cupboards and pantry-closet. Then they turned their attention to the half bedchamber, half sitting-room that opened directly out of the kitchen. In these two rooms they proposed to live at first--until their father could join them, at least. There was an old-time high, four-post bed in this second room. It had been built long before some smart man had invented springs, and its frame was laced from side to side, and up and down, like the warp and woof of a rug, with a "bedrope" long since rotted and moth-eaten. "My goodness me!" exclaimed 'Phemie, laughing. "That will never hold you and me, Lyd. We'll just have to stuff that old tick with hay and sleep on the floor." But Lucas heard their discussion and again came to their help. Lyddy had bought a new clothesline when she purchased her food supplies at the city department store, and the clever Lucas quickly roped the old bedstead. "That boy certainly is rising by leaps and bounds in my estimation," admitted 'Phemie, in a whisper, to her sister. Then came the problem of the bed. Lyddy had saved their pillows from the wreck of the flat; but the mattresses had gone with the furniture to the second-hand man. There might be good feather beds in the farmhouse attic; Aunt Jane had said something about them, Lyddy believed. But there was no time to hunt for these now. "Here is a tick," 'Phemie said again. "What'll we fill it with?" "Give it to me," volunteered Lucas. "One of the stable lofts is half full of rye straw. We thrashed some rye on this place last year. It's jest as good beddin' for humans as it is for cattle, I declare." "All right," sighed 'Phemie. "We'll bed down like the cows for a while. I don't see anything better to do." But really, by sunset, they were nearly to rights and the prospect for a comfortable first night at Hillcrest was good. Lucas's huge fire warmed both the kitchen and the bedroom, despite the fact that the evening promised to be chilly, with the wind mourning about the old house and rattling the shutters. The girls closed the blinds, made all cozy, and bade young Pritchett good-night. Lyddy had paid him the promised dollar for transporting their goods, and another half-dollar for the work he had done about the house that afternoon. "And I'll come up in the mornin' an' bring ye the milk an' eggs maw promised ye," said Lucas, as he drove away, "and I'll cut ye some more wood then." There was already a great heap of sticks beside the hearth, and in the porch another windrow, sheltered from any possible storm. "We're in luck to have such good neighbors," sighed Lyddy, as the farm wagon rattled away. "My! but we're going to have good times here," declared 'Phemie, coming into the house after her and closing and locking the door. "It's a long way off from everybody else," observed the older sister, in a doubtful tone. "But I don't believe we shall be disturbed." "Nonsense!" cried 'Phemie. "Let's have supper. I'm starved to death." She swung the blackened old tea-kettle over the blaze, and moved briskly about the room laying the cloth, while Lyddy got out crackers and cheese and opened a tin of meat before she brewed the comforting cup of tea that both girls wanted. However, they _were_ alone--half a mile from the nearest habitation--and if nothing else, they could not help secretly comparing their loneliness with the tenement in the city from which they had so recently graduated. CHAPTER VIII THE WHISPER IN THE DARK 'Phemie was very bold--until something really scared her--and then she was quite likely to lose her head altogether. Lyddy was timid by nature, but an emergency forced her courage to high pressure. They both, however, tried to ignore the fact that they were alone in the old house, far up on the mountainside, and a considerable distance from any neighbor. That was why they chattered so all through supper--and afterward. Neither girl cared to let silence fall upon the room. The singing of the kettle on the crane was a blessing. It made music that drove away "that lonesome feeling." And when it actually bubbled over and the drip of it fell hissing into the fire, 'Phemie laughed as though it were a great joke. "Such a jolly thing as an open fire is, I declare," she said, sitting down at last in one of the low, splint-bottomed chairs, when the supper dishes were put away. "I don't blame Grandfather Phelps for refusing to allow stoves to be put up in his day." "I fancy it would take a deal of wood to heat the old house in real cold weather," Lyddy said. "But it _is_ cheerful." "Woo-oo! woo-oo-oo!" moaned the wind around the corner of the house. A ghostly hand rattled a shutter. Then a shrill whistle in the chimney startled them. At such times the sisters talked all the faster--and louder. It was really quite remarkable how much they found to say to each other. They wondered how father was getting along at the hospital, and if Aunt Jane would surely see him every day or two, and write them. Then they exchanged comments upon what they had seen of Bridleburg, and finally fell back upon the Pritchetts as a topic of conversation--and that family seemed an unfailing source of suggestion until finally 'Phemie jumped up, declaring: "What's the use of this, Lyd? Let's go to bed. We're both half scared to death, but we'll be no worse off in bed----And, b-r-r-r! the fire's going down." They banked the fire as Lucas had advised them, put out the lamp, and retired with the candle to the bedroom. The straw mattress rustled as though it were full of mice, when the sisters had said their prayers and climbed into bed. 'Phemie blew out the candle; but she had laid matches near it on the high stand beside her pillow. "I hope there _are_ feather beds in the garret," she murmured, drowsily. "This old straw is _so_ scratchy." "We'll look to-morrow," Lyddy said. "Aunt Jane said we could make use of anything we found here. But, my! it's a big house for only three people." "It is," admitted 'Phemie. "I'd feel a whole lot better if it was full of folks." "I have it!" exclaimed Lyddy, suddenly. "We might take boarders." "Summer boarders?" asked her sister, curiously. "I--I s'pose so." "That's a long way ahead. It's winter yet," and 'Phemie snuggled down into her pillow. "Folks from the city would never want to come to an old house like this--with so few conveniences in it." "_We_ like it; don't we?" demanded Lyddy. "I don't know whether we do yet, or not," replied 'Phemie. "Let's wait and see." 'Phemie was drowsy, yet somehow she couldn't fall asleep. Usually she was the first of the two to do so; but to-night Lyddy's deeper breathing assured the younger sister that she alone was awake in all the great, empty house. And Sairy Pritchett had intimated that Hillcrest was haunted! Now, 'Phemie didn't believe in ghosts--not at all. She would have been very angry had anyone suggested that there was a superstitious strain in her character. Yet, as she lay there beside her sleeping sister she began to hear the strangest sounds. It wasn't the wind; nor was it the low crackling of the fire on the kitchen hearth. She could easily distinguish both of these. Soon, too, she made out the insistent gnawing of a rat behind the mopboard. That long-tailed gentleman seemed determined to get in; but 'Phemie was not afraid of rats. At least, not so long as they kept out of sight. But there were other noises. Once 'Phemie had all but lost herself in sleep when--it seemed--a voice spoke directly in her ear. It said: "_I thought I'd find you here._" 'Phemie started into a sitting posture in the rustling straw bed. She listened hard. The voice was silent. The fire was still. The wind had suddenly dropped. Even the rat had ceased his sapping and mining operations. What had frightened Mr. Rat away? He, too, must have heard that mysterious voice. 'Phemie could not believe she had imagined it. Was that a rustling sound? Were those distant steps she heard--somewhere in the house? Did she hear a door creak? She slipped out of bed, drew on her woollen wrapper and thrust her feet into slippers. She saw that it was bright moonlight outside, for a pencil of light came through a chink in one of the shutters. Lyddy slept as calmly as a baby--and 'Phemie was glad. Of course, it was all foolishness about ghosts; but she believed there was somebody prowling about the house. She lit the candle and after the flame had sputtered a bit and began to burn clear she carried it into the kitchen. Their little round alarm clock ticked modestly on the dresser. It was not yet ten o'clock. "Not the 'witching hour of midnight, when graveyards yawn'--and other people do, too," thought 'Phemie, giggling nervously. "Surely ghosts cannot be walking yet." Indeed, she was quite assured that what she had heard--both the voice and the footsteps--were very much of the earth, earthy. There was nothing supernatural in the mysterious sounds. And it seemed to 'Phemie as though the steps had retreated toward the east ell--the other wing of the rambling old farmhouse. What was it Lucas Pritchett had said about his father using the cellar under the east wing at Hillcrest? Yet, what would bring Cyrus Pritchett--or anybody else--up here to the vinegar cellar at ten o'clock at night? 'Phemie grew braver by the minute. She determined to run this mystery down, and she was quite sure that it would prove to be a very human and commonplace mystery after all. She opened the door between the kitchen and the dark side hall by which they had first entered the old house that afternoon. Although she had never been this way, 'Phemie knew that out of this square hall opened a long passage leading through the main house to the east wing. And she easily found the door giving entrance to this corridor. But she hesitated when she stood on the threshold, and almost gave up the venture altogether. A cold, damp breath rushed out at her--just as though some huge, subterranean monster lay in wait for her in the darkness--a darkness so dense that the feeble ray of her candle could only penetrate it a very little way. "How foolish of me!" murmured 'Phemie. "I've come so far--I guess I can see it through." She certainly did not believe that the steps and voice were inside the house. The passage was empty before her. She refused to let the rising tide of trepidation wash away her self-control. So she stepped in boldly, holding the candle high, and proceeded along the corridor. There were tightly closed doors on either side, and behind each door was a mystery. She could not help but feel this. Every door was a menace to her peace of mind. "But I will _not_ think of such things," she told herself. "I know if there _is_ anybody about the house, it is a very human somebody indeed--and he has no business here at this time of night!" In her bed-slippers 'Phemie's light feet fell softly on the frayed oilcloth that carpeted the long hall. Dimly she saw two or three heavy, ancient pieces of furniture standing about--a tall escritoire with three paneled mirrors, which reflected herself and her candle dimly; a long davenport with hungry arms and the dust lying thick upon its haircloth upholstery; chairs with highly ornate spindles in their perfectly "straight up and down," uncomfortable-looking backs. She came to the end of the hall. A door faced her which she was sure must lead into the east wing. There, Aunt Jane had said, old Dr. Polly Phelps had had his office, consultation room, and workshop, or laboratory. 'Phemie's hand hesitated on the latch. Should she venture into the old doctor's rooms? The greater part of his long and useful life had been spent behind this green-painted door. 'Phemie, of course, had never seen her grandfather; but she had seen his picture--that of a tall, pink-faced, full-bodied man, his cheeks and lips cleanly shaven, but with a fringe of silvery beard under his chin, and long hair. It seemed to her for a moment as though, if she opened this door, the apparition of the old doctor, just as he was in his picture, would be there to face her. "You little fool!" whispered the shaken 'Phemie to herself. "Go on!" She lifted the latch. The door seemed to stick. She pressed her knee against the panel; it did not give at all. And then she discovered that the door was locked. But the key was there, and in a moment she turned it creakingly and pushed the door open. The air in the corridor had been still; but suddenly a strong breeze drew this green door wide open. The wind rushed past, blew out the candle, and behind her the other door, which she had left ajar, banged heavily, echoing and reechoing through the empty house. 'Phemie was startled, but she understood at once the snuffing of her candle and the closing of the other door. She only hoped Lyddy would not be frightened by the noise--or by her absence from her side. "I'll see it through, just the same," declared the girl, her teeth set firmly on her lower lip. "Ha! driven away by a draught--not I!" She groped her way into the room and closed the green door. There was a match upon her candlestick and she again lighted the taper. Quickly the first room in this east wing suite was revealed to her gaze. This had been the anteroom, or waiting-room for the old doctor's patients. There was a door opening on the side porch. A long, old-fashioned settee stood against one wall, and some splint-bottomed chairs were set stiffly about the room, while a shaky mahogany table, with one pedestal leg, occupied the center of the apartment. 'Phemie was more careful of the candle now and shielded the flame with her hollowed palm as she pushed open the door of the adjoining room. Here was a big desk with a high top and drop lid, while there were rows upon rows of drawers underneath. A wide-armed chair stood before the desk, just as it must have been used by the old doctor. The room was lined to the ceiling with cases of books and cupboards. Nobody had disturbed the doctor's possessions after his death. No younger physician had "taken over" his practice. 'Phemie went near enough to see that the desk, and the cupboards as well, were locked. There was a long case standing like an overgrown clock-case in one corner. The candle-light was reflected in the front of this case as though the door was a mirror. But when 'Phemie approached it she saw that it was merely a glass door with a curtain of black cambric hung behind it. She was curious to know what was in the case. It had no lock and key and she stretched forth a tentative hand and turned the old-fashioned button which held it closed. The door seemed fairly to spring open, as though pushed from within, and, as it swung outward and the flickering candle-light penetrated its interior, 'Phemie heard a sudden surprising sound. Somewhere--behind her, above, below, in the air, all about her--was a sigh! Nay, it was more than a sigh; it was a mighty and unmistakable yawn! And on the heels of this yawn a voice exclaimed: "I'm getting mighty tired of this!" 'Phemie flashed her gaze back to the open case. Fear held her by the throat and choked back the shriek she would have been glad to utter. For, dangling there in the case, its eyeless skull on a level with her own face, hung an articulated skeleton; and to 'Phemie Bray's excited comprehension it seemed as though both the yawn and the apt speech which followed it, had proceeded from the grinning jaws of the skull! CHAPTER IX MORNING AT HILLCREST The bang of the door, closed by the draught when 'Phemie had opened the way into the east wing, _had_ aroused Lyddy. She came to herself--to a consciousness of her strange surroundings--with a sharpness of apprehension that set every nerve in her body to tingling. "'Phemie! what is it?" she whispered. Then, rolling over on the rustling straw mattress, she reached for her sister's hand. But 'Phemie was not there. "'Phemie!" Lyddy cried loudly, sitting straight up in bed. She knew she was alone in the room, and hopped out of bed, shivering. She groped for her robe and her slippers. Then she sped swiftly into the kitchen. She knew where the lamp and the match-box were. Quickly she had the lamp a-light and then swept the big room with a startled glance. 'Phemie had disappeared. The outside door was still locked. It seemed to Lyddy as though the echoing slam of the door that had awakened her was still ringing in her ears. She ran to the hall door and opened it. Dark--and not a sound! Where could 'Phemie have gone? The older sister had never known 'Phemie to walk in her sleep. She had no tricks of somnambulism that Lyddy knew anything about. And yet the older Bray girl was quite sure her sister had come this way. The lamplight, when the door was opened wide, illuminated the square hall quite well. Lyddy ran across it and pushed open the door of the long corridor. There was no light in it, yet she could see outlined the huge pieces of furniture, and the ugly chairs. And at the very moment she opened this door, the door at the far end was flung wide and a white figure plunged toward her. "'Phemie!" screamed the older sister. "Lyddy!" wailed 'Phemie. And in a moment they were in each other's arms and Lyddy was dragging 'Phemie across the entrance hall into the lighted kitchen. "What is it? What _is_ it?" gasped Lyddy. "Oh, oh, oh!" was all 'Phemie was able to say for the moment; then, as she realized how really terrified her sister was, she continued her series of "ohs" while she thought very quickly. She knew very well what had scared her; but why add to Lyddy's fright? She could not explain away the voice she had heard. Of course, she knew very well it had _not_ proceeded from the skeleton. But why terrify Lyddy by saying anything about that awful thing? "What scared you so?" repeated Lyddy, shaking her a bit. "I--I don't know," stammered 'Phemie--and she didn't! "But why did you get up?" "I thought I heard something--voices--people talking--steps," gasped 'Phemie, and now her teeth began to chatter so that she could scarcely speak. "Foolish girl!" exclaimed Lyddy, rapidly recovering her own self-control. "You dreamed it. And now you've got a chill, wandering through this old house. Here! sit down there!" She drove her into a low chair beside the hearth. She ran for an extra comforter to wrap around her. She raked the ashes off the coals of the fire, and set the tea-kettle right down upon the glowing bed. In a minute it began to steam and gurgle, and Lyddy made her sister an old-fashioned brew of ginger tea. When the younger girl had swallowed half a bowlful of the scalding mixture she ceased shaking. And by that time, too, she had quite recovered her self-control. "You're a very foolish little girl," declared Lyddy, warningly, "to get up alone and go wandering about this house. Why, _I_ wouldn't do it for--for the whole farm!" "I--I dropped my candle. It went out," said 'Phemie, quietly. "I guess being in the dark scared me more than anything." "Now, that's enough. Forget it! We'll go to bed again and see if we can't get some sleep. Why! it's past eleven." So the sisters crept into bed again, and lay in each other's arms, whispering a bit and finally, before either of them knew it, they were asleep. And neither ghosts, nor whispering voices, nor any other midnight sounds disturbed their slumbers for the remainder of that first night at Hillcrest. They were awake betimes--and without the help of the alarm clock. It was pretty cold in the two rooms; but they threw kindling on the coals and soon the flames were playing tag through the interlacing sticks that 'Phemie heaped upon the fire. The kettle was soon bubbling again, while Lyddy mixed batter cakes. A little bed of live coals was raked together in front of the main fire and on this a well greased griddle was set, where the cakes baked to a tender brown and were skillfully lifted off by 'Phemie and buttered and sugared. What if a black coal or two _did_ snap over the cakes? And what if 'Phemie's hair _did_ get smoked and "smelly?" Both girls declared cooking before an open fire to be great fun. They had yet, however, to learn a lot about "how our foremothers cooked." "I don't for the life of me see how they ever used that brick oven," said Lyddy, pointing to the door in the side of the chimney. "Surely, that hole in the bricks would never heat from _this_ fire." "Ask Lucas," advised 'Phemie, and as though in answer to that word, Lucas himself appeared, bearing offerings of milk, eggs, and new bread. "Huh!" he said, in a gratified tone, sniffing in the doorway. "I told maw you two gals wouldn't go hungry. Ye air a sight too clever." "Thank you, Lucas," said Lyddy, demurely. "Will you have a cup of tea!" "No'm. I've had my breakfast. It's seven now and I'll go right t' work cutting wood for ye. That's what ye'll want most, I reckon. And I want to git ye a pile ready, for it won't be many days before we start plowin', an' then dad won't hear to me workin' away from home." Lyddy went out of doors for a moment and spoke to him from the porch. "Don't do too much trimming in the orchard, Lucas, till I have a look at the trees. I have a book about the care of an old orchard, and perhaps I can make something out of this one." "Plenty of other wood handy, Miss Lyddy," declared the lanky young fellow. "And it'll be easier to split than apple and peach wood, too." 'Phemie, meanwhile, had said she would run in and find the candle she had dropped in her fright the night before; but in truth it was more for the purpose of seeing the east wing of the old house by daylight--and that skeleton. "No need for Lyddy to come in here and have a conniption fit, too," thought the younger sister, "through coming unexpectedly upon that Thing in the case. "And, my gracious! he might just as well have been the author of that mysterious speech I heard. I should think he _would_ be tired of staying shut up in that box," pursued the girl, giggling nervously, as she stood before the open case in which the horrid thing dangled. Light enough came through the cracks in the closed shutters to reveal to her the rooms that the old doctor had so long occupied. 'Phemie closed the skeleton case and picked up her candle. Then she continued her investigation of the suite to the third room. Here were shelves and work-benches littered with a heterogeneous collection of bottles, tubes, retorts, filters, and other things of which 'Phemie did not even know the names or uses. There was a door, too, that opened directly into the back yard. But this door was locked and double-bolted. She was sure that the person, or persons, whom she had heard talking the night before had not been in this room. When she withdrew from the east wing she locked the green-painted door as she had found it; but in addition, she removed the key and hid it where she was sure nobody but herself would be likely to find it. Later she tackled Lucas. "I don't suppose you--or any of your folks--were up here last night, Lucas?" she asked the young farmer, out of her sister's hearing. "Me, Miss? I should say not!" replied the surprised Lucas. "But I heard voices around the house." "Do tell!" exclaimed he. "Who would be likely to come here at night?" "Why, I never heard the beat o' that," declared Lucas. "No, ma'am!" "Sh! don't let my sister hear," whispered 'Phemie. "She heard nothing." "Air you sure----" began Lucas, but at that the young girl snapped him up quick enough: "I am confident I even heard some things they said. They were men. It sounded as though they spoke over there by the east wing--_or in the cellar_." "Ye don't mean it!" exclaimed the wondering Lucas, leading the way slowly to the cellar-hatch just under the windows of the old doctor's workshop. This hatch was fastened by a big brass padlock. "Dad's got the key to that," said Lucas. "Jest like I told you, we have stored vinegar in it, some. Ain't many barrels left at this time o' year. Dad sells off as he can during the winter." "And, of course, your father didn't come up here last night?" "Shucks! O' course not," replied the young farmer. "Ain't no vinegar buyer around in this neighborhood now--an' 'specially not at night. Dad ain't much for goin' out in the evenin', nohow. He does sit up an' read arter we're all gone to bed sometimes. But it couldn't be dad you heard up here--no, Miss." So the puzzle remained a puzzle. However, the Bray girls had so much to do, and so much to think of that, after all, the mystery of the night occupied a very small part of 'Phemie's thought. Lyddy had something--and a very important something, she thought--on her mind. It had risen naturally out of the talk the girls had had when they first went to bed the evening before. 'Phemie had wished for a houseful of company to make Hillcrest less lonely; the older sister had seized upon the idea as a practical suggestion. Why not fill the big house--if they could? Why not enter the lists in the land-wide struggle for summer boarders? Of course, if Aunt Jane would approve. First of all, however, Lyddy wanted to see the house--the chambers upstairs especially; and she proposed to her sister, when their morning's work was done, that they make a tour of discovery. "Lead on," 'Phemie replied, eagerly. "I hope we find a softer bed than that straw mattress--and one that won't tickle so! Aunt Jane said we could do just as we pleased with things here; didn't she?" "Within reason," agreed Lyddy. "And that's all very well up to a certain point, I fancy. But I guess Aunt Jane doesn't expect us to make use of the whole house. We will probably find this west wing roomy enough for our needs, even when father comes." They ventured first up the stairs leading to the rooms in this wing. There were two nice ones here and a wide hall with windows overlooking the slope of the mountainside toward Bridleburg. They could see for miles the winding road up which they had climbed the day before. "Yes, this wing will do very nicely for _us_," Lyddy said, thinking aloud. "We can make that room downstairs where we're sleeping, our sitting-room when it comes warm weather; and that will give us all the rest of the house----" "All but the old doctor's offices," suggested 'Phemie, doubtfully. "There are three of them." "Well," returned Lyddy, "three and four are seven; and seven from twenty-two leaves fifteen. Some of the first-floor rooms we'll have to use as dining and sitting-rooms for the boarders----" "My goodness me!" exclaimed her sister, again breaking in upon her ruminations. "You've got the house full of boarders already; have you? What will Aunt Jane say?" "That we'll find out. But there ought to be at least twelve rooms to let. If there's as much furniture and stuff in all as there is in these----" "But how'll we ever get the boarders? And how'd we cook for 'em over that open fire? It's ridiculous!" declared 'Phemie. "_That_ is yet to be proved," returned her sister, unruffled. They pursued their investigation through the second-floor rooms. There were eight of them in the main part of the house and two in the east wing over the old doctor's offices. The last two were only partially furnished and had been used in their grandfather's day more for "lumber rooms" than aught else. It was evident that Dr. Phelps had demanded quiet and freedom in his own particular wing of Hillcrest. But the eight rooms in the main part of the house on this second floor were all of good size, well lighted, and completely furnished. Some of them had probably not been slept in for fifty years, for when the girls' mother, and even Aunt Jane, were young, Dr. Apollo Phelps's immediate family was not a large one. "The furniture is all old-fashioned, it is true," Lyddy said, reflectively. "There isn't a metal bed in the whole house----" "And I had just as lief sleep in a coffin as in some of these high-headed carved walnut bedsteads," declared 'Phemie. "You don't have to sleep in them," responded her sister, quietly. "But some people would think it a privilege to do so." "They can have _my_ share, and no charge," sniffed the younger girl. "That bed downstairs is bad enough. And what would we do for mattresses? That's _one_ antique they wouldn't stand for--believe me! Straw beds, indeed!" "We'll see about that. We might get some cheap elastic-felt mattresses, one at a time, as we needed them." "And springs?" "Some of the bedsteads are roped like the one we sleep on. Others have old-fashioned spiral springs--and there are no better made to-day. The rust can be cleaned off and they can be painted." "I see plainly you're laying out a lot of work for us," sighed 'Phemie. "Well, we've got to work to live," responded her sister, briskly. "Ya-as," drawled 'Phemie, in imitation of Lucas Pritchett. "But I don't want to feel as though I was just living to work!" "Lazybones!" laughed Lyddy. "You know, if we really got started in this game----" "A game; is it? Keeping boarders!" "Well?" "I fancy it's downright hard work," quoth 'Phemie. "But if it makes us independent? If it will keep poor father out of the shop? If it can be made to support us?" cried Lyddy. 'Phemie flushed suddenly and her eyes sparkled. She seized her more sedate sister and danced her about the room. "Oh, I don't care how hard I work if it'll do all that!" she agreed. "Come on, Lyd! Let's write to Aunt Jane right away." CHAPTER X THE VENTURE But Lyddy Bray never made up her mind in a hurry. Perhaps she was inclined to err on the side of caution. Whereas 'Phemie eagerly accepted a new thing, was enthusiastic about it for a time, and then tired of it unless she got "her second wind," as she herself laughingly admitted, Lyddy would talk over a project a long time before she really decided to act upon it. It was so in this case. Once having seen the vista of possibilities that Lyddy's plan revealed, the younger girl was eager to plunge into the summer-boarder project at once. But Lyddy was determined to know just what they had to work with, and just what they would need, before broaching the plan to Aunt Jane. So she insisted upon giving a more than cursory examination to each of the eight chambers on this second floor. Some of the pieces of old furniture needed mending; but most of the mending could be done with a pot of glue and a little ingenuity. Furthermore, a can of prepared varnish and some linseed oil and alcohol would give most of the well-made and age-darkened furniture the gloss it needed. There were old-style stone-china toilet sets in profusion, and plenty of mirrors, while there was closet room galore. The main lack, as 'Phemie had pointed out, was in the mattress line. But when the girls climbed to the garret floor they found one finished room there--a very good sleeping-room indeed--and on the bedstead in this room were stacked, one on top of another, at least a dozen feather beds. Each bed was wrapped in sheets of tarred paper--hermetically sealed from moths or other insect life. "Oh, for goodness sake, Lyd!" cried 'Phemie, "let's take one of these to sleep on. There are pillows, too; but we've got _them_. Say! we can put one of these beds on top of the straw tick and be in comfort at last." "All right. But the feather bed would be pretty warm for summer use," sighed Lyddy, as she helped her sister lift down one of the beds--priceless treasures of the old-time housewife. "Country folk--some of them--sleep on feathers the year 'round," proclaimed 'Phemie. "Perhaps your summer boarders can be educated up to it--or _down_ to it." "Well, we'll try the 'down' and see how it works," agreed Lyddy. "My! these feathers are pressed as flat as a pancake. The bed must go out into the sun and air and be tossed once in a while, so that the air will get through it, before there'll be any 'life' in these feathers. Now, don't try to do it all, 'Phemie. I'll help you downstairs with it in a minute. I just want to look into the big garret while we're up here. Dear me! isn't it dusty?" Such an attractive-looking assortment of chests, trunks, old presses, boxes, chests of drawers, decrepit furniture, and the like as was set about that garret! There was no end of old clothing hanging from the rafters, too--a forest of garments that would have delighted an old clo' man; but---- "Oo! Oo! Ooo!" hooted 'Phemie. "Look at the spider webs. Why, I wouldn't touch those things for the whole farm. I bet there are fat old spiders up there as big as silver dollars." "Well, we can keep away from that corner," said Lyddy, with a shudder. "I don't want old coats and hats. But I wonder what _is_ in those drawers. We shall want bed linen if we go into the business of keeping boarders." She tried to open some of the nearest presses and bureaus, but all were locked. So, rather dusty and disheveled, they retired to the floor below, between them managing to carry the feather bed out upon the porch where the sun could shine upon it. At noon Lyddy "buzzed" Lucas, as 'Phemie called it, about the way folk in the neighborhood cooked with an open fire, and especially about the use of the brick oven that was built into the side of the chimney. "That air contraption," confessed the young farmer, "ain't much more real use than a fifth leg on a caow--for a fac'. But old folks used 'em. My grandmaw did. "She useter shovel live coals inter the oven an' build a reg'lar fire on the oven bottom. Arter it was het right up she'd sweep aout the brands and ashes with long-handled brushes, an' then set the bread, an' pies, an' Injun puddin' an' the like--sometimes the beanpot, too--on the oven floor. Ye see, them bricks will hold heat a long time. "But lemme tell ye," continued Lucas, shaking his head, "it took the _know how_, I reckon, ter bake stuff right by sech means. My maw never could do it. She says either her bread would be all crust, or 'twas raw in the middle. "But now," pursued Lucas, "these 'ere what they call 'Dutch ovens' ain't so bad. I kin remember before dad bought maw the stove, she used a Dutch oven--an' she's got it yet. I know she'd lend it to you gals." "That's real nice of you, Lucas," said 'Phemie, briskly. "But what is it?" "Why, it's a big sheet-iron pan with a tight cover. You set it right in the coals and shovel coals on top of it and all around it. Things bake purty good in a Dutch oven--ya-as'm! Beans never taste so good to my notion as they useter when maw baked 'em in the old Dutch oven. An' dad says they was 'nough sight better when _he_ was a boy an' grandmaw baked 'em in an oven like that one there," and Lucas nodded at the closet in the chimney that 'Phemie had opened to peer into. "Ye see, it's the slow, steady heat that don't die down till mornin'--that's what bakes beans nice," declared this Yankee epicure. Lucas had a "knack" with the axe, and he cut and piled enough wood to last the girls at least a fortnight. Lyddy felt as though she could not afford to hire him more than that one day at present; but he was going to town next day and he promised to bring back a pump leather and some few other necessities that the girls needed. Before he went home Lucas got 'Phemie off to one side and managed to stammer: "If you gals air scart--or the like o' that--you jest say so an' I'll keep watch around here for a night or two, an' see if I kin ketch the fellers you heard talkin' last night." "Oh, Lucas! I wouldn't trouble you for the world," returned 'Phemie. Lucas's countenance was a wonderful lobster-like red, and he was so bashful that his eyes fairly watered. "'Twouldn't be no trouble, Miss 'Phemie," he told her. "'Twould be a pleasure--it re'lly would." "But what would folks say?" gasped 'Phemie, her eyes dancing. "What would your sister and mother say?" "They needn't know a thing about it," declared Lucas, eagerly. "I--I could slip out o' my winder an' down the shed ruff, an' sneak up here with my shot-gun." "Why, Mr. Pritchett! I believe you are in the habit of doing such things. I am afraid you get out that way often, and the family knows nothing about it." "Naw, I don't--only circus days, an' w'en the Wild West show comes, an'--an' Fourth of July mornin's. But don't you tell; will yer?" "Cross my heart!" promised 'Phemie, giggling. "But suppose you should shoot somebody around here with that gun?" "Sarve 'em aout jest right!" declared the young farmer, boldly. "B'sides, I'd only load it with rock-salt. 'Twould pepper 'em some." "Salt and pepper 'em, Lucas," giggled the girl. "And season 'em right, I expect, for breaking our rest." "I'll do it!" declared Lucas. "Don't you dare!" threatened 'Phemie. "Why--why----" Lucas was swamped in his own confusion again. "Not unless I tell you you may," said 'Phemie, smiling on him dazzlingly once more. "Wa-al." "Wait and see if we are disturbed again," spoke the girl, more kindly. "I really am obliged to you, Lucas; but I couldn't hear of your watching under our windows these cold nights--and, of course, it wouldn't be proper for us to let you stay in the house." "Wa-al," agreed the disappointed youth. "But if ye need me, ye'll let me know?" "Sure pop!" she told him, and was only sorry when he was gone that she could not tell Lyddy all about it, and give her older sister "an imitation" of Lucas as a cavalier. The girls wrote the letter to Aunt Jane that evening and the next morning they watched for the rural mail-carrier, who came along the highroad, past the end of their lane, before noon. He brought a letter from Aunt Jane for Lyddy, and he was ready to stop and gossip with the girls who had so recently come to Hillcrest Farm. "I'm glad to see some life about the old doctor's house again," declared the man. "I can remember Dr. Polly--everybody called him that--right well. He was a queer customer some ways--brusk, and sort of rough. But he was a good deal like a chestnut burr. His outside was his worst side. He didn't have no soothing bedside mannerisms; but if a feller was real _sick_, it was a new lease of life to jest have the old doctor come inter the room!" It made the girls happy and proud to have people speak this way of their grandfather. "He warn't a man who didn't make enemies," ruminated the mail-carrier. "He was too strong a man not to be well hated in certain quarters. He warn't pussy-footed. What he meant he said out square and straight, an' when he put his foot down he put it down emphatic. Yes, sir! "But he had a sight more friends than enemies when he died. And lots o' folks that thought they hated Dr. Polly could look back--when he was dead and gone--an' see how he'd done 'em many a kind turn unbeknownst to 'em at the time. "Why," rambled on the mail-carrier, "I was talkin' to Jud Spink in Birch's store only las' night. Jud ain't been 'round here for some time before, an' suthin' started talk about the old doctor. Jud, of course, sailed inter him." "Why?" asked 'Phemie, trying to appear interested, while Lyddy swiftly read her letter. "Oh, I reckon you two gals--bein' only granddaughters of the old doctor--never heard much about Jud Spink--Lemuel Judson Spink he calls hisself now, an' puts a 'professor' in front of his name, too." "Is he a professor?" asked 'Phemie. "I dunno. He's been a good many things. Injun doctor--actor--medicine show fakir--patent medicine pedlar; and now he owns 'Diamond Grits'--the greatest food on airth, _he_ claims, an' I tell him it's great all right, for man _an'_ beast!" and the mail-carrier went off into a spasm of laughter over his own joke. "Diamond Grits is a breakfast food," chuckled 'Phemie. "Do you s'pose horses would eat it, too?" "Mine will," said the mail-carrier. "Jud sent me a case of Grits and I fed most of it to this critter. Sassige an' buckwheats satisfy me better of a mornin', an' I dunno as this hoss has re'lly been in as good shape since I give it the Grits. "Wa-al, Jud's as rich as cream naow; but the old doctor took him as a boy out o' the poorhouse." "And yet you say he talks against grandfather?" asked 'Phemie, rather curious. "Ain't it just like folks?" pursued the man, shaking his head. "Yes, sir! Dr. Polly took Jud Spink inter his fam'bly and might have made suthin' of him; but Jud ran away with a medicine show----" "He's made a rich man of himself, you say?" questioned 'Phemie. "Ya-as," admitted the mail-carrier. "But everybody respected the old doctor, an' nobody respects Jud Spink--they respect his money. "Las' night Jud says the old doctor was as close as a clam with the lockjaw, an' never let go of a dollar till the eagle screamed for marcy. But he done a sight more good than folks knowed about--till after he died. An' d'ye know the most important clause in his will, Miss?" "In grandfather's will?" "Ya-as. It was the instructions to his execketer to give a receipted bill to ev'ry patient of his that applied for the same, free gratis for nothin'! An' lemme tell ye," added the mail-carrier, preparing to drive on again, "there was some folks on both sides o' this ridge that was down on the old doctor's books for sums they could never hope to pay." As he started off 'Phemie called after him, brightly: "I'm obliged to you for telling me what you have about grandfather." "Beginning to get interested in neighborhood gossip already; are you?" said her sister, when 'Phemie joined her, and they walked back up the lane. "I believe I am getting interested in everything folks can tell us about grandfather. In his way, Lyddy, Dr. Apollo Phelps must have been a great man." "I--I always had an idea he was a little _queer_," confessed Lyddy. "His name you know, and all----" "But people really _loved_ him. He helped them. He gave unostentatiously, and he must have been a very, very good doctor. I--I wonder what Aunt Jane meant by saying that grandfather used to say there were curative waters on the farm?" "I haven't the least idea," replied Lyddy. "Sulphur spring, perhaps--nasty stuff to drink. But listen here to what Aunt Jane says about father." "He's better?" cried 'Phemie. The older girl's tone was troubled. "I can't make out that he is," she said, slowly, and then she began to read Aunt Jane's disjointed account of her visit the day before to the hospital: * * * * * "I never _do_ like to go to such places, girls; they smell so of ether, and arniky, and collodion, and a whole lot of other unpleasant things. I wonder what makes drugs so nasty to smell of? "But, anyhow, I seen your father. John Bray is a sick man. Maybe he don't know it himself, but the doctors know it, and you girls ought to know it. I'm plain-spoken, and there isn't any use in making you believe he is on the road to recovery when he's going just the other way. "This head-doctor here, says he has no chance at all in the city. Of course, for me, if I was sick with anything, from housemaid's knee to spinal mengetus, going into the country would be my complete finish! But the doctors say it's different with your father. "And just as soon as John Bray can ride in a railroad car, I am going to see that he joins you at Hillcrest." "Bully!" cried 'Phemie, the optimistic. "Oh, Lyddy! he's bound to get well up here." For this chanced to be a very beautiful spring day and the girls were more than ever enamored of the situation. "I am not so sure," said Lyddy, slowly. "Don't be a grump!" commanded her sister. "He's just _got_ to get well up here." But Lyddy wondered afterward if 'Phemie believed what she said herself! They finished cleaning thoroughly the two rooms they were at present occupying and began on the chambers above. Dust and the hateful spiderwebs certainly had collected in the years the house had been unoccupied; but the Bray girls were not afraid of hard work. Indeed, they enjoyed it. Toward evening Lucas and his sister appeared, and the former set to work to repair the old pump on the porch, while Sairy sat down to "visit" with the girls of Hillcrest Farm. "It's goin' to be nice havin' you here, I declare," said Miss Pritchett, who had arranged two curls on either side of her forehead, which shook in a very kittenish manner when she laughed and bridled. "I guess, as maw says, I'm too much with old folks. Fust I know they'll be puttin' me away in the Home for Indignant Old Maids over there to Adams--though why 'indignant' I can't for the life of me guess, 'nless it's because they're indignant over the men's passin' of 'em by!" and Miss Pritchett giggled and shook her curls, to 'Phemie's vast amusement. Indeed, the younger Bray girl confessed to her sister, after the visitors had gone, that Sairy was more fun than Lucas. "But I'm afraid she's far on the way to the Home for Indigent Spinsters, and doesn't know it," chuckled 'Phemie. "What a freak she is!" "That's what you called Lucas--at first," admonished Lyddy. "And they're both real kind. Lucas wouldn't take a cent for mending the pump, and Sairy came especially to invite us to the Temperance Club meeting, at the schoolhouse Saturday night, and to go to church in their carriage with her and her mother on Sunday." "Yes; I suppose they _are_ kind," admitted 'Phemie. "And they can't help being funny." "Besides," said the wise Lyddy, "if we _do_ try to take boarders we'll need Lucas's help. We'll have to hire him to go back and forth to town for us, and depend on him for the outside chores. Why! we'd be like two marooned sailors on a desert island, up here on Hillcrest, if it wasn't for Lucas Pritchett!" The girls spent a few anxious days waiting for Aunt Jane's answer. And meantime they discussed the project of taking boarders from all its various angles. "Of course, we can't get boarders yet awhile," sighed 'Phemie. "It's much too early in the season." "Why is it? Aren't _we_ glad to be here at Hillcrest?" demanded Lyddy. "But see what sort of a place we lived in," said her sister. "And lots of other people live hived up in the cities just as close, only in better houses. There isn't much difference between apartment-houses and tenement-houses except the front entrance!" "That may be epigrammatical," chuckled 'Phemie, "but you couldn't make many folks admit it." "Just the same, there are people who need just this climate we've got here at this time of year. It will do them as much good as it will father." "You'd make a regular sanitarium of Hillcrest," cried 'Phemie. "Well, why not?" retorted Lyddy. "I guess the neighbors wouldn't object." 'Phemie giggled. "Advertise to take folks back to old-fashioned times and old-fashioned cooking." "Why not?" "Sleeping on feather beds; cooking in a brick oven like our great-great-grandmothers used to do! Open fireplaces. Great!" "Plain, wholesome food. They won't have to eat out of cans. No extras or luxuries. We could afford to take them cheap," concluded Lyddy, earnestly. "And we'll get a big garden planted and feed 'em on vegetables through the summer." "Oh, Lyddy, it _sounds_ good," sighed 'Phemie. "But do you suppose Aunt Jane will consent to it?" They received Aunt Jane's letter in reply to their own, on Saturday. * * * * * "You two girls go ahead and do what you please inside or outside Hillcrest," she wrote, "only don't disturb the old doctor's stuff in the lower rooms of the east ell. As long as you don't burn the house down I don't see that you can do any harm. And if you really think you can find folks foolish enough to want to live up there on the ridge, six miles from a lemon, why go ahead and do it. But I tell you frankly, girls, I'd want to be paid for doing it, and paid high!" Then the kind, if brusk, old lady went on to tell them where to find many things packed away that they would need if they _did_ succeed in getting boarders, including stores of linen, and blankets, and the like, as well as some good china and old silver, buried in one of the great chests in the attic. However, nothing Aunt Jane could write could quench the girls' enthusiasm. Already Lyddy and 'Phemie had written an advertisement for the city papers, and five dollars of Lyddy's fast shrinking capital was to be set aside for putting their desires before the newspaper-reading public. They could feel then that their new venture was really launched. CHAPTER XI AT THE SCHOOLHOUSE It was scarcely dusk on Saturday when Lucas drove into the side yard at Hillcrest with the ponies hitched to a double-seated buckboard. Entertainments begin early in the rural districts. The ponies had been clipped and looked less like animated cowhide trunks than they had when the Bray girls had first seen them and their young master in Bridleburg. "School teacher came along an' maw made Sairy go with him in his buggy," exclaimed Lucas, with a broad grin. "If Sairy don't ketch a feller 'fore long, an' clamp to him, 'twon't be maw's fault." Lucas was evidently much impressed by the appearance of Lyddy and 'Phemie when they locked the side door and climbed into the buckboard. Because of their mother's recent death the girls had dressed very quietly; but their black frocks were now very shabby, it was coming warmer weather, and the only dresses they owned which were fit to wear to an evening function of any kind were those that they had worn "for best" the year previous. But the two girls from the city had no idea they would create such a sensation as they did when Lucas pulled in the ponies with a flourish and stopped directly before the door of the schoolhouse. The building was already lighted up and there was quite an assemblage of young men and boys about the two front entrances. On the girls' porch, too, a number of the feminine members of the Temperance Club were grouped, and with them Sairy Pritchett. Her own arrival with the schoolmaster had been an effective one and she had waited with the other girls to welcome the newcomers from Hillcrest Farm, and introduce them to her more particular friends. But the Bray girls looked as though they were from another sphere. Not that their frocks were so fanciful in either design or material; but there was a style about them that made the finery of the other girls look both cheap and tawdry. "So _them_ stuck-up things air goin' to live 'round here; be they?" whispered one rosy-cheeked, buxom farmer's daughter to Sairy Pritchett--and her whisper carried far. "Well, I tell you right now I don't like their looks. See that Joe Badger; will you? He's got to help 'em down out o' Lucas's waggin'; has he? Well, I declare!" "An' Hen Jackson, too!" cried another girl, shrilly. "They'd let airy one of us girls fall out on our heads." "Huh!" said Sairy, airily, "if you can't keep Joe an' Hen from shinin' around every new gal that comes to the club, I guess you ain't caught 'em very fast." "He, he!" giggled another. "Sairy thinks she's hooked the school teacher all right, and that he won't get away from her." "Cat!" snapped Miss Pritchett, descending the steps in her most stately manner to meet her new friends. "Cat yourself!" returned the other. "I guess you'll show your claws, Miss, if you have a chance." Perhaps Sairy did not hear all of this; and surely the Bray girls did not. Sairy Pritchett was rather proud of counting these city girls as her particular friends. She welcomed Lydia and Euphemia warmly. "I hope Lucas didn't try to tip you into the brook again, Miss Bray," Sairy giggled to 'Phemie. "Oh, yes! Miss Lydia Bray, Mr. Badger; Mr. Jackson, Miss Bray. And this is Miss Euphemia, Mr. Badger--_and_ Mr. Jackson. "Now, that'll do very well, Joe--and Hen. You go 'tend to your own girls; we can git on without you." Sairy deliberately led the newcomers into the schoolhouse by the boys' entrance, thus ignoring the girls who had roused her ire. She introduced Lyddy and 'Phemie right and left to such of the young fellows as were not too bashful. Sairy suddenly arrived at the conclusion that to pilot the sisters from Hillcrest about would be "good business." The newcomers attracted the better class of young bachelors at the club meeting and Sairy--heretofore something of a "wall flower" on such occasions--found herself the very centre of the group. Lyddy and 'Phemie were naturally a little disturbed by the prominent position in which they were placed by Sairy's manoeuvring; but, of course, the sisters had been used to going into society, and Lyddy's experience at college and her natural sedateness of character enabled her to appear to advantage. As for the younger girl, she was so much amused by Sairy, and the others, that she quite forgot to feel confused. Indeed, she found that just by looking at most of these young men, and smiling, she could throw them into spasms of self-consciousness. They were almost as bad as Lucas Pritchett, and Lucas was getting to be such a good friend now that 'Phemie couldn't really enjoy making him feel unhappy. She was, indeed, particularly nice to him when young Pritchett struggled to her side after the girls were settled in adjoining seats, half-way up the aisle on the "girls' side" of the schoolroom. These young girls and fellows had--most of them--attended the district school, or were now attending it; therefore, they were used to being divided according to the sexes, and those boys who actually had not accompanied their girlfriends to the club meeting, sat by themselves on the boys' side, while the girls grouped together on the other side of the house. There were a few young married couples present, and these matrons made their husbands sit beside them during the exercises; but for a young man and young girl to sit together was almost a formal announcement in that community that they "had intentions!" All this was quite unsuspected by Lyddy and 'Phemie Bray, and the latter had no idea of the joy that possessed Lucas Pritchett's soul when she allowed him to take the seat beside her. Her sister sat at her other hand, and Sairy was beyond Lyddy. No other young fellow could get within touch of the city girls, therefore, although there was doubtless many a swain who would have been glad to do so. This club, the fundamental idea of which was "temperance," had gradually developed into something much broader. While it still demanded a pledge from its members regarding abstinence from alcoholic beverages, including the bane of the countryside--hard cider--its semimonthly meetings were mainly of a literary and musical nature. The reigning school teacher for the current term was supposed to take the lead in governing the club and pushing forward the local talent. Mr. Somers was the name of the young man with the bald brow and the eyeglasses, who was presiding over the welfare of Pounder's District School. The Bray girls thought he seemed to be an intelligent and well-mannered young man, if a trifle self-conscious. And he evidently had an element that was difficult to handle. Soon after the meeting was called to order it became plain that a group of boys down in the corner by the desk were much more noisy than was necessary. The huge stove, by which the room was overheated, was down there, its smoke-pipe crossing, in a L-shaped figure, the entire room to the chimney at one side, and it did seem as though none of those boys could move without kicking their boots against this stove. These uncouth noises interfered with the opening address of the teacher and punctuated the "roll call" by the secretary, who was a small, almost dwarf-like young man, out of whose mouth rolled the names of the members in a voice that fairly shook the casements. Such a thunderous tone from so puny a source was in itself amazing, and convulsed 'Phemie. "Ain't he got a great voice?" asked Lucas, in a whisper. "He sings bass in the church choir and sometimes, begum! ye can't hear nawthin' but Elbert Hooker holler." "Is _that_ his name?" gasped 'Phemie. "Yep. Elbert Hooker. 'Yell-bert' the boys call him. He kin sure holler like a bull!" And at that very moment, as the bombastic Elbert was subsiding and the window panes ceased from rattling with the reverberations of his voice, one of the boys in the corner fell more heavily than before against the stove--or, it might have been Elbert Hooker's tones had shaken loose the joints of stovepipe that crossed the schoolroom; however, there was a yell from those down front, the girls scrambled out of the way, the smoke began to spurt from between the joints, and it was seen that only the wires fastened to the ceiling kept the soot-laden lengths of pipe from falling to the floor. CHAPTER XII THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER The soot began sifting down in little clouds; but the sections of pipe had come apart so gently that no great damage was done immediately. The girls sitting under the pipe, however, were thrown into a panic, and fairly climbed over the desks and seats to get out of the way. Besides, considerable smoke began to issue from the stove. One of the young scamps to whose mischievousness was due this incident, had thrown into the fire, just as the pipe broke loose, some woolen garment, or the like, and it now began to smoulder with a stench and an amount of smoke that frightened some of the audience. "Don't you be skeert none," exclaimed Lucas, to 'Phemie and her sister, and jumping up from his seat himself. "'Taint nothin' but them Buckley boys and Ike Hewlett. Little scamps----" "But we don't want to get soot all over us, Lucas!" cried his sister. "Or be choked by smoke," coughed 'Phemie. There was indeed a great hullabaloo for a time; but the windows were opened, the teacher rescued the burning woolen rag from the fire with the tongs and threw it out of the window, and several of the bigger fellows swooped down upon the malicious youngsters and bundled them out of the schoolhouse in a hurry--and in no gentle manner--while others, including Lucas, stripped off their coats and set to work to repair the stovepipe. An hour was lost in repairs and airing the schoolhouse, and then everybody trooped back. Meanwhile, the Bray girls had made many acquaintances among the young folk. Mr. Somers, the teacher, was plainly delighted to meet Lyddy--a girl who had actually spent two years at Littleburg. He was seminary-bred himself, with an idea of going back to take the divinity course after he had taught a couple of years. But it suddenly became apparent to 'Phemie--who was observant--that Sairy looked upon this interest of the school teacher in Lyddy with "a green eye." Mr. Somers, who allowed the boys and young men to repair the damage created by his pupils while he rested from his labors, sat by Lyddy all the time until the meeting was called to order once more. Sairy, who had begun by bridling and looking askance at the two who talked so easily about things with which she was not conversant, soon tossed her head and began to talk with others who gathered around. And when Mr. Somers went to the desk to preside again Sairy was not sitting in the same row with the Bray girls and left them to their own devices for the rest of the evening. Lucas, the faithful, came back to 'Phemie's side, however. Some of the other girls were laughing at Sairy Pritchett and their taunts fed her ire with fresh fuel. She talked very loud and laughed very much between the numbers of the program, and indeed was not always quiet while the entertainment itself was in progress. This she did as though to show the company in general that she neither cared for the schoolmaster's attentions nor that she considered her friendship with the Bray girls of any importance. Of course, the girls with whom she had wrangled on the schoolhouse steps were delighted with what they considered Sairy's "let-down." If a girl really came to an evening party with a young man, he was supposed to "stick" and to show interest in no other girl during the evening. When the intermission came Mr. Somers deliberately took a seat again beside Lyddy. "Well, I never!" shrilled Sairy. "Some folks are as bold as brass. Humph!" Now, as it happened, both Lyddy and the school teacher were quite ignorant of the stir they were creating. The green-eyed monster roared right in their ears without either of them being the wiser. Lyddy was only sorry that Sairy Pritchett proved to be such a loud-talking and rather unladylike person. But 'Phemie, who was younger, and observant, soon saw what was the matter. She wished to warn Lyddy, but did not know how to do so. And, of course, she knew her sister and the school teacher were talking of quite impersonal things. These girls expected everybody to be of their own calibre. 'Phemie had seen the same class of girls in her experience in the millinery shop. But it was quite impossible for Lyddy to understand such people, her experience with young girls at school and college not having prepared her for the outlook on life which these country girls had. 'Phemie turned to Lucas--who stuck to her like a limpet to a rock--for help. "Lucas," she said, "you have been very kind to bring us here; but I want to ask you to take us home early; will you?" "What's the matter--ye ain't sick; be you?" demanded the anxious young farmer. "No. But your sister is," said 'Phemie, unable to treat the matter with entire seriousness. "Sairy?" "Yes." "What's the matter with _her_?" grunted Lucas. "Don't you _see_?" exclaimed 'Phemie, in an undertone. "By cracky!" laughed Lucas. "Ye mean because teacher's forgot she's on airth?" "Yes," snapped 'Phemie. "You know Lyddy doesn't care anything about that Mr. Somers. But she has to be polite." "Why--why----" "Will you take us home ahead of them all?" demanded the girl. "Then your sister can have the schoolmaster." "By cracky! is that it?" queried Lucas. "Why--if you say so. I'll do just like you want me to, Miss 'Phemie." "You are a good boy, Lucas--and I hope you won't be silly," said 'Phemie. "We like you, but we have been brought up to have boy friends who don't play at being grown up," added 'Phemie, as earnestly as she had ever spoken in her life. "We like to have _friends_, not _beaux_. Won't you be our friend, Lucas?" She said this so low that nobody else could hear it but young Pritchett; but so emphatically that the tears came to her eyes. Lucas gaped at her for a moment; then he seemed to understand. "I get yer, 'Phemie," he declared, with emphasis, "an' you kin bank on me. Sairy's foolish--maw's made her so, I s'pose. But I ain't as big a fool as I look." "You don't look like a fool, Lucas," said 'Phemie, faintly. "You've been brought up different from us folks," pursued the young farmer. "And I can see that we look mighty silly to you gals from the city. But I'll play fair. You let me be your friend, 'Phemie." The young girl had to wink hard to keep back the tears. There was "good stuff" in this young farmer, and she was sorry she had ever--even in secret--made fun of him. "Lucas, you are a good boy," she repeated, "and we both like you. You'll get us away from here and let Sairy have her chance at the schoolmaster?" "You bet!" he said. "Though I don't care about Sairy. She's old enough to know better," he added, with the usual brother's callousness regarding his sister. "She feels neglected and will naturally be mad at Lyddy," 'Phemie said. "But if we slip out during some recitation or song, it won't be noticed much." "All right," agreed Lucas. "I'll go out ahead and unhitch the ponies and get their blankets off. You gals can come along in about five minutes. Now! Mayme Lowry is going to read the 'Club Chronicles'--that's a sort of history of neighborhood doin's since the last meetin'. She hits on most ev'rybody, and they will all wanter hear. We'll git aout quiet like." So, when Miss Lowry arose to read her manuscript, Lucas left his seat and 'Phemie whispered to Lyddy: "Get your coat, dear. I want to go home. Lucas has gone out to get the team." "Why--what's the matter, child?" demanded the older sister, anxiously. "Nothing. Only I want to go." "We-ell--if you must----" "Don't say anything more, but come on," commanded 'Phemie. They arose together and tiptoed out. If Sairy saw them she made no sign, nor did anybody bar their escape. Lucas had got his team into the road. "Here ye be!" he said, cheerfully. "But--but how about Sairy?" cried the puzzled Lyddy. "Oh, she'll ride home with the school teacher," declared Lucas, chuckling. "But I really am surprised at you, 'Phemie," said the older sister. "It seems rather discourteous to leave before the entertainment was over--unless you are ill?" "I'm sorry," said the younger girl, demurely. "But I got _so_ nervous." "I know," whispered Lyddy. "Some of those awful recitations _were_ trying." And 'Phemie had to giggle at that; but she made no further explanation. The ponies drew them swiftly over the mountain road and under the white light of a misty moon they quickly turned into the lane leading to Hillcrest. As the team dropped to a walk, 'Phemie suddenly leaned forward and clutched the driver's arm. "Look yonder, Lucas!" she whispered. "There, by the corner of the house." "Whoa!" muttered Lucas, and brought the horses to a halt. The girls and Lucas all saw the two figures. They wavered for a moment and then one hurried behind the high stone wall between the yard and the old orchard. The other crossed the front yard boldly toward the highroad. "They came from the direction of the east wing," whispered 'Phemie. "Who do you suppose they are?" asked Lyddy, more placidly. "Somebody who tried to call on us?" "That there feller," said Lucas, slowly, his voice shaking oddly, as he pointed with his whip after the man who just then gained the highroad, "that there feller is Lem Judson Spink--I know his long hair and broad-brimmed hat." "What?" cried 'Phemie. "The man who lived here at Hillcrest when he was a boy?" "So they say," admitted Lucas. "Dad knew him. They went to school together. He's a rich man now." "But what could he possibly want up here?" queried Lyddy, as the ponies went on. "And who was the other man?" "I--I dunno who he was," blurted out Lucas, still much disturbed in voice and appearance. But after the girls had disembarked, and bidden Lucas good night, and the young farmer had driven away, 'Phemie said to her sister, as the latter was unlocking the door of the farmhouse: "_I_ know who that other man was." "What other man?" "The one who ran behind the stone wall." "Why, who was it, 'Phemie?" queried her sister, with revived interest. "Cyrus Pritchett," stated 'Phemie, with conviction, and nothing her sister could say would shake her belief in that fact. CHAPTER XIII LYDDY DOESN'T WANT IT "Who is this Mr. Spink?" asked Lydia Bray the following morning, as they prepared for church. It was a beautiful spring morning. There had been a pattering shower at sunrise and the eaves were still dripping, while every blade of the freshly springing grass in the side yard--which was directly beneath the girls' window--sparkled as though diamond-decked over night. The old trees in the orchard were pushing both leaf and blossom--especially the plum and peach trees. In the distance other orchards were blowing, too, and that spattered the mountainside with patches of what looked to be pale pink mist. The faint tinkling of the sheep-bells came across the hills to the ears of Lyddy and 'Phemie. The girls were continually going to the window or door to watch the vast panorama of the mountainside and valley, spread below them. "Who _is_ this Mr. Spink?" repeated Lyddy. Her sister explained what she knew of the man who--once a poorhouse boy--was now counted a rich man and the proprietor of Diamond Grits, the popular breakfast food. "He lived here at Hillcrest as a boy, with grandfather," 'Phemie said. "But what's _that_ got to do with his coming up here now--and at night?" "And with Mr. Pritchett?" finished 'Phemie. "Yes. I am going to ask Mr. Pritchett about it. They surely weren't after vinegar so late at night," Lyddy observed. But 'Phemie did not prolong the discussion. In her secret thoughts the younger Bray girl believed that it was Cyrus Pritchett and Mr. Spink whom she had heard about the old house the night she and Lyddy had first slept at Hillcrest. There was no use worrying Lyddy about it, she told herself. A little later the roan ponies appeared with the Pritchett buckboard. Instead of Mrs. Pritchett and her daughter, however, the good lady's companion on the front seat was Lucas, who drove. "Oh, dear me!" cried Lyddy. "I hope we haven't turned Miss Pritchett out of her seat. Surely we three girls could have squeezed in here on the back seat." "Nope," said Mrs. Pritchett. "That ain't it, at all. Sairy ain't goin' to church this mornin'." "She's not ill?" asked Lyddy. "I dunno. She ain't got no misery as I can find out; but she sartainly has a grouch! A bear with a sore head in fly time would be a smilin' work of Grace 'side of Sairy Pritchett ever since she come home from the Temperance Club las' night." "Oh!" came from 'Phemie. "Why----She surely isn't angry because we went home early?" cried Lyddy. "My sister, you see, got nervous----" "I reckon 'taint that," Lucas hastened to say. "More likely she's sore on me." "'Tain't nawthin' of the kind, an' you know it, Lucas," declared his mother. "Though ye might have driven 'round by the schoolhouse ag'in and brought her home." "Wal, I thought she'd ride back with school teacher. She went with him," returned Lucas, on the defensive. "She walked home," said Mrs. Pritchett, shortly. "I dunno why. She won't tell _me_." "I hope she isn't ill," remarked the unconscious Lyddy. But Lucas cast a knowing look over his shoulder at 'Phemie and the latter had hard work to keep her own countenance straight. "Well," said Mrs. Pritchett, more briskly, "ye can't always sometimes tell what the matter is with these young gals. They gits crotchets in their heads." She kept up the fiction that Sairy was a young and flighty miss; but even 'Phemie could no longer laugh at her for it. It was the mother's pitiful attempt to aid her daughter's chances for that greatly-to-be-desired condition--matrimony. The roads were still muddy; nevertheless the drive over the ridge to Cornell Chapel was lovely. For some time the girls had been noting the procession of carriages and wagons winding over the mountain roads, all verging upon this main trail over the ridge which passed so close to Hillcrest. Lucas, driving the ponies at a good clip, joined the procession. Lyddy and 'Phemie recognized several of the young people they had met the night before at the Temperance Club--notably the young men. Joe Badger flashed by in a red-wheeled buggy and beside him sat the buxom, red-faced girl who had voiced her distaste for the city-bred newcomers right at the start. Badger bowed with a flourish; but his companion's nose was in the air. "I never did think that Nettie Meyers had very good manners," announced Mrs. Pritchett. They overtook the schoolmaster jogging along behind his old gray mare. He, likewise, bowed profoundly to the Bray girls. "I am afraid you did not enjoy yourself last night at the club, Miss Bray," he said to Lyddy, who was on his side of the buckboard, as Lucas pulled out to pass him. "You went home so early. I was looking for you after it was all over." "Oh, but you are mistaken," declared Lyddy, pleasantly. "I had a very nice time." As they drove on Mrs. Pritchett's fat face became a study. "And he never even asked arter Sairy!" she gasped. "And he let her come home alone last night. Humph! he must ha' been busy huntin' for _you_, Miss Bray." Lucas cast oil on the troubled waters by saying: "An' I carried Miss Lyddy and Miss 'Phemie away from all of 'em. I guess _all_ the Pritchetts ain't so slow, Maw." "Humph! Wa-al," admitted the good lady, somewhat mollified, "you _hev_ seemed to 'woke up lately, Lucas." The chapel was built of graystone and its north wall was entirely covered with ivy. It nestled in a grove of evergreens, with the tidy fenced graveyard behind it. The visitors thought it a very beautiful place. Everybody was rustling into church when they arrived, so there were no introductions then. The pastor was a stooped, gray old man, who had been the incumbent for many years, and to the Bray girls his discourse seemed as helpful as any they had ever heard. After service the girls of Hillcrest Farm were introduced to many of the congregation by Mrs. Pritchett. Naturally these were the middle-aged, or older, members of the flock--mostly ladies who knew, or remembered, the girls' mother and Aunt Jane. Indeed, it was rather noticeable that the young women and girls did not come forward to meet Lyddy and 'Phemie. Not that either of the sisters cared. They liked the matrons who attended Cornell Chapel much better than they had most of the youthful members of the Temperance Club. Some of the young men waited their chance in the vestibule to get a bow and a smile of recognition from the newcomers; but only the schoolmaster dared attach himself for any length of time to the Pritchett party. And Mrs. Pritchett could not fail to take note of this at length. The teacher was deep in some unimportant discussion with Lyddy, who was sweetly unconscious that she was fanning the fire of suspicion in Mrs. Pritchett's breast. That lady finally broke in with a loud "Ahem!" following it with: "I re'lly don't know what's happened to my Sairy. She's right poorly to-day, Mr. Somers." "Why--I--I'm sorry to hear it," said the startled, yet quite unsuspicious teacher. "She seemed to be in good health and spirits when we were on our way to the club meeting last evening." "Ya-as," agreed Mrs. Pritchett, simpering and looking at him sideways. "She seems to have changed since then. She ain't been herself since she walked home from the meeting." "Perhaps she has a cold?" suggested the teacher, blandly. "Oh, Sairy is not subject to colds," declared Mrs. Pritchett. "But she is easily chilled in other ways--yes, indeed! I don't suppose there is a more sensitive young girl on the ridge than my Sairy." Mr. Somers began to wake up to the fact that the farmer's wife was not shooting idly at him; there was "something behind it!" "I am sorry if Miss Sairy is offended, or has been hurt in any way," he said, gravely. "It was a pity she had to walk home from the club. If I had known----" "Wa-al," drawled Mrs. Pritchett, "_you_ took her there yourself in your buggy." "Indeed!" he exclaimed, flushing a little. "I had no idea that bound me to the necessity of taking her home again. Her brother was there with your carriage. I am sure I do not understand your meaning, Mrs. Pritchett." "Oh, I don't mean anything!" exclaimed the lady, but very red in the face now, and her bonnet shaking. "Come, gals! we must be going." Both Lyddy and 'Phemie had begun to feel rather unhappy by this time. Mrs. Pritchett swept them up the aisle ahead of her as though she were shooing a flock of chickens with her ample skirts. They went through the vestibule with a rush. Lucas was ready with the ponies. Mrs. Pritchett was evidently very angry over her encounter with the teacher; and she could not fail to hold the Bray girls somewhat accountable for her daughter's failure to keep the interest of Mr. Somers. She said but little on the drive homeward. There had been something said earlier about the girls going down to the Pritchett farm for dinner; but the angry lady said nothing more about it, and Lyddy and 'Phemie were rather glad when Hillcrest came into view. "Ye better stop in an' go along down to the house with us," said the good-natured Lucas, hesitating about turning the ponies' heads in at the lane. "Oh, we could not possibly," Lyddy replied, gracefully. "We are a thousand times obliged for your making it possible for us to attend church. You are all so kind, Mrs. Pritchett. But this afternoon I must plead the wicked intention of writing letters. I haven't written a line to one of my college friends since I came to Hillcrest." Mrs. Pritchett merely grunted. Lucas covered his mother's grumpiness by inconsequential chatter with 'Phemie while he drove in and turned the ponies so that the girls could get out. "A thousand thanks!" cried 'Phemie. "Good-day!" exclaimed Lyddy, brightly. Mrs. Pritchett's bonnet only shook the harder, and she did not turn to look at the girls. Lucas cast a very rueful glance in their direction as he drove hastily away. "Now we've done it!" gasped 'Phemie, half laughing, half in disgust. "Why! whatever is the matter, do you suppose?" demanded her sister. "Well, if you can't see _that_----" "I see she's angry over Sairy and the school teacher--poor man! But what have we to do with that?" "It's your fatal attractiveness," sighed 'Phemie. Then she began to laugh. "You're a very innocent baby, Lyd. Don't you see that Maw Pritchett thought--or hoped--that she had Mr. Somers nicely entangled with Sairy? And he neglected her for you. Bing! it's all off, and we're at outs with the Pritchett family." "What awful language!" sighed Lyddy, unlocking the door. "I am sorry you ever went to work in that millinery shop, 'Phemie. It has made your mind--er--almost common!" But 'Phemie only laughed. If the Pritchett females were "at outs" with them, the men of the family did not appear to be. At least, Cyrus and his son were at Hillcrest bright and early on Monday morning, with two teams ready for plowing. Lyddy had a serious talk with Mr. Pritchett first. "Ya-as. That's good 'tater and truckin' land behind the barn. It's laid out a good many years now, for it's only an acre, or so, and we never tilled it for corn. It's out o' the way, kinder," said the elder Pritchett. "Then I want that for a garden," Lyddy declared. "It don't pay me to work none of this 'off' land for garden trucks," said Cyrus, shortly. "Not 'nless ye want a few rows o' stuff in the cornfield jest where I can cultivate with the hosses." "But if you plant corn here, you must plant my garden, too," insisted Lyddy, who was quite as obstinate as the old farmer. "And I'd like to have a big garden, and plenty of potatoes, too. I am going to keep boarders this summer, and I want to raise enough to feed them--or partly feed them, at least." "Huh! Boarders, eh? A gal like you!" "We're not rich enough to sit with idle hands, and I mean to try and earn something," Lyddy declared. "And we'll want vegetables to carry us over winter, too." Lucas had been listening with flushed and anxious face. Now he broke in eagerly: "You said I could till a piece for myself this year, Dad. Lemme do it up here. There's a better chance to sell trucks in Bridleburg than there has been. I'll plow and take care of two acres up here, if Miss Lyddy says so, for half the crops, she to supply seed and fertilizer." "Will--will it cost much, Lucas?" asked Lyddy, doubtfully. "That land's rich, but it may be sour. Ain't that so, Dad? It won't take so very much phosphate; will it?" Cyrus was slower mentally than these eager young folk. He had to think it over and discuss it from different angles. But finally he gave his consent to the plan and advised his son and Lyddy how to manage the matter. "You kin git your fertilizer on time--six or nine months--right here in Bridleburg. That gives you a chance to raise your crop and market it before paying for the fertilizer," he said. "You'll have to get corn fertilizer, too, in the same way. But 'most ev'rybody else on the ridge does the same. We ain't a very fore-handed community, and that's a fac'." At noon Lyddy and 'Phemie talked over the garden project more fully with Lucas. They planned what early seeds should be planted, and Lucas began plowing that particular piece behind the barn right after dinner. Lyddy had very little money to work with, but she believed in "nothing ventured, nothing gained." She told Lucas to purchase a bag of potatoes for planting the next day when he went to town, and he was to buy a few papers of early garden seeds, too. And when Lucas came back with the potatoes he brought a surprise for the Bray girls. He drove into the yard with a flourish. 'Phemie looked out of the window, uttered a scream of joy and surprise, and rushed out to receive her father in her strong young arms as he got down from the seat. How feeble and tired he looked! 'Phemie began to cry; but Lyddy "braced up" and declared he looked a whole lot better already and that Hillcrest would cure him in just no time. "And that foolish 'Phemie is only crying for joy at seeing you so unexpectedly, Father," said Lyddy, scowling frightfully at her sister over their father's bowed head as they helped him into the house. Lucas hovered in the background; but he could not help them. 'Phemie saw, however, that the young farmer fully appreciated the situation and was truly sympathetic. The change in Mr. Bray's appearance was a great shock to both girls. Of course, the doctor at the hospital had promised Lyddy no great improvement in the patient until he could be got up here on the hills, where the air was pure and healing. Aunt Jane had come as far as the junction with him; but he had come on alone to Bridleburg from there, and the agent at the station had telephoned uptown to tell Lucas that the invalid wished to get to Hillcrest. "I'm all right; I'm all right!" he kept repeating. But the girls almost carried him between them into the house. "The doctors said you could do more for me up here than they could do for me there," panted Mr. Bray, smiling faintly at his daughters, who hovered about him as he sat before the crackling wood fire in the kitchen. "And Aunt Jane never told us you were coming!" gasped Lyddy. "What's the odds, as long as he's here?" demanded 'Phemie. "Why, I shall soon be my old self again up here," Mr. Bray declared, hopefully. "Now, don't fuss over me, girls. You've got other things to do. That young fellow who brought me up here seems to be your chief cook and bottle-washer, and he wants to speak to you, I reckon," for Lucas was waiting to learn where he should put the potatoes and other things. Mr. Bray knew all about the boarding house project and approved of it. "Why, I can soon help around myself. And I must do something," he told them, that evening, "or I shall go crazy. I couldn't endure the rest cure." But it was complete rest that he had to endure for several days after his unexpected arrival. The girls gave up their room to their father, and went upstairs to sleep. 'Phemie had to admit that even _she_ was glad there was at last somebody else in the house. Especially a man! "But I never have thought to ask Mr. Pritchett about his being up here with that Spink man last Saturday night," Lyddy said, sleepily. "You'd better let it drop," advised 'Phemie. "We don't want to get the whole Pritchett family down on us." "What nonsense! Of course I shall ask him," declared her sister. But as it happened something occurred the following day to quite put this small matter out of Lyddy's mind. The postman brought the first letter in answer to their advertisement. Lyddy was about to tear open the envelope when she halted in amazement. The card printed in the corner included the number of Trimble Avenue right next to the big tenement house in which the Brays had lived before coming here to Hillcrest. "Isn't that strange?" she murmured, and read the card again: _Commonwealth Chemical Company_ _407 Trimble Avenue_ _Easthampton_ "Right from the very next door!" sparkled 'Phemie. "Don't that beat all!--as Lucas says." But Lyddy had now opened the letter and read as follows: "L. Bray, Hillcrest Farm, Bridleburg P. O. "Dear Madam: I have read your advertisement and believe that you offer exactly what my father and I have been looking for--a quiet, homelike boarding house in the hills, and not too far away for me to get easily back and forth. If agreeable, we shall come to Bridleburg Saturday and would be glad to have you meet the 10:14 train on its arrival. If both parties are suited we can then discuss terms. "Respectfully, "Harris Colesworth." "Why, what's the matter, Lyd?" demanded her sister, in amazement. But Lyddy Bray did not explain. In her own mind she was much disturbed. She was confident that the writer of this note was the "fresh" young fellow who had always been at work in the chemical laboratory right across the air-shaft from her kitchen window! Of course, it was quite by chance--in all probability--that he had answered her advertisement. Yet Lyddy Bray had an intuition that if she answered the letter, and the Colesworths came here to Hillcrest, trouble would ensue. She had hoped very much to obtain boarders, and to get even one thus early in the season seemed too good to be true. Yet, now that she had got what she wanted, Lyddy was doubtful if she wanted it after all. CHAPTER XIV THE COLESWORTHS Mr. Bray fell in with the boarder project, as we have seen, with enthusiasm. Although he could do nothing as yet, his mind was active enough and he gaily planned with 'Phemie what they should do and how they should arrange the rooms for the horde of visitors who were, they were sure, already on their way to Hillcrest. "Though Lyd won't show the very first letter she's received in answer to our ad.," complained the younger sister. "What's the matter with those folks, Lyddy? Do they actually live right there near where we did on Trimble Avenue?" "That was a loft building next to us," said their father, curiously. "Who are the people, daughter?" "Somebody by the name of Colesworth. The Commonwealth Chemical Company office. It's about an old man to stay here." "One man only!" exclaimed 'Phemie. "With a young man--the one who writes--to come up over Sundays, I suppose," acknowledged Lyddy, doubtfully. "Goody!" cried her sister. "_That_ sounds better." "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, 'Phemie!" chided Lyddy, with some asperity. But Mr. Bray only laughed. "I guess I can play 'he-chaperon' for all the young men who come here," he said. "Your sister is only making fun, Lydia." But Lyddy was more worried in secret about the Colesworth proposition than she was ready to acknowledge. She "just felt" that Harris Colesworth was the young man who had helped them the evening of the fire in the Trimble Avenue tenement. "He found out our name, of course, and when he saw my advertisement he knew who it was. He may even have found out where we were going when we left for the country. In some way he could have done so," thought Lyddy, putting the young man's character before her mind in the very worst possible light. "He is altogether too persistent. I hope he is as energetic in a better way--I hope he attends to his business as faithfully as he seems to attend to _our_ affairs," continued Lyddy, bitterly. "I don't suppose this idea of his father coming up here into the hills is entirely an excuse for him to become familiar with--with _us_. But it looks very much like it. I--I wonder what kind of a man old Mr. Colesworth can be?" Lyddy ruminated upon the letter she had received all that day and refused to answer it right away. Indeed, as far as she could see, the letter did not really need an answer. This Harris Colesworth spoke just as though he expected they would be only too glad to meet him on Saturday with a rig. "And, if it were anybody else, I suppose I would be glad to do so," Lyddy finally had to admit. "I suppose that 'beggars mustn't be choosers'; and if this Harris Colesworth isn't a perfectly proper young man to have about, father will very quickly attend to _his_ case." Really, Lyddy Bray thought much more about the Colesworths than her sister and father thought she did. After being urged by 'Phemie several times she finally allowed her sister to reply to the letter, promising to have a carriage at the station for the train mentioned in Harris Colesworth's letter. Of course, this meant hiring Lucas Pritchett and the buckboard. Lucas was at Hillcrest a good deal of the time that week. He got the garden plowed and the early potatoes planted, as well as some few other seeds which would not be hurt by the late frosts. Mr. Bray got around very slowly; at first he could only walk up and down in the sun, or sit on the porch, well wrapped up. Like most men born in the country and forced to be city dwellers for many years, John Bray had longed more deeply than he could easily express for country living. He appreciated the sights and sounds about him--the mellow, refreshing air that blew over the hills--the sunshine and the pattering rain which, on these early spring days, drifted alternately across the fields and woods. With the girls he planned for the future. Some day they would have a cow. There was pasture on the farm for a dozen. And already Lyddy was studying poultry catalogs and trying to figure out a little spare money to purchase some eggs for hatching. Of course they had no hens and at this time of the year the neighbors were likely to want their own setting hens for incubating purposes. Lyddy sounded Silas Trent, the mail-carrier, about this and Mr. Trent had an offer to make. "I tell ye what it is," said the garrulous Silas, "the chicken business is a good business--if ye kin 'tend to it right. I tried it--went in deep for incubator, brooders, and the like; and it would have been all right if I didn't hafter be away from home so much durin' the day. "My wife's got rheumatiz, and she can't git out to 'tend to little chicks, and for a few weeks they need a sight of attention--that's right. They'd oughter be fed every two hours, or so, and watched pretty close. "So I had ter give it up last year, an' this year I ain't put an egg in my incubator. "But if I could git 'em growed to scratchin' state--say, when they're broiler-size--I sartainly would like it. Tell ye what I'll do, Miss. I'll let ye have my incubator. It's 200-egg size. In course, ye don't hafter fill it first time if ye don't wanter. Put in a hundred eggs and see how ye come out." "But how could I pay you?" asked Lyddy. "I'll sell ye the incubator outright, if ye want to buy. And I'll take my pay in chickens when they're broiler-size--say three months old." "What do you want for your incubator?" queried Lyddy, thoughtfully. "Ten dollars. It's a good one. And I'll take a flock of twenty three-months-old chicks in pay for it--fifteen pullets and five cockerels. What kind of hens do you favor, Miss Bray?" Lyddy told him the breed she had thought of purchasing--and the strain. "Them's fine birds," declared Mr. Trent. "For heavy fowl they are good layers--and when ye butcher one of 'em for the table, ye got suthin' to eat. Now, you think my offer over. I'll stick to it. And I'll set the incubator up and show ye how to run it." Lyddy was very anxious to venture into the chicken business--and here was a chance to do it cheaply. It was the five dollars for a hundred hatching eggs that made her hesitate. But Aunt Jane had shown herself to be more than a little interested in the girls' venture at Hillcrest Farm, and when she expressed the keys of the garret chests and bureaus to Lyddy--so that the girl could get at the stores of linen left from the old doctor's day--she sent, too, twenty-five dollars. "Keep it against emergencies. Pay it back when you can. And don't let's have no talk about it," was the old lady's characteristic note. Lyddy was only doubtful as to whether this desire of hers to raise chickens was really "an emergency." But finally she decided to venture, and she wrote off for the eggs, sending the money by a post-office order, and Lucas brought up Silas Trent's incubator. Friday night Trent drove up to Hillcrest and spent the evening with the Brays. He set the incubator up in the little washhouse, which opened directly off the back porch. It was a small, tight room, with only one window, and was easily heated by an oil-lamp. The lamp of the incubator itself would do the trick, Trent said. He leveled the machine with great care, showed Lyddy all about the trays, the water, the regulation of heat, and gave her a lot of advice on various matters connected with the raising of chicks with the "wooden hen." They were all vastly interested in the new vocation and the evening passed pleasantly enough. Just before Trent went, he asked: "By the way, what's Jud Spink doing up this way so much? I seen him again to-day when I came over the ridge. He was crossin' the back of your farm. He didn't have no gun; and, at any rate, there ain't nothin' in season jest now--'nless it's crows," and the mail-carrier laughed. "Spink?" asked Mr. Bray, who had not yet gone to bed. "Who is he?" "Lemuel Judson Spink," explained 'Phemie. "He's a man who used to live here with grandfather when he was a boy--when _Spink_ was a boy; not grandfather." "He's a rich man now," said Lyddy. "He owns a breakfast food." "Diamond Grits," added 'Phemie. "He's rich enough," grunted Trent. "Rich enough so't he can loaf around Bridleburg for months at a time. Been here now for some time." "Why, could that be the Spink your Aunt Jane told me once made her an offer for the farm?" asked Mr. Bray, thoughtfully. "For Hillcrest?" cried 'Phemie. "Oh, I hope not." "Well, child, if she could sell the place it would be a good thing for Jane. She has none too much money." "But why didn't she sell to him?" asked Lyddy, quite as anxious as her sister. "He didn't offer her much, if anything, for it." "Ain't that like Jud?" cackled Trent. "He is allus grouching about the old doctor for being as tight as the bark to a tree; but when it comes to a bargain, Jud Spink will wring yer nose ev'ry time--if he can. Glad Mis' Hammon' didn't sell to him." "Perhaps he didn't want Hillcrest very much," said Mr. Bray, quietly. "He don't want nothin' 'nless it's cheap," declared Trent. "He's picked up some mortgage notes, and the like, on property he thinks he can foreclose on. Got a jedgment against the Widder Harrison's little place over the ridge, I understand. But Jud Spink wouldn't pay more'n ha'f price for a gold eagle. He'd claim 'twas second-hand, if it warn't fresh from the mint," and the mail-carrier went off, chuckling over his own joke. Both Lyddy and 'Phemie forgot, however, about the curious actions of Mr. Spink, or his desire to buy Hillcrest, in their interest in the coming of the only people who had, thus far, answered their advertisement for boarders. Lucas met the 10:14 train on Saturday morning, and before noon he drove into the side yard with an old gentleman and a young man on the rear seat of the buckboard. Before this the two girls, working hard, had swept and garnished the whole lower floor of the big farmhouse, save the east wing, which was locked. Indeed, Lyddy had never ventured into the old doctor's suite of offices, for she couldn't find the key. A fire had been laid and was burning cheerfully in the dining-room--that apartment being just across the square side entrance hall from the kitchen. Lyddy was busy over the cooking arrangements when the visitors arrived, and 'Phemie was giving the finishing touches to the table in the dining-room. But Mr. Bray, leaning on his cane, met the Colesworths as they alighted from the buckboard. Lucas drove away at once, promising to return again with the team in time to catch the four-fifty train back to town. Lyddy found time to peep out of the kitchen window. Yes! there was that very bold young man who had troubled her so much--at times--while they lived in Trimble Avenue. He met Mr. Bray with a warm handshake, and he helped his father up the wide stone steps with a delicacy that would have pleased Lyddy in anybody else. But she had made up her mind that Harris Colesworth was going to be a very objectionable person to have about, and so she would not accept his friendly attitude or thoughtfulness as real virtues. He might attract the rest of the family--already 'Phemie was standing in the door, smiling and with her hand held out; but Lyddy Bray proposed to watch this young man very closely! CHAPTER XV ANOTHER BOARDER Lyddy heard her sister and Harris Colesworth in the hall, and then in the dining-room. The girls had not made a fire in any other room in the house. It took too much wood, and the dining-room was large enough to be used as a sitting-room "for company," too. And with the fresh maple branches and arbutus decorating the space over the mantel, and the great dish of violets on the table, and the odorous plum branches everywhere, that dining-room was certainly an attractive apartment. The old-fashioned blue-and-white china and the few pieces of heavy silverware "dressed" the table very nicely. The linen was yellow with age, but every glass and spoon shone. The sun streamed warmly in at the windows, the view from which was lovely. Lyddy heard the appreciative remarks of the young man as 'Phemie ushered him in. But she ran out to greet the old gentleman. The elder Colesworth was sixty or more--a frail, scholarly-looking man, with a winning smile. He, like Mr. Bray, leaned on a cane; but Mr. Bray was at least fifteen years Mr. Colesworth's junior. "So _you_ are 'L. Bray'; are you?" asked the old gentleman, shaking hands with her. "You are the elder daughter and head of the household, your father tells me." "I am older than 'Phemie--yes," admitted Lyddy, blushing. "But we have no 'head' here. I do my part of the work, and she does hers." "And, please God," said Mr. Bray, earnestly, "I shall soon be able to do mine." "Work is the word, then!" cried the old gentleman. "I tell Harris that's all that is the matter with me. I knocked off work too early. 'Retired,' they call it. But it doesn't pay--it doesn't pay." "There will be plenty for you to do up here, Mr. Colesworth," suggested Lyddy, laughing. "We'll let you chop your own wood, if you like. But perhaps picking flowers for the table will be more to your taste--at first." "I don't know--I don't know," returned the old gentleman. "I was brought up on a farm. I used to know how to swing an axe. And I can remember yet how I hated a buck-saw." They went into the house; but Lyddy slipped back to the kitchen and allowed her father to follow Harris Colesworth and 'Phemie, with the old gentleman, into the dining-room. 'Phemie soon came out to help, leaving their father to entertain the visitors while dinner was being served. Lyddy had prepared a simple meal, of which the staple was the New England standby--baked beans. She had been up before light, had built a huge fire in the brick oven, had heated it to a high temperature, and had then baked her pies, a huge pan of gingerbread, her white bread, and potatoes for dinner. She had steamed her "brown loaf" in a kettle hanging from the crane, and the sealed beanpot had been all night in the ashes on the hearth, the right "finish" being given in the brick oven as it gradually cooled off. The girl had had wonderfully good luck with her baking. The bread was neither "all crust" nor was it dough in the middle. The pies were flaky as to crust and the apples which filled them were tender. When Lyddy brought in the beanpot, wrapped in a blue and white towel to retain the heat, she met Harris Colesworth for the first time. To her surprise he did not attempt to appear amazed to see her. "Miss Bray!" he cried, coming forward to shake hands with her. "I have been telling your father that we are already acquainted. But I never _did_ expect to see you again when you sold out and went away from Trimble Avenue that morning." "Shows how small the world is," said Mr. Bray, smiling. "We lived right beside the building in which Mr. Colesworth works, and he saw our advertisement in the paper----" "Oh, I was sure it was Miss Bray," interrupted young Colesworth, openly acknowledging his uncalled-for interest (so Lyddy expressed it to herself) in their affairs. "You see," said this very frank young man, "I knew your name was Bray. And I knew you were going into the country for Mr. Bray's health. I--I even asked at the hospital about you several times," he added, flushing a little. "How very kind!" murmured Lyddy, but without looking at him, as 'Phemie brought in some of the other dishes. "Not at all; I was interested," said the young man, laughing. "You always were afraid of getting acquainted with me when I used to watch you working about your kitchen. But now, Miss Bray, if father decides to come out here to board with you, you'll just _have_ to be acquainted with me." Mr. Bray laughed at this, and 'Phemie giggled. Lyddy's face was a study. It did seem impossible to keep this very presuming young man at a proper distance. But they gathered around the table then, and Lyddy had another reason for blushing. The visitors praised her cooking highly, and when they learned of the old-fashioned means by which the cooking was done, their wonder grew. And Lyddy deserved some praise, that was sure. The potatoes came out of their crisp skins as light as feathers. The thickened pork gravy that went with them was something Mr. Colesworth the elder declared he had not tasted since he was a boy. And when the beans were ladled from the pot--brown, moist, every bean firm in its individual jacket, but seasoned through and through--the Colesworths fairly reveled in them. The fresh bread and good butter, and the flaky wedges of apple pie, each flanked by its pilot of cheese, were likewise enjoyed. "If you can put us up only half comfortably," declared the elder Colesworth, bowing to Lyddy, "I can tell you right now, young lady, that we will stay. Let us see your rooms, we will come to terms, and then I'll take a nap, if you will allow me. I need it after this heavy dinner. Why, Harris! I haven't eaten so heartily for months." "Never saw you sail into the menu with any more enjoyment, Dad," declared his son, in delight. But Lyddy made her sister show them over the house. They were some time in making up their minds regarding the choice of apartments; but finally they decided upon one of the large rooms the girls proposed making over into bed-chambers on the ground floor. This room was nearest the east wing, had long windows opening upon the side porch, and with the two small beds removed from the half-furnished rooms on the second floor of the east wing, and brought downstairs, together with one or two other pieces of furniture, the Colesworths declared themselves satisfied with the accommodations. Young Colesworth would come out on Saturdays and return Monday mornings. He would arrange with Lucas to drive him back and forth. And the old gentleman would come out, bag and baggage, on the coming Monday to take possession of the room. To bind the bargain Harris handed Lyddy fifteen dollars, and asked for a receipt. Fifteen dollars a week! Lyddy had scarcely dared ask for it--had done so with fear and trembling, in fact. But the Colesworths seemed to consider it quite within reason. "Oh, 'Phemie!" gasped Lyddy, hugging her sister tight out in the kitchen. "Just think of _fifteen dollars_ coming in every week. Why! we can all _live_ on that!" "M--m; yes," said 'Phemie, ruminatively. "But hasn't he a handsome nose?" "Who--what---- 'Phemie Bray! haven't you anything else in your head but young men's noses?" cried her sister, in sudden wrath. But it was a beginning. They had really "got into business," as their father said that night at the supper table. "I only fear that the work will be too much for us," he observed. "For 'Phemie and me, you mean, Father," said Lyddy, firmly. "You are not to work. You're to get well. _That_ is your business--and your only business." "You girls will baby me to death!" cried Mr. Bray, wiping his eyes. "I refuse to be laid on the shelf. I hope I am not useless----" "My goodness me! Far from it," cried 'Phemie. "But you'll be lots more help to us when you are perfectly well and strong again." "There'll be plenty you can do without taxing your strength--and without keeping you indoors," Lyddy added. "Just think if we get the chicken business started. You can do all of that--after the biddies are hatched." "I feel so much better already, girls," declared their father, gravely, "that I am sure I shall have a giant's strength before fall." Aunt Jane had written them, however, certain advice which the doctor at the hospital had given to her regarding Mr. Bray. He was to be discouraged from performing any heavy tasks of whatsoever nature, and his diet was to consist mainly of milk and eggs--tissue-building fuel for the system. He had worked so long in the hat shop that his lungs were in a weakened state, if not actually affected. For months they would have to watch him carefully. And to return to his work in the city would be suicidal. Therefore were Lyddy and 'Phemie more than ever anxious to make the boarders' project pay. And with the Colesworths' fifteen dollars a week it seemed as though a famous start had been made in that direction. By serving simple food, plainly cooked, Lyddy was confident that she could keep the table for all five from the board paid by Mr. Colesworth and his son. If they got other boarders, a goodly share of _their_ weekly stipends could be added on the profit side of the ledger. Lucas helped them for a couple of hours Monday morning, and the girls managed to put the room the newcomers had chosen into readiness for the old gentleman. Lucas drove to town to meet Mr. Colesworth. Lucas was beginning to make something out of the Bray girls' project, too, and he grinned broadly as he said to 'Phemie: "I'm goin' to be able to put up for a brand new buggy nex' fall, Miss 'Phemie--a better one than Joe Badger's got. What 'twixt this cartin' boarders over the roads, and makin' Miss Lyddy's garden, I'm going to be well fixed." "On the road to be a millionaire; are you, Lucas?" suggested 'Phemie, laughing. "Nope. Jest got one object in view," grinned Lucas. "What's that?" "I wanter drive you to church in my new buggy, and make Joe Badger an' that Nettie Meyers look like thirty cents. That's what _I_ want." "Oh, Lucas! _That_ isn't a very high ambition," she cried. "But it's goin' to give me an almighty lot of satisfaction," declared the young farmer. "You won't go back on me; will yer, Miss 'Phemie?" "I'll ride with you--of course," replied 'Phemie. "But I'd just as lief go in the buckboard." "Now _that_," said the somewhat puzzled Lucas, "is another thing that makes you gals diff'rent from the gals around here." Old Mr. Colesworth came and made himself at home very quickly. He played cribbage with Mr. Bray in the evening while the girls did up the work and sewed; and during the early days of his stay with them he proved to be a very pleasant old gentleman, with few crotchets, and no special demands upon the girls for attention. He walked a good deal, proved to be something of a geologist, and pottered about the rocky section of the farm with a little hammer and bag for hours together. As Mr. Bray could walk only a little way, Mr. Colesworth did most of his rambling about Hillcrest alone. And he grew fonder and fonder of the place as the first week advanced. As far as his entertainment went, he could have no complaint as to that, for he was getting all that Lyddy had promised him--a comfortable bed, a fire on his hearth when he wanted it, and the same plain food that the family ate. The girls of Hillcrest Farm had received no further answer to their advertisement, but the news that they were keeping boarders had gone broadcast over the ridge, of course. Silas Trent would have spread this bit of news, if nobody else. But on Saturday morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Somers's old gray mare turned up their lane, and Lyddy put on a clean apron and rolled down her sleeves to go out and speak to the school teacher. "That's a very good thing about that lane," 'Phemie remarked, aside. "It is just long enough so that, if we see anybody turn in, we can primp a little before they get to the house." "Miss Bray," said the teacher, hopping out of his buggy and shaking hands, "you see me here, a veritable beggar." "A beggar?" queried Lyddy, in surprise. "Yes, I have come to beg a favor. And a very great one, too." "Why--I----" He laughed and went on to explain--yet his explanation at first puzzled her. "Where do you suppose I slept last night, Miss Bray?" he asked. "In your bed," she returned. "Wrong!" "Is it a joke--or a puzzle?" "Why, I had to sleep in the barn. You see, thus far this term I have boarded with Sam Larribee. But yesterday his boy came down with the measles. He had been out of school for several days--had been visiting the other side of the ridge. They think he caught it there--at his cousin's. "However," continued Mr. Somers, "that does not help me. When I came home from school and heard the doctor's report, I refused to enter the house. We don't want an epidemic of measles at Pounder's School. "So I slept in the barn with Old Molly, here. And now I must find another boarding place. They--er--tell me, Miss Bray, that you intend to take boarders?" "Why--er--yes," admitted Lyddy, faintly. "You have some already?" "Mr. Colesworth and his son. They have just come." "Couldn't you put me--and Molly--up for the rest of the term?" asked the school teacher, laughing. "Why, I don't know but I could," said Lyddy, her business sense coming to her aid. "I--why, yes! I am quite sure about _you_; but about the horse, I do not know." "You surely have a stall to spare?" "Plenty; but no feed." "Oh, I will bring my own grain; and I'll let her pasture in your orchard. She doesn't work hard and doesn't need much forage except what she can glean at this time of year for herself." "Well, then, perhaps it can be arranged," said Lyddy. "Will you come in and see what our accommodations are?" And so that is how another boarder came to Hillcrest Farm. Mr. Somers chose one of the smaller rooms upstairs, and agreed to pay for his own entertainment and pasturage for his horse--six dollars and a half a week. It was a little more than he had been paying at Larribee's, he said--but then, Mr. Somers wanted to come to Hillcrest. He drove away to get his trunk out of the window of his bedroom at the measles-stricken farmhouse down the hill; he would not risk entering by the door for the sake of his other pupils. A little later Lucas drove up from town with Harris Colesworth and his bag. "Say!" whispered the lanky farmer, leaning from his seat to whisper to 'Phemie. "I hear tell you've got school teacher for a boarder, too? Is that so?" "What of it?" demanded 'Phemie, somewhat vexed. "Oh, nawthin'. Only ye oughter seen Sairy's face when maw told her!" CHAPTER XVI THE BALL KEEPS ROLLING The school teacher pressingly invited the Bray girls to accompany him to the temperance meeting that evening; his buggy would hold the three, he declared. But both Lyddy and 'Phemie had good reason for being excused. There was now work for them--and plenty of it. They had to disappoint Lucas in this matter, too; but Harris Colesworth laughingly accepted the teacher's later proposal that _he_ attend, and the two young men drove off together, leaving the girls in the kitchen and old Mr. Colesworth and Mr. Bray playing cribbage in the dining-room. It was while 'Phemie was clearing the supper table that her attention was caught by something that Mr. Colesworth said. "Who is your neighbor that I see so much up yonder among the rocks, at the back of this farm, Mr. Bray?" he asked. "Mr. Pritchett?" suggested Mr. Bray. "Cyrus Pritchett. The long-legged boy's father. He farms a part of these acres----" "No. It is not Cyrus Pritchett I mean. And he is no farmer." "I couldn't tell you," said Mr. Bray. "A rather peculiar-looking man--long hair, black coat, broad-brimmed hat. I have frequently come upon him during the last few days. He always walks off as though in haste. I never have got near enough to speak to him." "Why," responded Mr. Bray, thoughtfully scanning his hand, and evidently giving little attention to Mr. Colesworth's mystery, "why, I'm sure I don't know what would attract anybody up in that part of the farm." "Saving a man interested in breaking open rocks to see what's in them," chuckled Mr. Colesworth. "But this fellow is no geologist." 'Phemie, however, decided that she knew who it was. Silas Trent had mentioned seeing the man, Spink, up that way; and, on more than one occasion, 'Phemie was sure the owner of the Diamond Grits breakfast food had been lurking about Hillcrest. "Lyddy has never asked Cyrus Pritchett about that evening he and Spink were up here--two weeks ago this very night. I almost wish she'd do so. This mystery is getting on my nerves!" And yet 'Phemie was not at all sure that there was any mystery about it. Lyddy, on the strength of getting her first boarders, renewed her advertisement in the Easthampton papers. At once she received half a dozen inquiries. It was yet too early in the season to expect many people to wish to come to the country to board; yet Lyddy painstakingly answered each letter, and in full. But she really did not see how she would be able to get on over the summer with the open fire and the brick oven. It would be dreadfully hot in that kitchen. And she would have been glad to use Mrs. Pritchett's Dutch oven that Lucas had told her about. But since the first Sunday neither Mrs. Pritchett or Sairy had been near Hillcrest. Now that Mr. Somers had established himself here, the Bray girls did not expect to ever be forgiven by "Maw" Pritchett and her daughter. "It's too bad people are so foolish," said Lyddy, wearily. "I haven't done anything to Sairy." "But she and her mother think you have. By your wiles you have inveigled Mr. Somers away from Sairy," giggled 'Phemie. "'Phemie!" gasped her sister. "If you say such a thing again, I'll send Mr. Somers packing!" "Oh, shucks! Can't you see the fun of it!?" "There is no fun in it," declared the very proper Lyddy. "It is only disgraceful." "I'd like to tell that young Mr. Colesworth about it," laughed 'Phemie. "He'd just be tickled to death." Lyddy looked at her haughtily. "You _dare_ include me in any gossip of such a character, and I--" "Well? You'll what?" demanded the younger girl, saucily. "I shall feel very much like spanking you!" declared Lyddy. "And that is just what you would deserve." "Oh, now--don't get mad, Lyd," urged 'Phemie. "You take things altogether too seriously." "Well," responded the older girl, going back to the main subject, "the problem of how we are to cook when it comes warm weather is a very, very serious matter." "We've just got to have a range--ought to have one with a tank, on the end in which to heat water. I've seen 'em advertised." "But how can we? I've gone into debt now for more than thirty dollars' worth of commercial fertilizer. I don't dare get deeper into the mire." "But," cried the sanguine 'Phemie, "the crops will more than pay for _that_ outlay." "Perhaps." "You're a born grump, Lyddy Bray!" "Somebody has to look ahead," sighed Lyddy. "The crops may fail. Such things happen. Or we may get no more boarders. Or father may get worse." "_Don't_ say such things, Lyddy!" cried her sister, stamping her foot. "Especially about father." The older girl put her arms about 'Phemie and the latter began to weep on her shoulder. "Don't let us hide our true beliefs from each other," whispered Lyddy, brokenly. "Father is _not_ mending--not as we hoped he would, at least. And yet the hospital doctor told Aunt Jane that there was absolutely nothing medicine could do for him." "I know! I know!" sobbed 'Phemie. "But don't let's talk about it. He is so brave himself. He talks just as though he was gaining every day; but his step is so feeble----" "And he has no color," groaned Lyddy. "But, anyhow," 'Phemie pursued, wiping her eyes, her flurry of tears quickly over, as was her nature, "there is one good thing." "What is that?" "He doesn't lose hope himself. And _we_ mustn't lose it, either. Of course things will come out right--even the boarders will come." "We don't know that," said Lyddy, shaking her head again. "How about the woman who wrote you a second time?" queried 'Phemie. "Mrs. Castle. I bet _she_ comes next week." And 'Phemie was right in _that_ prophecy. They had Lucas meet the train for Mrs. Castle on Saturday, and 'Phemie went with him. There were supplies to buy for the house and the young girl made her purchases before train time. A little old lady in a Paisley shawl and black, close bonnet, got out of the train. The porter lifted down an ancient carpet-bag--something 'Phemie had never in her life seen before. Even Lucas was amazed by the little old woman's outfit. "By cracky!" he whispered to 'Phemie. "You reckon _that's_ the party? Why, she's dressed more behind the times than my grandmother useter be. Guess there must be places on this airth more countrified than Bridleburg." But 'Phemie knew that Mrs. Castle's letter had come from an address in Easthampton which the Brays knew to be in a very good neighborhood. Nobody but wealthy people lived on that street. Yet Mrs. Castle--aside from the valuable but old-fashioned shawl--did not look to be worth any great fortune. "Are you the girl who wrote to me?" asked the old lady, briskly, when 'Phemie came forward to take the carpet-bag. Mrs. Castle's voice was very resonant; she had sharp blue eyes behind her gold-bowed spectacles; and she clipped her words and sentences in a manner that belied her age and appearance. "No, ma'am," said 'Phemie, doubtfully. "It was my sister who wrote. _I_ am Euphemia Bray." "Ha! And what is your sister's name? What does the 'L' stand for?" "Lydia." "Good!" ejaculated this strange old lady. "Then I'll ride out to the farm with you. Such good, old-fashioned names promise just what your sister said: An old-fashioned house and old-time ways. If 'L!' had meant 'Lillie,' or 'Luella,' or 'Lilas'--and if _you_, young lady, had been called 'Marie'--I'd have taken the very next train back to town." 'Phemie could only stare and nod. In her secret thoughts she told herself that this queer old woman was doubtless a harmless lunatic. She did not know whether it was quite best to have Lucas drive them to Hillcrest or not. "You got a trunk, ma'am?" asked the long-legged youth, as the old lady hopped youthfully into the buckboard, and 'Phemie lifted in the heavy carpet-bag. "No, I haven't. This is no fashionable boarding house I'm going to, I s'pose?" she added, eyeing 'Phemie sternly. "Oh, no, ma'am!" returned the girl. "Then I've got enough with me in this bag, and on my back, to last me a fortnight. If I like, I'll send for something more, then." She certainly knew her own mind, this old lady. 'Phemie had first thought her to be near the three-score-and-ten mark; but every moment she seemed to get younger. Her face was wrinkled, but they were fine wrinkles, and her coloring made her look like a withered russet apple. Out of this golden-brown countenance the blue eyes sparkled in a really wonderful way. "But I don't care," thought 'Phemie, as they clattered out of town. "Crazy or not, if she can pay her board she's so much help. Let the ball keep on rolling. It's getting bigger and bigger. Perhaps we _shall_ have a houseful at Hillcrest, after all." CHAPTER XVII THE RUNAWAY GRANDMOTHER But 'Phemie was immensely curious about this strange little old lady who was dressed so oddly, yet who apparently came from the wealthiest section of the city of Easthampton. The young girl could not bring herself to ask questions of their visitor--let Lyddy do that, if she thought it necessary. But, as it chanced, up to a certain point Mrs. Castle was quite open of speech and free to communicate information about herself. As soon as they had got out of town she turned to 'Phemie and said: "I expect you think I'm as queer as Dick's hat-band, Euphemia? I am quite sure you never saw a person like me before?" "Why--Mrs. Castle--not _just_ like you," admitted the embarrassed 'Phemie. "I expect not! Well, I presume there are other old women, who are grandmothers, and have got all tangled up in these new-fangled notions that women have--Laws' sake! I might as well tell you right off that I've run away!" "Run away?" gasped 'Phemie, with a vision of keepers from an asylum coming to Hillcrest to take away their new boarder. "That's exactly what I have done! None of my folks know where I have gone. I just wrote a note, telling them not to look for me, and that I was going back to old-fashioned times, if I could find 'em. Then I got this bag out of the cupboard--I'd kept it all these years--packed it with my very oldest duds, and--well, here I am!" and the old lady's laugh rang out as shrill and clear as a blackbird's call. "I have astonished you; have I?" she pursued. "And I suppose I have astonished my folks. But they know I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I ought to be. Why, I'm a grandmother three times!" "'Three times?'" repeated the amazed 'Phemie. "Yes, Miss Euphemia Bray. Three grandchildren--two girls and a boy. And they are always telling folks how up-to-date grandma is! I'm sick of being up-to-date. I'm sick of dressing so that folks behind me on the street can't tell whether I'm a grandmother or my own youngest grandchild! "We just live in a perfect whirl of excitement. 'Pleasure,' they call it. But it's gotten to be a nuisance. My daughter-in-law has her head full of society matters and club work. The girls and Tom spend all but the little time they are obliged to give to books in the private schools they attend, in dancing and theatre parties, and the like. "And here a week ago I found my son--their father--a man forty-five years old, and bald, and getting fat, being taught the tango by a French dancing professor in the back drawing-room!" exclaimed Mrs. Castle, in a tone of disgust that almost convulsed 'Phemie. "That was enough. That was the last straw on the camel's back. I made up my mind when I read your sister's advertisement that I would like to live simply and with simple people again. I'd like really to _feel_ like a grandmother, and _dress_ like one, and _be_ one. "And if I like it up here at your place I shall stay through the summer. No hunting-lodge in the Adirondacks for me this spring, or Newport, or the Pier later, or anything of that kind. I'm going to sit on your porch and knit socks. My mother did when _she_ was a grandmother. This is her shawl, and mother and father took this old carpet-bag with them when they went on their honeymoon. "Mother enjoyed her old age. She spent it quietly, and it was _lovely_," declared Mrs. Castle, with a note in her voice that made 'Phemie sober at once. "I am going to have quiet, and repose, and a simple life, too, before I have to die. "It's just killing me keeping up with the times. I don't want to keep up with 'em. I want them to drift by me, and leave me stranded in some pleasant, sunny place, where I only have to look on. And that's what I am going to get at Hillcrest--just that kind of a place--if you've got it to sell," completed this strange old lady, with emphasis. 'Phemie Bray scarcely knew what to say. She was not sure that Mrs. Castle was quite right in her mind; yet what she said, though so surprising, sounded like sense. "I'll leave it to Lyddy; she'll know what to say and do," thought the younger sister, with faith in the ability of Lyddy to handle any emergency. And Lyddy handled the old lady as simply as she did everything. She refused to see anything particularly odd in Mrs. Castle's dress, manner, or outlook on life. The old lady chose one of the larger rooms on the second floor, considered the terms moderate, and approved of everything she saw about the house. "Make no excuses for giving me a feather bed to sleep on. I believe it will add half a dozen years to my life," she declared. "Feather beds! My! I never expected to see such a joy again--let alone experience it." "Our circle is broadening," said old Mr. Colesworth, at supper that evening. "Come! I have a three-handed counter for cribbage. Shall we take Mrs. Castle into our game, Mr. Bray?" "If she will so honor us," agreed the girls' father, bowing to the little old lady. "Well! that's hearty of you," said the brisk Mrs. Castle. "I'll postpone beginning knitting my son a pair of socks that he'd never wear, until to-morrow." For she had actually brought along with her knitting needles and a hank of grey yarn. It grew into a nightly occurrence, this three-handed cribbage game. When Mr. Somers had no lessons to "get up," or no examination papers to mark, he spent the evening with Lyddy and 'Phemie. He even helped with the dish-wiping and helped to bring in the wood for the morning fires. Fire was laid in the three chambers, as well as the dining-room, to light on cold mornings, or on damp days; Lucas had spent a couple more days in chopping wood. But as the season advanced there was less and less need of these in the sleeping rooms. There were, of course, wet and gloomy days, when the old folks were glad to sit over the dining-room fire, the elements forbidding outdoors to them. But they kept cheerful. And not a little of this cheerfulness was spread by Lyddy and 'Phemie. The older girl's thoughtfulness for others made her much beloved, while 'Phemie's high spirits were contagious. On Saturday, when Harris Colesworth arrived from town to remain over Sunday, Hillcrest was indeed a lively place. This very self-possessed young man took a pleasant interest in everything that went on about the house and farm. Lyddy was still inclined to snub him--only, he wouldn't be snubbed. He did not force his attentions upon her; but while he was at Hillcrest it seemed to Lyddy as though he was right at her elbow all the time. "He pervades the whole place," she complained to 'Phemie. "Why--he's under foot, like a kitten!" "Huh!" exclaimed the younger sister. "He's hanging about you no more than the school teacher--and Mr. Somers has the best chance, too." "'Phemie!" "Oh, don't be a grump! Mr. Colesworth is ever so nice. He's worth any _two_ of your Somerses, too!" And at that Lyddy became so indignant that she would not speak to her sister for the rest of the day. But _that_ did not solve the problem. There was Harris Colesworth, always doing something for her, ready to do her bidding at any time, his words cheerful, his looks smiling, and, as Lyddy declared in her own mind, "utterly unable to keep his place." There never _was_ so bold a young man, she verily believed! CHAPTER XVIII THE QUEER BOARDER Spring marched on apace those days. The garden at Hillcrest began to take form, and the green things sprouted beautifully. Lucas Pritchett was working very hard, for his father did not allow him to neglect any of his regular work to keep the contract the young man had made with Lyddy Bray. In another line the prospect for a crop was anxiously canvassed, too. The eggs Lyddy had sent for had arrived and, after running the incubator for a couple of days to make sure that they understood it, the girls put the hundred eggs into the trays. The eggs were guaranteed sixty per cent. fertile and after eight days they tested them as Trent had advised. They left eighty-seven eggs in the incubator after the test. But the incubator took an enormous amount of attention--at least, the girls thought it did. This was not so bad by day; but they went to bed tired enough at night, and Lyddy was sure the lamp should be looked to at midnight. It was three o'clock the first night before 'Phemie awoke with a start, and lay with throbbing pulse and with some sound ringing in her ears which she could not explain immediately. But almost at once she recalled another night--their first one at Hillcrest--when she had gone rambling about the lower floor of the old house. But she thought of the incubator and leaped out of bed. The lamp might have flared up and cooked all those eggs. Or it might have expired and left them to freeze out there in the washhouse. She did not arouse Lyddy, but slipped into her wrapper and slippers and crept downstairs with her candle. There _had_ been a sound that aroused her. She heard somebody moving about the kitchen. "Surely father hasn't got up--he promised he wouldn't," thought 'Phemie. She was not afraid of outside marauders now. Both Mr. Somers and young Mr. Colesworth were in the house. 'Phemie went boldly into the kitchen from the hall. The porch door opened and a wavering light appeared--another candle. There was Harris Colesworth, in _his_ robe and slippers, coming from the direction of the washhouse. 'Phemie shrank back and hid by the foot of the stairs. But she was not quick enough in putting her light out--or else he heard her giggle. "Halt! who goes there?" demanded Colesworth, in a sepulchral voice. "A--a fr-r-riend," chattered 'Phemie. "Advance, friend, and give the countersign," commanded the young man. "Chickens!" gasped 'Phemie, convulsed with laughter. "You'd have had fried eggs, maybe, for all your interest in the incubator," said Harris, with a chuckle. "So 'Chickens' is no longer the password." "Oh, they didn't get too hot?" pleaded the girl, in despair. "Nope. This is the second time I've been out. To tell you the truth," said Harris, laughing, "I think the incubator is all right and will work like a charm; but I understand they're a good deal like ships--likely to develop some crotchet at almost any time." "But it's good of you to take the trouble to look at it for us." "Sure it is!" he laughed. "But that's what I'm on earth for--to do good--didn't you know that, Miss 'Phemie?" She told her sister about Harris Colesworth's kindness in the morning. But Lyddy took it the other way about. "I declare! he can't keep his fingers out of our pie at any stage of the game; can he?" she snapped. "Why, Lyd!" "Oh--don't talk to me!" returned her older sister, who seemed to be rather snappish this morning. "That young man is getting on my nerves." It was Sunday and the Colesworths had engaged a two-seated carriage in town to take Mrs. Castle and Mr. Bray with them to church. There was a seat beside Mr. Somers, behind Old Molly, for one of the girls. The teacher plainly wanted to take Lyddy, but that young lady had not recovered from her ill-temper of the early morning. "Lyd got out of bed on the wrong side this morning," said 'Phemie. However, she went with Mr. Somers in her sister's stead. And Lyddy Bray was glad to be left alone. No one could honestly call Hillcrest Farm a lonesome place these days! "I'm not sure that I wouldn't be glad to be alone here again, with just 'Phemie and father," the young girl told herself. "There is one drawback to keeping a boarding house--one has no privacy. In trying to make it homelike for the boarders, we lose all our own home life. Ah, dear, well! at least we are earning our support." For Lyddy Bray kept her books carefully, and she had been engaged in this new business long enough to enable her to strike a balance. From her present boarders she was receiving thirty-one and a half dollars weekly. At least ten of it represented her profit. But the two young girls were working very hard. The cooking was becoming a greater burden because of the makeshifts necessary at the open fire. And the washing of bed and table linen was a task that was becoming too heavy for them. "If we had a couple of other good paying boarders," mused Lyddy, as she sat resting on the side porch, "we might afford to take somebody into the kitchen to help us. It would have to be somebody who would work cheap, of course; we could pay no fancy wages. But we need help." As she thus ruminated she was startled by seeing a figure cross the field from behind the barn. It was not Cyrus Pritchett, although the farmer spent most of his Sabbaths wandering about the fields examining the crops. Corn had not yet been planted, anyway--not here on the Hillcrest Farm. But this was a man fully as large as Cyrus Pritchett. As he drew nearer, Lyddy thought that he was a man she had never seen before. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat--of the kind affected by Western statesmen. His black hair--rather oily-looking it was, like an Indian's--flowed to the collar of his coat. That coat was a frock, but it was unbuttoned, displaying a pearl gray vest and trousers of the same shade. He even wore gray spats over his shoes and was altogether more elaborately dressed than any native Lyddy had heretofore seen. He came across the yard at a swinging stride, and took off his hat with a flourish. She saw then that his countenance was deeply tanned, that he had a large nose, thick, smoothly-shaven lips, and heavy-lidded eyes. "Miss Bray, I have no doubt?" he began, recovering from his bow. Lyddy had risen rather quickly, and only nodded. She scarcely knew what to make of this stranger--and she was alone. "Pray sit down again," he urged, with a wave of his hand. "And allow me to sit here at your feet. It is a lovely day--but warm." "It is, indeed," admitted Lyddy, faintly. "You have a beautiful view of the valley here." "Yes, sir." "I am told below," said the man, with a free gesture taking in Bridleburg and several square miles of surrounding country, "that you take boarders here at Hillcrest?" "Yes, sir," said Lyddy again. "Good! Your rooms are not yet all engaged, my dear young lady?" said the man, who seemed unable to discuss the simplest subject without using what later she learned to call "his platform manner." "Oh, no; we haven't many guests as yet." "Good!" he exclaimed again. Then, after a moment's pursing of his lips, he added: "This is not strictly speaking a legal day for making bargains. But we may _talk_ of an arrangement; mayn't we?" "I do not understand you, sir," said Lyddy. "Ah! No! I am referring to the possibility of my taking board with you, Miss Bray." "I see," responded the girl, with sudden interest. "Do you think you would be suited with the accommodations we have to offer?" "Ah, my dear miss!" he exclaimed, with a broad smile. "I am an old campaigner. I have slept gypsy-fashion under the stars many and many a night. A straw pallet has often been my lot. Indeed, I am naturally simple of taste and habit." He said all this with an air as though entirely different demands might reasonably be expected of such as he. He evidently had a very good opinion of himself. Lyddy did not much care for his appearance; but he was respectably--if strikingly--dressed, and he was perfectly respectful. "I will show you what we have," said Lyddy, and rose and accompanied him through the house. "You do not let any of the rooms in the east wing?" he asked, finally. "No, sir. Neither upstairs nor down. We probably shall not disturb those rooms at all." Finally they talked terms. The stranger seemed to forget all his scruples about doing business on Sunday, for he was a hard bargainer. As a result he obtained from Lyddy quite as good accommodations as Mrs. Castle had--and for two dollars less per week. Not until they had come downstairs did Lyddy think to ask him his name. "And one not unknown to fame, my dear young lady," he said, drawing out his cardcase. "Famous in more than one field of effort, too--as you may see. "Your terms are quite satisfactory, I will have my trunk brought up in the morning, and I will do myself the honor to sup with you to-morrow evening. Good-day, Miss Bray," and he lifted his hat and went away whistling, leaving Lyddy staring in surprise at the card in her hand: PROF. LEMUEL JUDSON SPINK, M.D. Proprietor: Stonehedge Bitters Likewise of the World Famous DIAMOND GRITS "_The Breakfast of the Million_" "Why! it's the Spink man we've heard so much about--the boy who was taken out of the poorhouse by grandfather. I--I wonder if I have done right to take him as a boarder?" murmured Lyddy at last. CHAPTER XIX THE WIDOW HARRISON'S TROUBLES Later Lyddy Bray had more than "two minds" about taking Professor Lemuel Judson Spink to board. And 'Phemie's "You never took him!" when she first heard the news on her return from church, was not the least of the reasons for Lyddy's doubts. But 'Phemie denied flatly--the next minute--that she had any real and sensible reason for opposing Mr. Spink's coming to Hillcrest to board. Indeed, she said emphatically that she had never yet expressed any dislike for the proprietor of Diamond Grits--the breakfast of the million. "My goodness me! why _not_ take him?" she said. "As long as we don't have to eat his breakfast food, I see no reason for objecting." But in her secret heart 'Phemie was puzzled by what "Jud Spink," as he was called by his old associates, was up to! She believed Cyrus Pritchett knew; but 'Phemie stood rather in fear of the stern farmer, as did his whole household. Only Lyddy had faced the bullying old man and seemed perfectly fearless of him; but 'Phemie shrank from adding to the burden on Lyddy's mind by explaining to her all the suspicions _she_ held of this Spink. The man had tried to purchase Hillcrest of Aunt Jane for a nominal sum. He had been lurking about the old house--especially about the old doctor's offices in the east wing--more than once, to 'Phemie's actual knowledge. And Spink was interested in something at the back of Hillcrest Farm. He had been hunting among the rocks there until old Mr. Colesworth's presence had driven him away. What was he after on the old farm where he had lived for some years as a boy? What was the secret of the rocks? And had the mystery finally brought Professor Lemuel Judson Spink to the house itself as a boarder? These questions puzzled 'Phemie greatly. But she wouldn't put them before her sister. If Lyddy was not suspicious, let her remain so. It was their duty to take all the boarders they could get. Mr. Spink added his quota to their profits. 'Phemie was just as eager as Lyddy to keep father on the farm and out of the shop that had so nearly proved fatal to him. "So there's no use in refusing to swallow the breakfast food magnate," decided 'Phemie. "We'll down him, and if we have to make a face at the bitter dose, all right!" Professor Spink came the very next evening. He was a distinct addition to the party at supper. Indeed, his booming voice, his well rounded periods, his unctuous manner, his frock coat, and his entire physical and mental make-up seemed to dominate the dining-room. Mr. Colesworth listened to his supposedly scientific jargon with a quiet smile; the geologist plainly sized up Professor Spink for the quack he was. Mr. Bray tried to be a polite listener to all the big man said. The girls were utterly silenced by the ever-flowing voice of the ex-medicine show lecturer; but Mr. Somers was inclined to argue on a point or two with Professor Spink. This, however, only made the man "boom" the louder. Mrs. Castle seemed willing to listen to the Professor's verbosity and agreed with all he said. She was willing after supper to withdraw from the usual cribbage game and play "enthralled audience" for the ex-lecturer's harangues. He boomed away at her upon a number of subjects, while she placidly nodded acquiescence and made her knitting needles flash--and he talked, and talked, and talked. When the little old lady retired to bed Lyddy went to her room, as she usually did, to see if she was comfortable for the night. "I am afraid our new guest rather bored you, Mrs. Castle?" Lyddy ventured. "On the contrary, Lydia," replied the old lady, promptly, "his talk is very soothing; and I can knit with perfect assurance that I shall not miss count while he is talking--for I don't really listen to a word he says!" Professor Spink did not, however, make himself offensive. He only seemed likely to become a dreadful bore. During the day he wandered about the farm--a good deal like Mr. Colesworth. Only he did not carry with him a little hammer and bag. 'Phemie wondered if the professor had not come here to board for the express purpose of continuing his mysterious search at the back of the farm without arousing either objection or comment. He watched Mr. Colesworth, too. There could be no doubt of that. When the old geologist started out with his hammer and bag, the professor trailed him. But the two never went together. Mr. Colesworth often brought in curious specimens of rock; but he said frankly that he had come across no mineral of value on the farm in sufficient quantities to promise the owner returns for mining the ore. Aunt Jane, too, had said that the rocks back of Hillcrest had been examined by geologists time and again. There was no mineral treasure on the farm. _That_ was surely not the secret of the rocks--and it wasn't mineral Professor Spink was after. But the week passed without 'Phemie's having studied out a single sensible idea about the matter. Friday was a very hard and busy day for the girls. It was the big baking day of the week. They made a fire twice in the big brick oven, and left two pots of beans in it over night. "But there's enough in the larder to last over Sunday, thanks be!" sighed 'Phemie, when she and Lyddy crept to bed. "I hope so. What a lot they do eat!" said Lyddy, sleepily. "A double baking of bread. A dozen apple pies; four squash pies; and an extra lemon-meringue for Sunday dinner. Oh, dear, Lyd! I wish you'd let me go and ask Maw Pritchett for her Dutch oven." "No," replied the older sister, drowsily. "We will not risk a refusal. Besides, Mr. Somers said something about an old lady over the ridge--beyond the chapel--who is selling out--or being sold out--Mrs. Harrison. Maybe she has something of the kind that she will sell cheap." "Well--that--old--brick--oven--is--kill--ing--me!" yawned 'Phemie, and then was sound asleep in half a minute. The next morning, however, the girls hustled about as rapidly as possible and when Lucas drove up with young Mr. Colesworth they were ready to take a drive with the young farmer over the ridge. "We want to see what this Mrs. Harrison has to sell," explained Lyddy to Lucas. "You see, we need some things." "All right," he agreed. "I'll take ye. But whether the poor old critter is let to sell anything private, or not, I dunno. They sold her real estate last week, and this sale of household goods is to satisfy the judgment. The farm wasn't much, and it went for a song. Poor old critter! She is certainly getting the worst end of it, and after putting up with Bob Harrison's crotchets so many years." 'Phemie was interested in Mrs. Harrison and wanted to ask Lucas about her; but just as they started Harris Colesworth darted out of the house again, having seen his father. "Hold on! don't be stingy!" he cried. "There's a seat empty beside you, Miss Lyddy. Can't I go, too?" Now, how could you refuse a person as bold as that? Besides, Harris was a "paying guest" and she did not want to offend him! So Lyddy bowed demurely and young Colesworth hopped in. "Let 'em go, Lucas!" he cried. "Now, this is what _I_ call a mighty nice little family party--I don't see Somers in it." At that Lucas laughed so he could scarcely hold the reins. But Lyddy only looked offended. "Stop your silly giggling, Lucas," commanded 'Phemie, fearful that her sister would become angry and "speak out in meeting." "I want to know all about this Mrs. Harrison." "Is that where you're bound--to the Widow Harrison's?" asked Harris. "I have been told that our new friend, Professor Spink, has sold her out--stock, lock, and barrel." "Is _that_ who is making her trouble?" demanded 'Phemie, hotly. "I _knew_ he was a mean man." "Well, he was a bad man to go to for money, I reckon," agreed Harris. "Bob Harrison didn't mortgage his place to Jud Spink," explained Lucas. "No sir! He got the money of Reuben Smiles, years ago. And he and his widder allus paid the intrust prompt." "Well--how did it come into Spink's hands?" "Why--I dunno. Guess Spink offered Smiles a bonus. At any rate, the original mortgage had long since run out, and was bein' renewed from year to year. When it come time for renewal, Jud Spink showed his hand and foreclosed. They had a sale, and it didn't begin to pay the face of the mortgage. You see, the place had all run down. Bob hadn't turned a stroke of work on it for years before he died, and the widder'd only made shift to make a garden. "Wal, there was a clause covering all personal property--and the widder had subscribed to it. So now the sheriff is going to have a vendue an' see if he kin satisfy Jud Spink's claim in full. Dunno what _will_ become of Mis' Harrison," added Lucas, shaking his head. "She's quite spry, if she is old; but she ain't got a soul beholden to her, an' I reckon she'll be took to the poor farm." CHAPTER XX THE TEMPERANCE CLUB AGAIN The boys sat in the buckboard and talked earnestly while Lyddy and 'Phemie Bray "visited" with the Widow Harrison. She was a tall, gaunt, sad woman--quite "spry," as Lucas had said; but she was evidently troubled about her future. Her poor sticks of furniture could not bring any great sum at the auction, which was slated for the next Monday. She admitted to the Bray girls that she expected the money raised would all have to go to the mortgagee. "I _did_ 'spect I'd be 'lowed to live here in Bob's place till I died," she sighed. "Bob was hard to git along with. I paid dear for my home, I did. And now it's goin' to be took away from me." "And you have no relatives, Mrs. Harrison? Nobody whose home you would be welcome in?" asked Lyddy, thoughtfully. "Not a soul belongin' to me," declared Mrs. Harrison. "An' I wouldn't ask charity of nobody--give me my way." "You think you could work yet?" ventured Lyddy. "Why, bless ye! I've gone out washin' an' scrubbin' when I could. But folks on this ridge ain't able to have much help. Still, them I've worked for will give me a good word. No _young_ woman can ekal me, I'm proud to say. I was brought up to work, I was, an' I ain't never got rusty." Lyddy looked at 'Phemie with shining eyes. At first the younger sister didn't comprehend what Lyddy was driving at. But suddenly a light flooded her mind. "Goody! that's just the thing!" cried 'Phemie, clasping her hands. "What might ye be meanin'?" demanded the puzzled Mrs. Harrison, looking at the girls alternately. "You are just the person we want, Mrs. Harrison," Lyddy declared, "and we are just the persons _you_ want. It is a mutual need, and for once the two needs have come together." "I don't make out what ye mean, child," returned the old woman. "Why, you want work and a home. We need somebody to help us, and we have plenty of space so that you can have a nice big room to yourself at Hillcrest, and I _know_ we shall get along famously. Do, _do_, Mrs. Harrison! Let's try it!" A blush rose slowly into the old woman's face. Her eyes shone with sudden unshed tears as she continued to look at Lyddy. "You don't know what you're saying, child!" she finally declared, hoarsely. "Yes, dear Mrs. Harrison! We need you--and perhaps you need us." "Need ye!" The stern New England nature of the woman could not break up easily. Her face worked as she simply repeated the words, in a tone that brought a choking feeling into 'Phemie's throat: "_Need ye!_" But Lyddy went on to explain details, and bye-and-bye Mrs. Harrison gained control of her emotions. Lyddy told her what she felt she could afford to pay. "It isn't great pay, I know; but we're not making much money out of the boarders yet; if we fill the house, you shall have more. And we will be sure to treat you nicely, Mrs. Harrison." "Stop, child! don't say another word!" gasped the old woman. "Of course, I'll come. Why--you don't know what you're doing for me----" "No; we're doing for ourselves," laughed Lyddy. "You're givin' me a chance to be independent," cried Mrs. Harrison. "That's the greatest thing in the world." "Isn't it?" returned Lyddy, sweetly. "I think so. That's what we are trying to do ourselves. So you'll come?" "Sure as I'm alive, Miss," declared the old woman. "Ye need have no fear I won't. I'll be over in time to help ye with supper Monday night. And wait till Tuesday with your washin'. I'm a good washer, if I _do_ say it as shouldn't." The young folks drove back to Hillcrest much more gaily than they had come. At least, 'Phemie and Lucas were very gay on the front seat. Harris Colesworth said to Lyddy: "Lucas has been giving me the full history of the Widow Harrison's troubles. And her being sold out of house and home isn't the worst she's been through." "No?" "The man she married--late in life--was a Tartar, I tell you! Just as cranky and mean as he could be. Everybody thought he was an old soldier. He was away from here all during the Civil War--from '61 to '65--and folks supposed he'd get a pension, and that his widow would have _something_ for her trouble of marrying and living with the old grouch. "But it seems he never enlisted at all. He was just a sutler, or camp follower, or something. He couldn't get a pension. And he let folks think that he had brought home a lot of money, and had hidden it; but when he died two years ago Mrs. Harrison didn't find a penny. He'd just mortgaged the old place, and they'd been living on the money he got that way." "It seems too bad she should lose everything," agreed Lyddy. "I am going to stay over Monday and go to the vendue," said Harris. "Lucas says she has a few pieces of furniture that maybe I'd like to have--a chest of drawers, and a desk----" "Oh, yes! I saw them," responded Lyddy, "And she's got some kitchen things I'd like to have, too. I _need_ her Dutch oven." "Oh, I say, Miss Lyddy!" he exclaimed, eagerly, yet bashfully, "you're not going to try to cook over that open fire all this summer? It will kill you." "I _do_ need a stove--a big range," admitted the young girl. "But I don't see how----" "Let me lend you the money!" exclaimed Harris. "See! I'll pay you ahead for father and me as many weeks as you like----" "I most certainly shall not accept your offer, Mr. Colesworth!" declared Lyddy, immediately on guard again with this too friendly young man. "Of course, I am obliged to you; but I could not think of it." She chilled his ardor on this point so successfully that Harris scarcely dared suggest that they four go to the Temperance Club meeting at the schoolhouse that night. Evidently Lucas and he had talked it over, and were anxious to have the girls go. 'Phemie welcomed the suggestion gladly, too. And feeling that she had too sharply refused Mr. Colesworth's kindly suggestion regarding the kitchen range, Lyddy graciously agreed to go. Mr. Somers, the school teacher, was possibly somewhat offended because Lyddy had refused to accompany _him_ to the club meeting; but for once Lyddy took her own way without so much regard for the possible "feelings" of other people. The teacher could not comfortably take both her and 'Phemie in his buggy; and why offend Lucas Pritchett, who was certainly their loyal friend and helper? So when the ponies and buckboard appeared after supper the two girls were in some little flutter of preparation. Old Mr. Colesworth and Grandma Castle (as she loved to have the girls call her) were on the porch to see the party off. The girls had worked so very hard these past few weeks that they were both eager for a little fun. Even Lyddy admitted that desire now. Since their first venture to the schoolhouse and to the chapel, Lyddy had met very few of the young people. And 'Phemie had not been about much. Since Sairy Pritchett and her mother had put their social veto on the Bray girls the young people of the community--the girls, at least--acted very coldly toward Lyddy and 'Phemie. The latter saw this more clearly than her sister, for she had occasion to meet some of them both at chapel and in Bridleburg, where she had gone with Lucas several times for provisions. Indeed she had heard from Lucas that quite a number of the neighbors considered 'Phemie and her sister "rather odd," to put it mildly. The Larribees were angry because Mr. Somers, the school teacher, had left them to board at Hillcrest. "Measles," they said, "was only an excuse." And there were other taxpayers in the district who thought Mr. Somers ought to have boarded with _them_, if he had to leave Sam Larribee's! And of course, the way that oldest Bray girl had taken the school teacher right away from Sairy Pritchett---- 'Phemie thought all this was funny. Yet she was glad Lyddy had not heard much of it, for Lyddy's idea of fun did not coincide with such gossip and ill-natured criticisms. 'Phemie was not, however, surprised by the cold looks and lack of friendly greeting that met them when they came to the schoolhouse this evening. Mr. Somers had got there ahead of them. There was much whispering when the Bray girls came in with Harris Colesworth, and 'Phemie overheard one girl whisper: "Guess Mr. Somers got throwed down, too. I see she's got a new string to her bow!" "Now, if Lyddy hears such talk as that she'll be really hurt," thought 'Phemie. "I really wish we hadn't come." But they were in their seats then, with Harris beside Lyddy and Lucas beside herself. There didn't seem to be any easy way of getting out of the place. CHAPTER XXI CAUGHT Nettie Meyers was there--Joe Badger's buxom friend. She stared hard at 'Phemie and her sister, and then tossed her head. But Mr. Badger came over particularly to speak to the girls. Sairy Pritchett was very much in evidence. She sat with half a dozen other young women and by their looks and laughter they were evidently commenting unfavorably upon the Bray girls' appearance and character. Lyddy bowed pleasantly to Mr. Badger and the other young men who spoke to her; but she gave her main attention to Harris. But 'Phemie noted all the sidelong glances, the secret whispering, the bold and harsh words. She was very sorry they had come. Alone, 'Phemie could have given these girls "as good as they sent." Young as she was, her experience among common-minded girls like these had prepared her to hold her own with them. There had been many unpleasant happenings in the millinery shop where she had worked, of which she had told Lyddy nothing. Mr. Somers came down from the desk to speak to the party from Hillcrest before the meeting opened. But everybody turned around to stare when he did so, and the teacher grew red to his very ears and remained but a moment under fire. "Hul-_lo_!" exclaimed Harris Colesworth, under his breath, and 'Phemie knew that he immediately realized the situation. The whole membership--at least, the female portion of it--was hostile to the party from Hillcrest. While the entertainment was proceeding, however, the Bray girls and their escorts were left in peace. Sairy Pritchett sat where she could stare at Lyddy and 'Phemie, and they were conscious of her antagonistic gaze all the time. But Lucas was quite undisturbed by his sister's ogling and when there came a break in the program he leaned over and demanded of her in a perfectly audible voice: "I say, Sairy! You keep on starin' like that and you'll git suthin' wuss'n a squint--you'll git cross-eyed, and it'll stay fixed! Anything about _me_ you don't like the look of? Is my necktie crooked?" Some of the others laughed--and at Sairy. It made the spinster furious. "You're a perfect fool, Lucas Pritchett!" she snapped. "If you ever _did_ have any brains, you've addled 'em now over certain folks that I might mention." "Go it, old gal!" said the slangy Lucas. "Ev'ry knock's a boost--don't forgit that!" "Hush!" commanded 'Phemie, in a whisper. "Huh! that cat's goin' to do somethin' mean. I can see it," growled Lucas. "She is your sister," admonished 'Phemie. "That's how I come to know her so well," returned Lucas, calmly. "If she'd only been a boy I'd licked her aout o' this afore naow!" "About _what_?" asked the troubled 'Phemie. "Oh, just over her 'tarnal meanness. And maw's so foolish, too; _she_ could stop her." "I'm sorry we came here to-night, Lucas," 'Phemie whispered. And at the same moment Lyddy was saying exactly the same thing to Harris Colesworth. "Pshaw!" said the young chemist, in return, "don't give 'em the satisfaction of seeing we're disturbed. They know no better. I can't understand why they should be so nasty to us." "It's Lucas's sister," sighed Lyddy. "She thinks she has reason for being offended with me. But I _did_ hope that feeling had died out by this time." "You say the word and we'll get out of here, Miss Lydia," urged Harris. "Sh! No," she whispered, for somebody was painfully playing a march on the tin-panny old piano, and Mr. Somers was scowling directly down upon the Hillcrest party to obtain silence. "Say! what's the matter with that Somers chap, too?" muttered Harris. But Lyddy feared that the teacher felt he had cause for offence, and she certainly _was_ uncomfortable. The recess--or intermission--between the two halves of the literary and musical program, was announced. This was a time always given to social intercourse. The company broke up into groups and chattered and laughed in a friendly--if somewhat boisterous--way. Newcomers and visitors were made welcome at this time. Nobody now came near the Bray girls--not even Mr. Somers. Whether this was intentional neglect on his part or not they did not know, for the teacher seemed busy at the desk with first one and then another. Sairy Pritchett and the club historian had their heads together, and the latter, Mayme Lowry, was evidently adding several items to her "Club Chronicles," which amused the two immensely. And there was a deal of nudging and tittering over this among the other girls who gathered about the arch-plotters. "I'm glad they've got something besides us to giggle about," Lyddy confided to her sister. But 'Phemie was not sure that the ill-natured girls were not hatching up some scheme to offend the Hillcrest party. "I believe I'd like to go home," ventured 'Phemie. "Aw! don't let 'em chase you away," exclaimed the young farmer. "Oh, I know: 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!' But being called names--or, even having names _looked_ at one--isn't pleasant." Lyddy heard her and said quickly, her expression very decided indeed: "We're not going--yet. Let us stay until the finish." "Yes, by jove!" muttered Harris. "I'd just like to see what these Rubes would dare do!" But girls are not like boys--at least, some girls are not. They won't fight fair. The Hillcrest party need not have expected an attack in any way that could be openly answered--no, indeed. But they did not escape. Mr. Somers rang his desk bell at last and called the company to order. After a song from the school song-book, in which everybody joined, the "Club Chronicles" were announced. This "history"--being mainly hits on what had happened in the community since the last meeting of the Temperance Club--was very popular. Mayme Lowry was a more than ordinarily bright girl, and had a gift for composition. It was whispered that she wrote the "Pounder's Brook Items" for the Bridleburg _Weekly Clarion_. Miss Lowry rose and unfolded her manuscript. It was written in a somewhat irreverent imitation of the scriptural "Chronicles;" but that seemed to please the young folks here gathered all the more. She began: "And it came to pass in the reign of King Westerville Somers, who was likewise a seer and a prophet, and in the fourth month of the second year of his reign over the Pounder's School District, that a certain youth whose name rhymes with 'hitch it,' hitched himself to the apron-strings of a maid, who was at that time sojourning at the top of the hill--and was hitched so tight that you couldn't have pried the two apart with a crowbar!" "Oh, by cracky!" gasped the suddenly ruddy-faced Lucas. "What a wallop!" The paragraph was punctuated with a general titter from the girls all over the room, while some of the boys hooted at Lucas in vast joy. Lyddy turned pale; 'Phemie's countenance for once rivalled Lucas's own in hue. But Miss Lowry went on to the next paragraph, which was quite as severe a slap at somebody else. "Don't get mad with _me_, Miss 'Phemie," begged Lucas, in a whisper. "Oh, you can't help it, Lucas," she said. "But I'll never come to this place with you again. Don't expect it!" The amusing but sometimes merely foolish paragraphs were reeled off, one after the other. Sometimes the crowd shouted with laughter; sometimes there was almost dead silence as Miss Lowry delivered a particularly hard hit, or one that was not entirely understood at first. "And it came to pass in those days that certain damsels of the Pounder's Brook Temperance Club gathered themselves together in one place, and saith, the one to the other: "Is it not so that the young men of Pounder's Brook are no longer attracted by our girls? They no longer care to listen to our songs, or when we play upon the harp or psaltery. They pass us by with unseeing vision. Verily an Easter bonnet no longer catcheth the eye of the wayward youth, and holdeth his attention. Selah. "Therefore spake one damsel to the others gathered together, and sayeth: 'Surely we are not wise. The young men of our tribe goeth after strange gods. Therefore, let us awake, and go forth, and show the wisdom of serpents and--each and every one of us--start a boarding house!'" The young men, who had begun to look exceedingly foolish during this harangue, suddenly broke into a chorus of laughter. Even Lucas and Harris Colesworth could not hide a grin, and the school teacher hid his face from the company. The whole room was a-roar. Lyddy and 'Phemie suffered under the indignity--and yet 'Phemie could scarcely forbear a grin. It was a coarse joke, but laughter is contagious--even when the joke is against oneself. Miss Lowry gave them no time to recover from this _bon mot_. She went on with: "And it was said of a certain young man, as he rode on the way to Bridleburg, that he was met by another youth, who halted and asked a question of the traveler. But the traveler was strangely smitten at that moment, and all he could do was to _bray_." There were no more shots at the Hillcrest folk after that--at least, if there were, the Bray girls did not hear them. The "Chronicles" came to an end at last. Somehow the sisters got away from the hateful place with their escorts. "But don't ever ask me to go to that schoolhouse again," said Lyddy, who was infrequently angry and so, when she displayed wrath, was the more impressive. "I think, Lucas, the people around here are the most ill-mannered and brutal folk who ever lived. They are in the stone age. They should be living in caves in the hillside and be wearing skins of wild animals instead of civilized clothing." "Yes, ma'am," replied Lucas, gently. "I reckon it looks so to you. But they have all got used to Mayme Lowry's shots--it's give an' take with most of 'em." "There is no excuse--there _can_ be no excuse for such cruelty," reiterated Lyddy. "And we never have done a single thing knowingly to hurt them." Harris Colesworth was silent, but 'Phemie saw that his eyes danced. He only said, soothingly: "They are a different class from your own, Miss Lydia. They look on life differently. You cannot understand them any more than they can understand you. Forget it!" But that was more easily said than done. Forget it, indeed! Lydia declared when she went to bed with 'Phemie that she still "burned all over" at the recollection of the impudence of that Lowry girl! Of course, common sense should have come to the aid of the Bray sisters and aided them to scorn the matter. "Overlook it" was the wise thing to do. But a tiny thorn in the thumb may irritate more than a much more serious injury. Lyddy considered Mr. Somers quite as much at fault for what had happened at the meeting as anybody else. He was nominally in charge of the temperance meeting. On the other hand 'Phemie decided that she would not be seen so much in Lucas's company--although Lucas was a loyal friend. The morrow was the first Sunday of the month of May, and its dawn promised as perfect a day as the month ever produced. Now the girls' flower gardens were made, the vines 'Phemie had planted were growing, the old lawns about the big farmhouse were a vernal green and the garden displayed many promising rows of spring vegetables. The girls were up early and swept the great porch all the way around the house, and set several comfortable old chairs out where they would catch the morning sun for the early risers. The earliest of the boarders to appear was Harris Colesworth, wrapped in a long raincoat and carrying a couple of bath towels over his arm. "I found a fine swimming hole up yonder in the brook where it comes through the back of the farm," he declared to the sisters. "It's going to be pretty cold, I know; but nothing like a beginning. I hope to get a plunge in that brook every morning that I am up here." And he went away cheerfully whistling. A moment later 'Phemie saw Professor Spink dart out of the side door and peer after the departing Harris, around a corner of the house. The professor did not know that he was observed. He shook his head, scowled, stamped his foot, and finally ran in for his hat and followed upon Harris's track. "He's suspicious of everybody who goes up there to the rocks," thought 'Phemie. "What under the sun is it Spink's got up there?" Later in the day--it was an hour or more before their usual Sunday dinner time--something else happened which quite chased the professor's odd actions out of 'Phemie's mind--and it gave the rest of the household plenty to talk about, too. The procession of carriages going to Cornell Chapel had passed some time since when another vehicle was spied far down the road toward Bridleburg. A faint throbbing in the air soon assured the watchers on Hillcrest that this was an automobile. Not many autos climbed this stiff hill to Adams; there was a longer and better road which did not touch Bridleburg and the Pounder's Brook District at all. But this big touring car came pluckily up the hill, and it did not slow down until it reached the bottom of the Hillcrest lane. There were several people in the car, and one, a lithe and active youth, leaped out and ran up the lane. Plainly he came to ask a question, for he dashed across the front yard toward where the family party were sitting on the porch. "Oh, I say," he began, doffing his cap to the girls, "can you tell a fellow----" His gaze had wandered, and now his speech trailed off into silence and his eyes grew as large as saucers. He was staring at the placidly-knitting Mrs. Castle, who sat listening to the Professor's booming voice. "Grandma! Great--jumping--horse--chestnuts!" the youth yelled. Mrs. Castle dropped her ball of yarn, and it went rolling down the steps into the grass. She laid down her knitting, took off the spectacles and wiped them, and them put them on again the better to see the amazed youth below her. "Well," she said, at length, "I guess I'm caught." CHAPTER XXII THE HIDDEN TREASURE "I'm going to call up the governor--and mom--and Lucy--and Jinny," gasped the young fellow, who had so suddenly laid claim to being Mrs. Castle's grandson. "I just want them to _see_ you, Grandma. Why--why, _where_ did you ever get those duds? And for all the world!--_you're knitting!_" "You can call 'em up, Tommy," said the old lady, placidly. "I've got the bit in my teeth now, and I'm going to stay." "Can we drive in here?" asked Master Tom, quickly, of the girls, whom he instinctively knew were in charge. "Yes," said Lyddy. "Of course any friends of Mrs. Castle's will be welcome." Tom sang out for the chauffeur to turn into the lane, and in a minute or two the motor party stopped in the grass-grown driveway within plain view of the people on the porch. "Will you look at who's here?" demanded Master Tom, standing with his legs wide apart and waving his arms excitedly. The rather stout, ruddy-faced man reading the Sunday paper dropped the sheet and gazed across at the bridling old lady. "Why, Mother!" he cried. "Grandma--if it isn't!" exclaimed one young lady, who was about nineteen. "Mother Castle!" gasped the lady who sat beside Mr. Castle on the rear seat. "Hullo, Grandma!" shouted the other girl, who was younger than Tom. "I hope you all know me," said Grandmother Castle, rising and leaving her knitting in her chair, as she approached the automobile. "I thought some of sending for some more clothing to-morrow; but you can take my order in to-day." "Mother Castle! what _is_ the meaning of this masquerade?" demanded her daughter-in-law, raising a gold-handled lorgnette through which to stare at the old lady. "Thank you, Daughter Sarah," returned Mrs. Castle, tartly. "I consider that from _you_ a compliment. I expect that a gown, fitted to my age and position in life, _does_ look like a fancy dress to you." "Ho, ho!" roared her son, suddenly doubled up with laughter. "She's got you there, Sadie, I swear! Mother, you look just as your own mother used to look. I remember grandma well enough." "Thank you, Rufus," said the old lady, and there were tears in her eyes. "Your grandmother was a fine woman." "'Deed she was," admitted Mr. Castle, who was getting out of the car heavily. He now came forward and kissed his mother warmly. "Well, if you like this, I don't see why you shouldn't have it," he added, standing off and looking at her plain dress, and her cap, and the little shawl over her shoulders. The girls and Master Tom had already kissed her; now Mrs. Castle the younger got down and pecked at her mother-in-law's cheek. "I'm sure," she said, "I've always done everything to make you feel at home with us, Mother Castle. I've tried to make you one of the family right along. And you belong to the same clubs I do. Surely----" "That's just exactly it!" cried the little old lady, shaking her head. "I don't belong in the same clubs with you. I don't want to belong to any club--unless it's a grandmothers' club. And I want simple living--and country air----" "And all these Rubes?" chuckled Mr. Castle, waving his hand to take in the surrounding country. "Quite so, Rufus. But you would better postpone your criticisms until---- Ah, let me introduce my son, Mr. Colesworth," she added, as the old gentleman and Harris appeared from the side yard. "And young Mr. Harris Colesworth, of the Commonwealth Chemical Company. Perhaps you've heard of the Colesworths, Rufus?" "Bless us and save us!" murmured Mr. Castle. "You're from Easthampton, too?" The old lady continued to introduce her family to the Brays, to Mr. Somers, and even to Professor Spink. The latter came forward with a flourish. "Spink--Lemuel Judson Spink, M.D., proprietor of Stonehedge Bitters, and Diamond Grits, the breakfast of the million," the professor explained, bowing low before Mrs. Rufus Castle. "And these two smart girls I have adopted as grandchildren, too," declared the older Mrs. Castle, drawing Lyddy and 'Phemie forward. "These are the hard-working, cheerful, kind-hearted girls who make this delightful home at Hillcrest for us all." "Oh, Mrs. Castle makes too much of what we do," said Lyddy, softly. "You see, 'Phemie and I are only too glad to have a grandmother; we do not remember ours." "And, God forgive me! I'd almost forgotten what mine was like," said Mr. Castle, softly, eyeing his old mother with misty vision. "Well, now!" spoke the old lady, briskly, "do you suppose you could find enough in that pantry of yours to feed this hungry mob of people in addition to your regular guests, Lyddy?" "Why--if they'll take 'pot luck,'" laughed Lyddy. "Literally 'pot luck,' I mean, for the piece de resistance will be two huge pots of baked beans." "And such beans!" exclaimed Grandmother Castle. "And such 'brown loaf' to go with them," suggested Harris Colesworth. "And old-fashioned 'Injun pudding' baked in a brick oven," added Mr. Bray, smiling. "There is a huge one, I know." "I am not sure that there wasn't method in your madness, Mother," declared Mr. Castle. "All this sounds mighty tempting." "And it will taste even more tempting," declared the elder Mrs. Castle. "Let the hamper stay where it is," commanded her son, to the chauffeur. "We'll partake of the Misses Bray's hospitality." The younger Castles, and the gentleman's wife, might have been in some doubt at first; but when they were set down to the long dining table, with Lyddy's hot viands steaming on the cloth--with the flowers, and beautiful old damask, and blue-and-white china of a by-gone day, and the heavy silver, and the brightness and cheerfulness of it all, they, too, became enthusiastic. "It's the most delightful place to visit we've ever found," declared Miss Virginia Castle. "It's too sweet for anything," agreed Miss Lucy. "I hope you'll come this way in the car again, Dad." "I reckon we will if Grandma is going to make this her headquarters--and she declares she's going to stay," said Master Tom. "Do you blame her?" returned his father, with a sigh of plenitude, as he pushed back from the table. "Well! I can't convince myself that she ought to stay here; but you're all against me, I see," said their mother. "And, it really _is_ a delightful place." The Bray girls were proud of their success in satisfying such a party; and Lyddy was particularly pleased when Mr. Castle drew her aside and put a ten-dollar note in her hand. "Don't say a word! It was worth it. I only hope you won't be over-run by auto parties and your place be spoiled. If you have any others, however, charge them enough. It is better entertainment than we could possibly get at any road house for the same money." And so Lyddy got ten dollars toward her kitchen range. While the ladies were getting into the tonneau, however, Miss Bray overheard a few words 'twixt Harris Colesworth and young Tom Castle that made her suspicious. She came out upon the side porch to wave them good-bye with the dish-cloth, and there were Harris and Tom directly beneath her. And they did not observe Lyddy. "All right, old man," Master Tom was saying, as he wrung the young chemist's hand. "The governor and I _were_ a bit worried about grandma, and your tip came in the nick of time. "But," he added, with a chuckle, "I had no end of trouble getting Mom and the girls to let James come up this way. You see, they'd never been this way over the hill before." "Now," said Lyddy to herself, when the boys had passed out of hearing, "here is another case where this Harris Colesworth deliberately put his--his _nose_ into other people's business! "He knew these Castles. At least, he knew that they belonged to grandma. And he took it upon himself to be a talebearer. I don't like him! I declare I never _shall_ really like him. "Of course, perhaps grandma's son and the rest of the family might be getting anxious about her. But suppose they'd been nasty about it and tried to make her go home with them? "No. 'Phemie is always saying Harris Colesworth has 'such a nice nose.' It is nothing of the kind! It is too much in other people's business to suit me," quoth Lyddy, with decision. Her opinion of him, however, did not feaze Harris in the least. Mr. Somers was inclined to be stiff and "offish" since the previous evening, but Harris was jolly, and kept everybody cheered up--even grandma, who was undoubtedly a little woe-begone after her family had departed--for a while, at least. It was a little too cool yet to sit out of doors after sunset, and that evening after supper they gathered about a clear, brisk fire on the dining-room hearth, and Harris Colesworth led the conversation. And perhaps he had an ulterior design in leading the talk to the Widow Harrison's troubles. He said nothing at which Jud Spink could take offense, but it seemed that Harris had informed himself regarding the old woman's life with her peculiar husband, and he knew much about Bob Harrison himself. "Say--he was a caution--he was!" cried Harris. "And he kept folks guessing all about here for years. The Pritchetts say Bob was a ne'er-do-well when he was a boy----" "And that is quite so," put in Professor Spink. "I can remember the way the old folks talked about him when I was a boy about here." "Just so," agreed Harris. "He made out he was entitled to a pension from the government, for years. And he always told folks he had brought a fortune home from the war with him. Let on that he had hidden it about the house, too." Professor Spink's eyes snapped, and he leaned forward. "You don't reckon there is anything in that story; do you, Mr. Colesworth?" he asked. "Why--I don't--know," said Harris, slowly, but with a perfectly grave face. "As I make it out, when the old fellow died the widow made search for this hidden treasure he had hinted at so often; but when the lawyers found out that he was entitled to no pension--that he'd lied about _that_--and that about all he had left her was a mortgage on the place, Mrs. Harrison gave up the search for money in disgust. She said as he'd lied about the pension, and about other things, why, of course he'd lied about the hidden treasure." "And don't you think he did?" asked Spink, with so much interest that the others were amused. "Humph!" responded Harris, gravely. "I don't know. He _might_ have hidden bonds--or deeds--or even bank notes." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Mr. Bray, laughing. "That's imagination." "You need not mind, Professor," said old Mr. Colesworth, sharply. "If there is money, or treasure, hidden there in the house, or on the place, and you have bid the place in, as I understand you have, it will be 'treasure trove'--it will belong to you--if you find it." "Ha!" ejaculated Professor Spink, darting the old gentleman rather an angry glance. "I don't know whether it is altogether talk and imagination, or not," said Harris, ruminatively. "Cyrus Pritchett was with Bob Harrison when he died. And he says the old man talked of this hidden money--or treasure--or what-not--up to the very time be became unconscious. He had a shock, you know, and it stopped his speech like _that_," and Harris snapped his finger and thumb. "It sounds like a story-book," said Grandma Castle, complacently. "It doesn't sound sensible," observed Lyddy, drily. "I'm giving it to you for what it's worth," remarked Harris, good-naturedly. "Mr. Pritchett was sitting up with Harrison when the old man had his final shock. Harrison had been mumbling along to Cyrus about what he wanted done with certain of his possessions. And he says: "'There's that hid away that will be wuth money--five thousand in hard cash--some day, Cy.' "Those are the words he used," said Harris, earnestly, and watching Professor Spink from one corner of his eye. "He was sitting up, Cy said, and as he spoke he pointed at---- Well," broke off Harris, abruptly, "never mind what he pointed at. He died before he could finish what he was saying." "Is that the truth, Harris Colesworth?" demanded 'Phemie, regarding him seriously. "I got it from Lucas. Then I asked his father. That is just the way the story was told to me," declared the young fellow, warmly. "And--and they never found anything?" asked Mr. Bray. "No. They searched. They searched the old pieces of--of furniture, too. But Mrs. Harrison gave it up when it was found that Bob had been such a--a prevaricator." "He probably lied about the fortune," said Mr. Bray, quietly. "Well--maybe," grunted Harris. But Lyddy remembered that Harris had already told her that he proposed to go to the vendue and buy in several pieces of the widow's furniture. Did that mean that Harris really thought he had a clue to the hidden treasure? CHAPTER XXIII THE VENDUE Lucas Pritchett drove into the yard with the two-seated buckboard about nine o'clock the next forenoon. And, wonders of wonders! his mother sat on the front seat beside him. 'Phemie ran out in a hurry. Lyddy was getting ready to go to the vendue. She wanted to bid in that Dutch oven--and some other things. "Why, Mrs. Pritchett!" exclaimed the younger Bray girl, "you are welcome! You haven't been here for an age." Mrs. Pritchett looked pretty grim; but 'Phemie found it was tears that made her eyes wink so fast. "I ain't never been here but onct since you gals came. And I'm ashamed of myself," said "Maw" Pritchett. "I hope you'll overlook it." "For goodness' sake! how you talk!" gasped 'Phemie. "Is it true you gals have saved that poor old critter from the farm?" demanded Mrs. Pritchett, earnestly, and letting the tears run unchecked down her fat cheeks. "Why--why----" "Widder Harrison, she means," grunted Lucas. "It all come out yesterday at church. The widder told about it herself. The parson got hold of it, and he put it into his sermon. And by cracky! some of those folks that treated ye so mean at the schoolhouse, Saturday night, feel pretty cheap after what the parson said." "And if my Sairy ever says a mean word to one o' you gals--or as much as _looks_ one," cried Mother Pritchett, "big as she is an',--an', yes--_old_ as she is, I'll spank her!" "Mrs. Pritchett! Lucas!" gasped 'Phemie. "It isn't so. You're making it up out of whole cloth. We haven't really done a thing for Mrs. Harrison----" "You've thought to take her in and give her a home----" "No, no! I am sure she will earn her living here." "But none of us--folks that had knowed her for years--thought to give the poor old critter a chanst," burst out the lady. "Oh, I know Cyrus wouldn't 'a' heard to our taking her; and I dunno as we could have exactly afforded it, for me an' Sairy is amply able to do the work; but our Ladies' Aid never thought to do a thing for her--nor nobody else," declared Mrs. Pritchett. "You two gals was ministerin' angels. I don't suppose we none of us really knowed how Mis' Harrison felt about going to the poorhouse. But we didn't inquire none, either. "And here's Lyddy! My dear, I'm too fat to get down easy. I hope you'll come and shake hands with me." "Why--certainly," responded Lyddy. "And I am really glad to see you, dear Mrs. Pritchett." She had evidently overheard some, if not all, of the good lady's earnest speech. Harris Colesworth appeared, too, and Professor Spink was right behind him. "You stopped for me, as I asked you to, Lucas?" asked the young chemist. "Sure, Mr. Colesworth." "Miss Lydia is going, too," said the young man. "That'll fill the bill, then, sir," said Lucas, grinning. "But I say!" exclaimed the professor, suddenly. "Can't you squeeze _me_ in? I'm going over the hill, too." "Don't see how it kin be done, Professor," said Lucas. "But you said you thought that there'd be an extra seat----" "Didn't know maw was going, then," replied the unabashed Lucas. "And Somers has driven off to school with his old mare," exclaimed Spink. "I believe he has," observed Harris. "This is a pretty pass!" and Mr. Spink was evidently angry. "I've just _got_ to get to that vendue." "I'm afraid you'll have to walk--and it's advertised to begin in ha'f an hour," quoth Lucas. "Say! where's your other rig?" demanded the professor. "I'll hire it." "Dad's plowin' with the big team," said Lucas, flicking the backs of the ponies with his whip, as they started, "and our old mare is lame. Gid-up! "That Jud Spink is gittin' jest as pop'lar 'round here as a pedlar sellin' mustard plasters in the lower regions!" observed young Pritchett, as they whirled out of the yard. "Why, Lucas Pritchett! how you talk!" gasped his mother. The widow's auction sale--or "vendue"--brought together, as such affairs usually do in the country, more people, and aroused a deal more interest, than does a funeral. There was a goodly crowd before the little house, or moving idly through the half-dismantled lower rooms when Lucas halted the ponies to let Harris and the ladies out. To Lyddy's surprise, the women present--or most of them--welcomed her with more warmth than she had experienced in a greeting since she and her sister had first come to Hillcrest. But the auctioneer began to put up the household articles for sale very soon and that relieved Lyddy of some embarrassment in meeting these folk who so suddenly had veered toward her. There were only a few things the girl could afford to buy. The Dutch oven was the most important; and fortunately most of the farmers' wives had stoves in their kitchens, so there was not much bidding. Lyddy had it nocked down to her for sixty cents. Mrs. Harrison seemed very sad to see some of her things go, and Lyddy believed that every article that the widow seemed particularly anxious about, young Harris Colesworth bid in. At least, he bought a bureau, a worktable, an old rocking chair with stuffed back and cushion, and last of all an old, age-darkened, birdseye maple desk, which seemed shaky and half-ready to fall to pieces. "That article ought to bring ye in a forchune, Mr. Colesworth," declared the auctioneer, cheerfully. "That's where they say Bob hid his forchune--yessir!" "And it looks--from the back of it--that worms had got inter the forchune," chuckled one of the farmers, as the wood-worm dust rattled out of the old contraption when Harris and Lucas carried it out and set it down with the other articles Harris had bought. "So you got it; did you, young man?" snarled a voice behind the two youths, and there stood Professor Spink. He was much heated, his boots and trousers were muddy, and his frock coat had a bad, three-cornered tear in it. Evidently he had come across lots--and he had hurried. "Why--were you interested in that old desk I bought in?" asked Harris with a grin. "I'll give ye a dollar for your bargain," blurted out the professor. "I tell you honest, I didn't pay but two dollars for it," replied Harris. "I'll double it--give you four." "No. I guess I'll keep it." "Five," snapped the breakfast food magnate. "No, sir," responded Harris, turning away. "Good work! keep it up!" Lyddy heard Lucas whisper to the other youth. "I bet I kin tell jest what dad told him. Dad's jest close-mouthed enough to make the professor fidgetty. He begins to believe it all now." "Shut up!" warned Harris. The next moment the anxious professor was at him again. "I want that desk, Colesworth. I'll give you ten dollars for it--fifteen!" "Say," said Harris, in apparent disgust, "I'll tell you the truth; I bought that desk--and these other things--to give back to old Mrs. Harrison. She seemed to set store by them." "Ha!" "Now, the desk is hers. If she wants to sell it for twenty-five dollars----" "You hush up! I'll make my own bargain with her," growled the professor. "No you won't, by jove!" exclaimed the city youth. "If you want the desk you'll pay all its worth. Hey! Mrs. Harrison!" The widow approached, wonderingly. "I made up my mind," said Harris, hurriedly, "that I'd give you these things here. You might like to have them in your room at Hillcrest." "Thank you, young man!" returned the widow, flushing. "I don't know what makes you young folks so kind to me----" "Hold on! there's something else," interrupted Harris. "Now, Professor Spink here wants to buy that desk." "And I'll give ye a good price for it, Widder," said Spink. "I want it to remember Bob by. I'll give you----" "He's already offered me twenty-five dollars for it----" "No, I ain't!" exclaimed Spink. "Oh, then, you don't want it, after all," returned Harris, coolly. "I thought you did." "Well! suppose I do offer you twenty-five for it, Mis' Harrison?" exclaimed Spink, evidently greatly spurred by desire, yet curbed by his own natural penuriousness. "Take my advice and bid him up, Mrs. Harrison," said Harris, with a wink. "He knows more about this old desk than he ought to, it seems to me." "For the land's sake----" began the widow; but Spink burst forth in a rage: "I'll make ye a last offer for it--you can take it or leave it." He drew forth a wad of bills and peeled off several into the widow's hand. "There's fifty dollars. Is the desk mine?" he fairly yelled. The vociferous speech of the professor drew people from the auction. They gathered around. Harris nodded to the old lady, and her hand clamped upon the bills. "Remember, this is Mrs. Harrison's own money," said young Colesworth, evenly. "The desk was bought at auction for two dollars." "Well, is it mine?" demanded Spink. "It is yours, Jud Spink," replied the old lady, stuffing the money into her handbag. "Gimme that hatchet!" cried the professor, seizing the implement from a man who stood by. He attacked the old desk in a fury. "Oh! that's too bad!" gasped Mrs. Harrison. "I _did_ want the old thing." Spink grinned at them. "I'll make you both sicker than you be!" he snarled. "Out o' the way!" He banged the desk two or three more clips--and out fell a secret panel in the back of it. "By cracky! money--real money!" yelled Lucas Pritchett. "Oh, Mr. Harris! we done it now!" For from the shallow opening behind the panel there were scattered upon the ground several packets of apparently brand-new, if somewhat discolored banknotes. Professor Spink dropped the axe and picked up the packages eagerly. Others crowded around. They ran them over quickly. "Five thousand dollars--if there's a cent!" gasped somebody, in an awed whisper. "An' she sold it for fifty dollars," said Lucas, almost in tears. CHAPTER XXIV PROFESSOR SPINK'S BOTTLES But Professor Lemuel Judson Spink did not look happy--not at all! While the neighbors were crowding around, emitting "ohs" and "ahs" over his find in the broken old desk, the proprietor of "the breakfast for the million" began to look pretty sick. "Five thousand dollars! My mercy!" gasped the Widow Harrison. "Then Bob _didn't_ lie about bringing home that fortune when he came from the army." "It's a shame, Widder!" cried one man. "That five thousand ought to belong to you." "Dad got it right; didn't he?" said Lucas, shaking his head sadly. "He allus said Harrison was trying to tell him where it was hid when he had his last stroke." Harris Colesworth spoke for the first time since the packages of notes were discovered: "Mr. Harrison told Cyrus Pritchett that he had hid away 'that that would be wuth five thousand.' It's plain what he had in his mind--and a whole lot of other foolish people had it in their minds just after the Civil War." "What do you mean, Mr. Colesworth?" cried Lyddy, who was clinging to the widow's hand and patting it soothingly. "Why," chuckled Harris, "there were folks who believed--and they believed it for years after the Civil War--that some day the Federal Government was going to redeem all the paper money printed by the Confederate States----" "_What?_" bawled Lucas, fairly springing off the ground. "Confederate money?" repeated the crowd in chorus. No wonder Professor Spink looked sick. He broke through the group, flinging the neat packages of bills behind him as he strode away. "How about the desk, Professor?" shouted Harris; "don't you want it?" "Give it to the old woman--you swindler!" snarled Spink. And then the crowd roared! The humor of the thing struck them and it was half an hour before the auctioneer could go on with the sale. "No; I did not know the bills were there," Harris avowed. "But I thought the professor was so avaricious that he could be made to bid up the old desk. Had he bid on it when it was put up by the auctioneer, however, Mrs. Harrison would not have benefited. You see, the best the auctioneer can do, what he gets from the sale will not entirely satisfy Spink's claim. But the money-grabber can't touch that fifty dollars in good money he paid over to Mrs. Harrison with his own hands." "Oh, it was splendid, Harris!" gasped Lyddy, seizing both his hands. Then she retired suddenly to Mrs. Harrison's side and never said another word to the young man. "Gee, cracky!" said Lucas, with a sigh. "I was scairt stiff when I seen them bills fall out of the old desk. I thought sure they were good." "I confess I knew what they were immediately--and so did Spink," replied Harris. The young folks had got enough of the vendue now, and so had Mrs. Pritchett. Lucas agreed to come up with the farm wagon for the pieces of furniture with which Harris had presented the Widow Harrison--including the broken desk--and transport them and the widow herself to Hillcrest before night. Mrs. Pritchett was enthusiastic over the girls taking Mrs. Harrison to the farm, and she could not say enough in praise of it. So Lyddy was glad to get out of the buckboard with Harris Colesworth at the bottom of the lane. "You all talk too much about it, Mrs. Pritchett!" she cried, when bidding the farmer's wife good-bye. "But I'd be glad to have you come up here as often as you can--and talk on any other subject!" and she ran laughing into the house. Lyddy feared that Professor Spink would make trouble. At least, he and Harris Colesworth must be at swords' point. And she was sorry now that she had so impulsively given the young chemist her commendation for what he had done for the Widow Harrison. However, Harris went off at noon, walking to town to take the afternoon train to the city; and as the professor did not show up again until nightfall there was no friction that day at Hillcrest--nor for the rest of the week. Mrs. Harrison came and got into the work "two-fisted," as she said herself. She was a strong old woman, and had been brought up to work. Lyddy and 'Phemie were at once relieved of many hard jobs--and none too quickly, for the girls were growing thin under the burden they had assumed. That very week their advertisements brought them a gentleman and his wife with a little crippled daughter. It was getting warm enough now so that people were not afraid to come to board in a house that had no heating arrangements but open fireplaces. As the numbers of the boarders increased, however, Lyddy did not find that the profit increased proportionately. She was now handling fifty-one dollars and a half each week; but the demands for vegetables and fresh eggs made a big item; and as yet there had been no returns from the garden, although everything was growing splendidly. The chickens had hatched--seventy-two of them. Mr. Bray had taken up the study of the poultry papers and catalogs, and he declared himself well enough to take entire charge of the fluffy little fellows as soon as they came from the shell. He really did appear to be getting on a little; but the girls watched him closely and could scarcely believe that he made any material gain in health. With Harris Colesworth's help one Saturday, he had knocked together a couple of home-made brooders and movable runs, and soon the flock, divided in half, were chirping gladly in the spring sunshine on the side lawn. They fed them scientifically, and with care. Mr. Bray was at the pens every two hours all day--or oftener. At night, two jugs of hot water went into the brooders, and the little biddies never seemed to miss having a real mother. Luckily Lyddy had chosen a hardy strain of fowl and during the first fortnight they lost only two of the fluffy little fellows. Lyddy saw the beginning of a profitable chicken business ahead of her; but, of course, it was only an expense as yet. She could not see her way clear to buying the kitchen range that was so much needed; and the days were growing warmer. May promised to be the forerunner of an exceedingly hot summer. At Hillcrest there was, however, almost always a breeze. Seldom did the huge piles of rocks at the back of the farm shut the house off from the cooling winds. The people who came to enjoy the simple comforts of the farmhouse were loud in their praises of the spot. "If we can get along till July--or even the last of June," quoth Lyddy to her sister, "I feel sure that we will get the house well filled, the garden will help to support us, and we shall be on the way to making a good living----" "If we aren't dead," sighed 'Phemie. "I _do_ get so tired sometimes. It's a blessing we got Mother Harrison," for so they had come to call the widow. "We knew we'd have to work if we took boarders," said Lyddy. "Goodness me! we didn't know we had to work our fingers to the bone--mine are coming through the flesh--the bones, I mean." "What nonsense!" "And I know I have lost ten pounds. I'm only a skeleton. You could hang me up in that closet in the old doctor's office in place of that skeleton----" "What's _that_, 'Phemie Bray?" demanded the older sister, in wonder. 'Phemie realized that she had almost let _that_ secret out of the bag, and she jumped up with a sudden cry: "Mercy! do you know the time, Lyd? If we're going to pick those wild strawberries for tea, we'd better be off at once. It's almost three o'clock." And so she escaped telling Lyddy all she knew about what was behind the mysteriously locked green door at the end of the long corridor of the farmhouse. Harris Colesworth, on his early Sunday morning jaunts to the swimming-hole in Pounder's Brook, had discovered a patch of wild strawberries, and had told the girls. Up to this time Lyddy and 'Phemie had found little time in which to walk over the farm. As for traversing the rocky part of it, as old Mr. Colesworth and Professor Spink did, that was out of the question. But fruit was high, and the chance to pick a dish for supper--enough for all the boarders--was a great temptation to the frugal Lyddy. She caught up her sunbonnet and pail and followed her sister. 'Phemie's bonnet was blue and Lyddy's was pink. As they crossed the cornfield, their bright tin pails flashing in the afternoon sunlight, Grandma Castle saw them from the shady porch. "What do you think about those two girls, Mrs. Chadwick?" she demanded of the little lame girl's mother. "I have been here so short a time I scarcely know how to answer that question, Mrs. Castle," responded the other lady. "I'll tell you: They're wonderful!" declared Grandma Castle. "If my granddaughters had half the get-up-and-get to 'em that Lydia and Euphemia have, I'd be as proud as Mrs. Lucifer! So I would." Meanwhile the girls of Hillcrest Farm had passed through the young corn--acres and acres of it, running clear down to Mr. Pritchett's line--and climbed the stone fence into the upper pasture. Here a path, winding among the huge boulders, brought them within sound of Pounder's Brook. 'Phemie laughed now at the remembrance of her intimate acquaintance with that brook the day they had first come to Hillcrest. It broadened here in a deep brown pool under an overhanging boulder. A big beech tree, too, shaded it. It certainly was a most attractive place. "Wish I was a boy!" gasped 'Phemie, in delight. "I certainly would get a bathing suit and come up here like Harris Colesworth. And Lucas comes here and plunges in after his day's work--he told me so." "Dear me! I hope nobody will come here for a bath just now," observed Lyddy. "It would be rather awkward." "And I reckon the water's cold, too," agreed her sister, with a giggle. "This stream is fed by a dozen different springs around among the rocks here, so Lucas says. And I expect one spring is just a little colder than another!" "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lyddy. "There are the strawberries." The girls were down upon their knees immediately, picking into their tins--and their mouths. They could not resist the luscious berries--"tame" strawberries never can be as sweet as the wild kind. And this patch near the swimming hole afforded a splendid crop. The girls saw that they might come here again and again to pick berries for their table--and every free boon of Nature like this helped in the management of the boarding house! But suddenly--when their kettles were near full--'Phemie jumped up with a shrill whisper: "What's that?" "Hush, 'Phemie!" exclaimed her sister. "How you scared me." "Hush yourself! don't you hear it?" Lyddy did. Surely that was a strange clinking noise to be heard up here in the woods. It sounded like a milkman going along the street carrying a bunch of empty bottles. "It's no wild animal--unless he's got glass teeth and is gnashing 'em," giggled 'Phemie. "Come on! I want to know what it means." "I wouldn't, 'Phemie----" "Well, _I_ would, Lyddy. Come on! Who's afraid of bottles?" "But _is_ it bottles we hear?" "We'll find out in a jiff," declared her younger sister, leading the way deeper into the woods. The sound was from up stream. They followed the noisy brook for some hundreds of yards. Then they came suddenly upon a little hollow, where water dripped over a huge boulder into another still pool--but smaller than the swimming hole. Behind the drip of the water was a ledge, and on this ledge stood a row of variously assorted bottles. A man was just setting several other bottles on the same ledge. These were the bottles the girls had heard striking together as the man walked through the woods. And the man himself was Professor Spink. CHAPTER XXV IN THE OLD DOCTOR'S OFFICE The two girls, almost at once, began to shrink away through the bushes again--and this without a word or look having passed between them. Both Lyddy and 'Phemie were unwilling to meet the professor under these conditions. They were back at the strawberry patch before either of them spoke aloud. "What _do_ you suppose he was about?" whispered 'Phemie. "How do I know? And those bottles!" "What do you think was in them?" "Looked like water--nothing but water," said Lyddy. "It certainly _is_ a puzzle." "I should say so!" "And there doesn't seem to be any sense in it," cried Lyddy. "Let's go home, 'Phemie. We've got enough berries for supper." As they went along the pasture trail, the younger girl suggested: "Do you suppose he could be making up another of his fake medicines? Like those 'Stonehedge Bitters?' Lucas says they ought to be called '_Stonefence_ Bitters,' for they are just hard cider and bad whiskey--and that's what the folks hereabout call 'stonefence.'" "It looked like only water in those bottles," Lyddy said, slowly. "And he's so afraid old Mr. Colesworth--or Harris--will come up here and find him at work--or come across his water-bottles," continued 'Phemie. "Lucky this new boarder--Mr. Chadwick--isn't much for long walks. It would keep old Spink busier than a hen on a hot griddle, as Lucas says, to watch all of them." "Well, I wish I knew what it meant. It puzzles me," remarked Lyddy. "And I never yet asked Mr. Pritchett about the evening we saw him and a man whom I now think must have been Professor Spink at the farmhouse." "Ask him--do," urged 'Phemie, at last curious enough to have Lyddy share all the mystery that had been troubling her own mind since they first came to Hillcrest. "I'll do so the very first time I see him," declared Lyddy. But something else happened first--and something that brought the mystery regarding Professor Lemuel Judson Spink to a head for the time being, at least. 'Phemie lost the key to the green door! Now, off and on, that missing key had troubled Lyddy. She had seldom spoken of it, for she had never even known it had been in the door when the girls came to Hillcrest. Only 'Phemie, it will be remembered, had the midnight adventure in the old doctor's suite of offices in the east wing. Lyddy only said, occasionally, that it was odd Aunt Jane had not sent the key to the green door when she expressed all the other keys to her nieces when the project of keeping boarders at Hillcrest was first broached. At these times 'Phemie had kept as still as a mouse. Sometimes the key was worn on a string around her neck; sometimes it was concealed in a cunning little pocket she had sewn into her skirt. But wherever it was, it always seemed--to 'Phemie--to be burning a hole in her garments and trying to make its appearance. After finding Professor Spink filling the bottles with water up by Pounder's Brook, the girl was more than usually troubled about the east wing and the mystery. She moved the key about from place to place. One day she wore it; another she hid it in some corner. And finally, one night when she came to go to bed, she found that the cord on which she had worn the key that day was broken and the key was gone. She screamed so loud at this discovery that her sister was sure she had seen a mouse, and she bounded into bed, half dressed as she was. "Where--where is it, 'Phemie?" she gasped, for Lyddy was as afraid of mice as she was of rats. "Oh, mercy me!" wailed 'Phemie, "that's what I'd like to know." "Didn't you see it?" cried her trembling sister. "It's gone!" returned 'Phemie. Lyddy got gingerly down from the bed. "Then I'd like to know what you yelled so for--if the mouse has disappeared?" she demanded, quite sternly. And then 'Phemie, understanding her, and realizing that she had almost given her secret away, burst into a hysterical giggle, which nothing but Lyddy's shaking finally relieved. "You're just as twittery as a sparrow," declared Lyddy. "I never _did_ see such a girl. First you're squealing as though you were hurt, and then you laugh in a most idiotic way. Come! do behave yourself and go to bed!" But even after 'Phemie obeyed she could not go to sleep. Suppose somebody picked up that key? She had no idea, of course, where it had been dropped. Certainly not on the floor of her bedroom. Some time during the day, inside, or outside of the house, the key, with its little brass tag stamped with the words "East Wing," had slipped to the ground. Now--suppose it was found? 'Phemie got out of bed quietly, slipped on her slippers and shrugged herself into her robe. Somebody might be down there in old Dr. Phelps's offices right now. And that somebody, of course, in 'Phemie's mind, meant just one person--Professor Lemuel Judson Spink. Why had he come to Hillcrest to board, anyway? And why hadn't he gone away when he had been made the topic of many a joke about old Bob Harrison's treasure trove? For nearly a fortnight now the professor had stood grimly the jokes and laughing comments aimed at him by the other boarders. The presence of Mrs. Harrison, too, in the house, was a constant reminder to the breakfast food magnate of how his own acquisitiveness had made him over-reach himself. 'Phemie went downstairs, taking a comforter with her, and went into the long corridor leading from the west wing entry to the green door. The girls had never taken the old davenport out of this wide hall, and 'Phemie curled up on this--with its hard, hair-cloth-covered arm for a pillow--spread the quilt over her, and tried to compose her nerves here within sight and sound of the east wing entrance. Suppose somebody was already in the offices? The thought became so insistent that, after ten minutes, she was forced to creep along to the green door and try the latch. With her hand on it, she heard a sudden sound from the room nearby. Was somebody astir in the Colesworth quarters? This was late Saturday night--almost midnight, in fact; and of course Harris Colesworth was in the house. Sometimes he read until very late. So 'Phemie turned again, after a moment, and lifted the latch. Then she pushed tentatively on the door, and---- _It swung open!_ 'Phemie gasped--an appalling sound it seemed in the stillness of the corridor and at that hour of the night. Often, while the key had been in her possession, she had tried the door as she passed it while working about the house. It had been securely locked. Then, she told herself now, on the instant, the key had been found and it had been put to use. Somebody had already been in the old doctor's offices and had ransacked the rooms. She crossed the threshold swiftly and groped her way to the door of the second room--the old doctor's consulting room. Here the light of the moon filtered through the shutters sufficiently to show her the place. There seemed to be nobody there, and she stepped in, leaving the green door open behind her, but pulling shut the door between the anteroom and the office. There was the old doctor's big desk, and the bookcases all about the room, and the jars with "specimens" in them and--yes!--the skeleton case in the corner. She had advanced to the middle of the room when suddenly she saw that the door into the lumber room, or laboratory, at the back, was open. A white wand of light shot through this open door, and played upon the ceiling, then upon the wall, of the old doctor's office. CHAPTER XXVI A BLOW-UP 'Phemie's heart beat quickly; but she was no more afraid than she had been the moment before, when she found the green door unlocked. There was somebody--the person who had found the lost key--still in the offices of the east wing. The wand of white light playing about her was from an electric torch. She stooped, and literally crawled on all fours out of the range of the light from the rear doorway. Before she knew it she was right beside the case containing the skeleton. Indeed, she hid in its shadow. And her interest in that moving light--and the person behind it--made her forget her original terror of what was in the box. She heard a rustle--then a step on the boards. It was a heavy person approaching. The door opened farther between the workshop and the room in which she was hidden. Then she recognized the tall figure entering. It was as she had expected. It was Professor Spink. The breakfast food magnate came directly toward the high, locked desk belonging to the dead and gone physician, who had been a kind friend and patron of this quack medicine man when he was a boy. 'Phemie had heard all the particulars of Spink's connection with Dr. Polly Phelps. The good old doctor had been called to attend the boy in some childish disease while he was an inmate of the county poorhouse. His parents--who were gypsies, or like wanderers--had deserted the boy and he had "gone on the town," as the saying was. Dr. Polly had taken a fancy to the little fellow. He was then twelve years old--or thereabout--smart and sharp. The old doctor brought him home to Hillcrest, sent him to school, made him useful to him in a dozen ways, and began even to train him as a doctor. For five years Jud Spink had remained with the old physician. Then he had run away with a medicine show. It was said, too, that he stole money from Dr. Polly when he went; but the physician had never said so, nor taken any means to punish the wayward boy if he returned. And Jud Spink had never re-appeared in Bridleburg, or the vicinity, while the old doctor was alive. Then his visits had been few and far between until, at last, coming back a few months before, a self-confessed rich man, he had declared his intention of settling down in the community. But 'Phemie Bray believed that the false professor had come here to Hillcrest for a special object. He was money-mad--his avariciousness had been already well displayed. She believed that there was something on Hillcrest that Jud Spink wanted--something he could make money out of. She was not surprised, then, to see a short iron bar in the professor's hand. It was flattened and sharpened at one end. By the light of the hand-lamp the man went to work on the locked desk. It was of heavy wood--no flimsy thing like that one which he had burst open so easily the day of the Widow Harrison's vendue. The man inserted the sharp end of the jimmy between the lid and the upper shelf of the desk. 'Phemie heard the woodwork crack, and this time she did _not_ suppress a gasp. Why! this fellow was actually breaking open the old doctor's desk. Aunt Jane had not even sent _them_ the keys of the desk and bookcases in this suite of rooms. Then 'Phemie had a sudden thought. She was really afraid of the big man. She did not know what he might do to her if he found her here spying on his actions. And--she didn't want the lock of the old desk smashed. She reached up softly and turned with shaking fingers the old-fashioned wooden button that held shut the door of the case beside which she crouched. She remembered very clearly that it had snapped open before when she was investigating--and with a little click. The door of this case acted almost as though the hinges had springs coiled in them. At once, when she released the door, it swung open--and in yawning it _did_ make a suspicious sound. Professor Spink started--he had been about to bear down on the bar again. He flashed a look back over his shoulder. But the corner was shrouded in darkness. 'Phemie sighed--this time with intent. She remembered how she had been frightened so herself at her former visit to this office--and she believed the marauder now before her had been partially the cause of her fright. The jimmy dropped from Spink's hand and clattered on the floor. He wheeled and shot the white spot of his lamp into the corner. By great good fortune the ray of the lantern missed the girl; but it struck into the yawning case and intensified the horrid appearance of the skeleton. For half a minute Spink stood as if frozen in his tracks. If he had known the old doctor had such a possession as the skeleton, he had forgotten it. Nor did he see any part of the case that held it, but just the dangling, grinning Thing itself, revealed by the brilliance of his spotlight, but with a mass of deep shadow surrounding it. Professor Spink had perhaps had many perilous experiences in his varied life; but never anything just like _this_. He might not have been afraid of a man--or a dozen men; no emergency--which he could talk out of--would have feazed him; but a man doesn't feel like trying to talk down a skeleton! He didn't even stop to pick up the jimmy. He shut off the spotlight; and he stumbled over his own feet in getting to the door. _He was running away!_ 'Phemie was up immediately and after him. She did not propose for him to get away with that key. "Stop! stop!" she shouted. Perhaps Professor Spink verily believed that the skeleton in the box called after him--that it was, indeed, in actual pursuit. He didn't stop. He didn't reply. He went across the small anteroom and out of the open green door. But he had made a lot of noise. A big man with the fear of the supernatural chilling his very soul does not tread lightly. A frightened ox in the place could have made no more noise. He tumbled over two chairs and finally went full length over an old hassock. He brought up with an awful crash against the big davenport in the corridor, where 'Phemie had tried to keep watch. And there, when he tried to scramble up, he got entangled in 'Phemie's quilt and went to the floor again just as a great light flashed into the corridor. The Colesworths' door stood open. Out dashed Harris in his pajamas and a robe. He fell upon the big body of Spink as though he were making a "tackle" in a football game. "Hold him! hold him!" gasped 'Phemie. "I've got him," declared Harris. "What's the matter, Miss 'Phemie?" "He's got the key," explained 'Phemie. "Make him give it up." "Sure!" said Harris, and dexterously twitched the entangled Spink over on his back. "By jove!" gasped the young man, standing up. "It's the professor!" "But he's got the key!" the girl reiterated. "What key?" "The one to the green door." "The door of the east wing?" demanded Harris, turning to stare at the open door, on the threshold of which 'Phemie stood. "Yes. I lost it. He found it. He's got it somewhere. I found him trying to break into grandfather's desk." "Bad, bad," muttered Harris, stepping back and allowing the professor room to sit up. "Your interest in old desks seems to be phenomenal, Professor. Did you expect to find Confederate notes in _this_ one?" "Confound you--both!" snarled Spink, slowly rising. "I don't mind it," said Harris, quietly. "But don't include Miss Bray in your emphatic remarks. _Give me that key._" CHAPTER XXVII THEY LOSE A BOARDER Harris had something beside a square and determined jaw. He had muscular arms and he looked just then as though he were ready to use them. Spink gave him no provocation. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a key. "Is this the one, Miss 'Phemie?" asked the young fellow. The girl stepped forward, and in the lamplight from the bedroom doorway identified the key of the green door--with its tag attached. "All right, then. Go to your room, Professor," said Harris. "Unless you want him for something further, Miss 'Phemie?" "My goodness me! No!" cried 'Phemie. "I never want to see him again." The professor was already aiming for the stairs, and he quickly disappeared. Harris turned to the still shaking girl. "What's it all about, Miss 'Phemie?" he asked. "That's what I'd really like to know myself," she replied, eagerly. "He is after something----" "So my father says," interposed Harris. "Father says Spink has something hidden--or has made some discovery--up there in the rocks." "I don't know whether he really has found what he has been looking for----" "And that is?" suggested Harris. "I wish we knew!" cried 'Phemie. "But we don't. At least, _I_ don't--nor does Lyddy. But he tried to buy the farm of Aunt Jane once--only he offered a very small price. "He has been hanging around here for months trying to find something. He got into the old offices to-night, and tried to break into grandfather's desk----" Harris nodded thoughtfully. "We want to look into this," he said. "I hope you and your sister will not refuse my aid. This Spink may be more of a knave than a fool. Now, go back to bed and--and assure Miss Lyddy that I will be only too glad to help 'thwart the villain'--if he really has some plan to better himself at your expense." 'Phemie picked up her quilt, locked the green door, and returned to her room. Throughout all the excitement Lyddy had slept; but 'Phemie's coming to bed aroused her. The younger girl was too shaken by what had transpired to hide her excitement, and Lyddy quickly was broad awake listening to 'Phemie's story. The latter told all that had happened, including her experiences on the night they had come to Hillcrest. There was no sleep for the two girls just then--not, at least, until they had discussed Professor Spink and the secret of the rocks at the back of the farm, from every possible angle. "I shall tell him that his absence will be better appreciated than his company--at once!" declared Lyddy, finally. "But sending him away isn't going to explain the mystery," wailed 'Phemie. In the morning, before many of the other boarders were astir, the two girls caught the oily professor just starting off with a handbag. "You'd better get the remainder of your baggage ready to go too, sir," said Lyddy, sharply, "for we don't want you here." "It's packed, young lady," returned Professor Spink, with a sneer. "I shall send a man for it from the hotel in town." "Well, _that's_ all right," quoth the girl, warmly. "You've paid your board in advance, and I cannot complain. But I would like to have you explain what your actions last night mean?" "I don't know what you are talking about. I heard people moving about the house and--naturally--I went to see----" "Oh, you story-teller!" gasped 'Phemie. "Ha! I can see that you have both made up your minds not to believe me," said the odd boarder, haughtily. "Good-morning!" "I honestly believe we ought to get a warrant out and have him arrested," observed the older girl, thoughtfully. "What for? I don't believe he took anything," said 'Phemie. "Well! he was trying to break into grandfather's desk, just the same," said Lyddy, and then Harris Colesworth joined them. Now, Lyddy believed that this young man was altogether too prone to meddle with other people's affairs; yet ever since the Widow Harrison's vendue she had been more friendly with Harris. And now when he began to talk about the professor and his strange actions over night, she could only thank the young chemist for his assistance. "Of course, we have no idea that that man took anything," she concluded. "But you know that he is after _something_. There is a mystery about his actions--both here at the house and up there in the rocks," said Harris. "Well--ye-es." "I have been talking to father about it. Father has seen him wandering about there so much. His anxiety not to be seen has piqued father's curiosity, too. To tell the truth, that is what has kept father so much interested in getting specimens up yonder," and the young man laughed. "He tells me that he is sure there can be no great mineral wealth on the farm; yet Spink has found, or is trying to find, some deposit of value here----" "Do tell him about the bottles, Lyd!" cried 'Phemie. "Oh, well, that may be nothing----" "What bottles?" demanded Harris, quickly. "Come on, girls, why not take me fully into your confidence? I might be of some use, you know." "But they were nothing but bottles of water," objected Lyddy. "Bottles of water?" repeated the young chemist, slowly. "Who had them?" "Spink," replied 'Phemie. "What was he doing with them?" She told him how they had watched the professor with his inexplicable water bottles. "Foolish; isn't it?" asked Lyddy. "Sure--until we get the clue to it. Foolish to us, but mighty important to Professor Spink. Therefore we ought to look into it. Father doesn't know anything about this bottle business." "Well, it's Sunday," sighed 'Phemie. "We can't do anything about the mystery to-day." But her sister was fully roused, and when Lyddy determined on a thing, something usually came of it. After breakfast, and after she had seen Lucas and his mother and Sairy drive past on their way to chapel, she put on her sunbonnet and started boldly for the neighboring farm, determined to have an interview with Cyrus Pritchett. CHAPTER XXVIII THE SECRET REVEALED Lyddy did not have to go all the way to the Pritchett farm to speak with its proprietor. The farmer was wandering up Hillcrest way, looking at the growing corn, and she met him at the corner where the two farms came together. "Mr. Pritchett," she said, abruptly, "I want to ask you a serious question." He looked at her in his surly way--from under his heavy brows--and said nothing. "You knew Mr. Spink when you were both boys; didn't you?" The old man's look sharpened, but he only nodded. Cyrus was very chary of words. "Mr. Spink left Hillcrest this morning. Last night my sister caught him in the east wing, trying to break open grandfather's desk with a burglar's jimmy. I am not at all sure that I shan't have him arrested, anyway," said Lyddy, with rising wrath, as she thought of the false professor's actions. "Ha!" grunted Mr. Pritchett. "Now, sir, you know _why_ Spink came to Hillcrest, _why_ he has been searching up there among the rocks, and _why_ he wanted to get at grandfather's papers." "No, I don't," returned the farmer, flatly. "You and Spink were up at Hillcrest the first night we girls slept there. And you frightened my sister half to death." The old man blinked at her, but never said a word. "And you were there with Spink the evening Lucas took 'Phemie and me down to the Temperance Club--the first time," said Lyddy, with surety. "You slipped out of sight when we drove into the yard. But it was you." "Oh, it was; eh?" growled Mr. Pritchett. "Yes, sir. And I want to know what it means. What is Spink's intention? What does he want up here?" "I couldn't tell ye," responded Pritchett. "You mean you won't tell me?" "No. I say what I mean," growled Pritchett. "Jud Spink never told me what he wanted. I was up to the house with him--yep. I let him go into the cellar that night you say your sister was scart. But I didn't leave him alone there." "But _why_?" gasped Lyddy. "I can easy tell you my side of it," said the farmer. "Jud and me was something like chums when we was boys. When he come back here a spell ago he heard I was storing something in the cellar under the east wing of the house. He told me he wanted to get into that cellar for something. "So I met him up there that night. I opened the cellar door and we went down. I kept a lantern there. Then I found out he wanted to go farther. There's a hatch there in the floor of the old doctor's workshop----" "A trap door?" "Yes." "And you let him up there?" "Naw, I didn't. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted in the old doctor's offices. I stayed there a while with him--us argyfyin' all the time. Then we come away." "And the other time?" "On Saturday night? I caught him trying to break in at the cellar door. I warned him not to try no more tricks, and I told him if he did I'd make it public. We ain't been right good friends since," declared Mr. Pritchett, chewing reflectively on a stalk of grass. "And you don't know what it's all about?" demanded Lyddy, disappointedly. "No more'n you do," declared Mr. Pritchett; "or as much." "Oh, dear me!" cried Lyddy. "Then I'm just where I was when I started!" "You wanter watch Jud Spink," grumbled Mr. Pritchett, rising from the fence-rail on which he had been squatting. "Does he want to buy the farm?" "Why--I guess not. He only made Aunt Jane a small offer for it." "He'll make a bigger," said Pritchett, clamping his jaws down tight on that word, and turned on his heel. She knew there was no use in trying to get more out of him then. Cyrus Pritchett had "said his say." When Lyddy got back to the house again she found that Grandma Castle's folks had come to see her in their big automobile, and she and 'Phemie had to hustle about with Mother Harrison to re-set the enlarged dining table and make other extra preparations for the unexpected visitors. So busy were they that the girls did not miss Harris Colesworth and his father. They appeared just before the late dinner, rather warm and hungry-looking for the Sabbath, Harris bearing something in his arms carefully wrapped about in newspapers. "Oh, what have you got?" 'Phemie gasped, having just a minute to speak to the young man. "Samples of the water Spink has bottled up there," returned Harris. "What is it?" "I don't know. But we'll find out. Father has an idea, and if it's _so_----" "Oh, what?" cried 'Phemie. "You just wait!" returned Harris, hurrying away. "Mean thing!" 'Phemie called after him. "You oughtn't to have any dinner." But there was little chance for Harris to talk with the girls that day. Before the dinner dishes were cleared away, a thunder cloud suddenly topped the ridge, and soon a furious shower fell, with the thunder reverberating from hill to hill, and the lightning flashing dazzlingly. Behind this shower came a wind-storm that threatened, for a couple of hours, to do much damage. Everybody was kept indoors, and as the night fell dark and threatening the Castles had to be put up until morning. The wind quieted down at last; so did the nervous members of the party inside Hillcrest. When Lyddy and 'Phemie thought almost everybody else was abed but themselves, and they were about to lock up the house and retire, a candle appeared in the long corridor, and behind the candle was Harris Colesworth, fully dressed. "Sunday is about over, girls," he said, "and I can't possibly sleep. I must do something. Didn't you tell me, Miss 'Phemie, there were retorts and test-tubes, and the like, in your grandfather's rooms?" "In the east wing?" cried Lyddy. "Yes." "Why, the back room was his laboratory. All the things are there," said the younger girl. "Let me go in there, then," said Harris, eagerly. "I want to test these samples of water father and I brought down from the rocks to-day." "My mercy me!" gasped 'Phemie. "You don't suppose there's gold--or silver--held in solution in that water----" Lyddy laughed. "How ridiculous!" she said. "Perhaps not exactly ridiculous," returned Harris, shaking his head, and smiling. "Why, Harris Colesworth! who ever heard of such a thing?" cried Lyddy. "I'm no chemist, but I know _that_ would be impossible." "Will you let me have the key of the green door?" he demanded. "Yes!" cried 'Phemie, who had continued to carry it tied around her neck. "But we'll go with you and see you perform your nefarious rites, Mr. Magician!" Lyddy went for a lamp and brought it, lighted. "A candle won't do you much good in there," she said to Harris. "Verily, it is so!" admitted the young man, with an humble bow. "Now, let me go first!" cried 'Phemie. "You'd both be scared stiff by my friend, Mr. Boneypart." "Your friend _who_?" cried Lyddy. Harris began to laugh. "So you claim Napoleon as your friend; do you, Miss 'Phemie? What do you suppose old Spink thinks about him?" 'Phemie giggled as she ran ahead with the young man's candle and closed the door of the skeleton case in the inner office. "For the simple tests I have to make," said Harris, as Lyddy's lamp threw a mellow light into the room, "I see no reason why those old tubes won't do. Yes! there's about what I want on that bench." "But, oh! the dust!" sighed Lyddy, trying to find a clean place on which to set the lamp. "Your grandfather must have been something of a chemist as well as a medical sharp," observed Harris, gazing about. "I'm curious to look this place over." "We ought to ask Aunt Jane," said Lyddy, doubtfully. "We really haven't any business in here." "She's never told us we shouldn't come," 'Phemie returned, quickly. "Now you young ladies sit down and keep still," commanded Harris, authoritatively, removing his coat and tying an apron around his waist--the apron being produced from his own pocket. "Now if you had your straw cuffs you'd look just as you used to----" "At the shop, eh?" finished Harris, when Lyddy caught herself up quick in the middle of this audible comment. "Ye-es." "So you _did_ notice me a bit when you were working around the little kitchen of that flat?" chuckled the young man. "Well!" gasped Lyddy. "I couldn't very well help remembering how you looked the night of the fire when you came sliding across to our window on that plank. _That_ was so ridiculous!" "Just so," responded Harris, calmly. "Now, please be still, young ladies and--watch the professor!" And for an hour the girls did actually manage to keep as still as mice. Their friend certainly was absorbed in the work before him. He tested one sample of water after another, and finally went back and did the work all over upon one particular bottle that he had brought down from Spink's hiding place among the rocks. "Just as I thought," he declared, with a satisfied smile. "And just as father suspected. Prepared to be surprised--pleasantly. Your Aunt Jane must be warned not to sell Hillcrest at _any_ price--just yet." "Oh, why not?" cried 'Phemie. "Because I believe there is a valuable mineral spring on it. This is a sample of it here. Mineral waters with such medicinal properties as this contains can be put on the market at an enormous profit for the owner of the spring. "I won't go into the scientific jargon of it now," he concluded. "But the spring is here--up there among the rocks. Spink knows where it is. That is his secret. _We_ must learn where the water flows from, and likewise, see to it that your Aunt Jane makes no sale of the place until the matter is well thrashed out and the value of the water privilege discovered." CHAPTER XXIX AN AUTOMOBILE RACE Lyddy was to write to Aunt Jane the next day. That was the decision when Harris started for town after breakfast, too. No time was to be lost in acquainting Aunt Jane with the fact that the old doctor spoke truly when he had said that "there were curative waters on Hillcrest." In Dr. Polly Phelps's day a mineral spring would have been of small value compared to what it would be worth now. Jud Spink, of course, had known something about the old doctor's using in his practise the water from somewhere among the rocks. On the lookout for every chance to make money in these days, the owner of "Stonehedge Bitters" and "Diamond Grits--the Breakfast of the Million" had determined to get hold of Hillcrest and put the mineral water on the market--if so be the spring was to be discovered. Too penurious to take any risk, however, Spink had wished to be sure that the mineral spring was there, and of its value, before he risked his good money in the purchase of the property. The question now was: Had he satisfied himself as to these facts? Had he found the mineral spring quite by chance, and was he not still in doubt as to the wisdom of buying Hillcrest? It would seem, by his trying to get at the old doctor's papers, that Spink wished to assure himself further before he went ahead with his scheme. "We'll put a spoke in his wheel--that's sure," said Harris, as he bade the two girls good-bye that Monday morning, while Lucas and the restive ponies waited for him. In two hours he was back at the farmhouse. The ponies stopped at the door all of a lather, and both Harris and Lucas looked desperately excited. Tom Castle, as well as the Bray girls, ran out to see what was the matter. "He's off!" shouted Lucas Pritchett. "He's goin' to beat ye to it!" "What _are_ you talking about, Lucas?" demanded 'Phemie. "Where does your aunt live, Miss Lyddy?" asked the young chemist. "Not at Easthampton?" "No. At Hambleton. She is at home now----" "And that Spink just bought a ticket for Hambleton, and has taken the train for that particular burg," declared Harris, with emphasis. "If I'd only been sure of your Aunt Jane's address I would have gone with him." "Do you really think he's gone to try to buy the farm of her?" questioned Lyddy. "I most certainly do. He couldn't have made connections easily had he started yesterday after you drove him away from Hillcrest. But he's after the farm." "And she'll sell it! she'll sell it!" wailed 'Phemie. "Perhaps not," ventured Lyddy, but her lips were white. "He can get an option. That's enough," urged Harris. "We've got to head him off." "How?" cried the older girl, clasping her hands. "Jumping horse chestnuts!" ejaculated Tom Castle. "It's a cinch! It's easy. You can beat that fellow to Hambleton by way of Adams----" "But there's no other train that connects at the junction till afternoon," objected Lucas. "Aw, poof!" exclaimed Tom. "Haven't we got the old buzz-wagon right here? I'll run and see father. He'll let me take it. We'll go over the hill and down to Adams, and take the east road to Hambleton. Why, say! that Spink man won't beat us much." "It's a great scheme, Tommy!" shouted Harris Colesworth "Go ahead. Tell your father I can run the car, if you can't." In twenty minutes the big car was rolled out of the barn, and Mr. Castle came out to see the quartette off,--the two girls in the tonneau and Harris and Tom Castle on the front seat. "You see that he doesn't play hob with that machine, Mr. Colesworth," called Mr. Castle, as they started. "It cost me seven thousand dollars." "What's seven thousand dollars," demanded Master Tom, recklessly, "to putting the Indian sign on that Professor Spink?" They were not at all sure, however, that they were going to be able to do this. Professor Spink might easily beat them to Aunt Jane's residence in Hambleton. But at the speed Tom took the descent of the ridge on the other side, one might have thought that the professor was due to board a flying machine if he wished to travel faster. 'Phemie declared she lost her breath at the top of the hill and that it didn't overtake her again until they stopped at the public garage in Adams to get a supply of gasoline. The boys behind the wind-break, and the girls crouching in the tonneau, saw little of the landscape through which the car rushed. They rolled into Hambleton without mishap, and before noon. A word from Lyddy put Master Tom on the right track of Aunt Jane's house, for he had been in the town before. "We're here quicker than we could have had a telegram delivered," declared Harris, as he helped the girls out of the car. "I'm going in with you, Miss Lyddy--if you don't mind?" "Why, of course you shall come!" returned Lyddy, really allowing her gratitude to "spill over" for the moment. "Me--oh, my!" whispered 'Phemie, walking demurely behind them. "The end of the world has now _came_. Lyd is showing that poor young man some favor." But 'Phemie, as well as the other two, grew serious when the girl who opened the door told them Mrs. Hammond had company in the parlor. "Two gentlemen, Miss--on business," said the maid. Just then they heard Professor Spink's booming voice. "Oh, oh! he's here ahead of us!" cried 'Phemie, and she flung open the door and ran into the room. CHAPTER XXX THE HILLCREST COMPANY, LIMITED "Don't sign it!" shrieked 'Phemie, seeing Aunt Jane, her bonnet on as usual, with a pen in her hand. "For the good land's sake, child! how you scart me," complained the old lady. "Don't sign anything, Aunt!" urged 'Phemie. "That man is trying to cheat you," and she pointed a scornful finger at Professor Spink. "What do you mean, girl?" demanded the other man present, who was sitting next to Mrs. Hammond. He looked like what he was--a shyster lawyer. "This girl is crazy," snarled Spink, glaring at the party of young people. "So are we all, then," Harris Colesworth responded. "I assure you, Mrs. Hammond, that these men are trying to trick you." "I dunno you, young man; but I _do_ know my own mind. This man, Spink, has finally made me a good offer for Hillcrest Farm." "And if you don't sign that paper at once, ma'am," suggested the lawyer, softly, "the deal is off." "That's right," declared Spink, rising. "I've made my last offer--take it or leave it." "How much do they offer you for the farm, Mrs. Hammond--if that's not a rude question?" demanded Harris. "Never _you_ mind!" blustered Spink. But Aunt Jane stated the amount frankly. "It's worth more," said Harris, sharply. "I expect it is; but it ain't worth no more to me," replied the old lady, calmly. "I'll raise their offer a hundred dollars," said Harris, quickly. "My name's Colesworth. My father and I are well known here and in Easthampton. We are amply able to pay you cash for the place." "Well, now," observed Aunt Jane, with satisfaction, while the girls stared at the young fellow in wonder, "you are talking business. A hundred dollars more is not to be sneezed at----" "We'll raise the young man's bid another hundred, Mrs. Hammond," interposed the lawyer, eagerly. "But you must sign the agreement----" "Raise you another hundred," said Harris. The lawyer looked at his client for instructions. Professor Spink's face was of an apoplectic hue and his eyes fairly snapped. "No, no!" he shouted, pounding one fat fist into his other hand. "I know this smooth swindler. He did me once before just this way. He sha'n't do it now. He's got some inside information about that farm. It's all off! I wouldn't buy the old place now at any price!" He grabbed his hat and rushed for the door. The little lawyer followed, seized his coattails, and tried to drag him back; but Professor Spink was the heavier, and he steamed out into the hall, towing the lawyer, opened the door, and finally dashed down the steps. He and his legal adviser disappeared from sight. "Well, young man," said Mrs. Hammond, calmly, "I expect you know what you have done? You've spoiled that sale for me; I may hold you to your offer." "If you want to, I shall not worry," laughed Harris, sitting down. "But let us tell you all about it, Mrs. Hammond, and then I believe you will think twice before you sell Hillcrest at _any_ price." * * * * * Right in that boarding-house parlor was laid the foundation of the now very wealthy mineral water concern known as "The Hillcrest Company, Limited." But, of course, it was months before the concern was launched and the wonderfully curative waters of Hillcrest Spring were put upon the market. For once the fact was established that the mineral spring was there among the rocks at the back of the farm, it was only a matter of searching for it. The spring was finally located in the very wildest part of the farm--in a deep thicket, where the cattle, or other animals, never went to drink. So the spring was thickly overgrown. "And by cracky! you can't blame a cow for not wanting to drink _that_ stuff," declared Lucas Pritchett when he first tasted the water. Medicinally, however, it was a valuable discovery. Bottled and put on sale, it was soon being recommended by men high in the medical world. "The old doctor knew a thing or two, even if he _did_ live back here on the lonesomest hill in the State," said Aunt Jane. "No! I won't stay, children. You've treated me fust-rate; but give me the town. I want life. I don't see how Mrs. Castle can stand it. I'd vegetate here in a week and take sech deep root that you couldn't pull me out with a stump-puller. "Besides, I'm going to have money enough now to live jest like I want to in town. And I'm going to have one of these automobile cars--yes, sir! I'll begin to really and truly _live_, I will. You jest watch me." But in her joy of suddenly acquired wealth she did not forget her nieces--the girls who had really made her good fortune possible. Both Lyddy and 'Phemie owned stock in the mineral water company; and then Aunt Jane assured them that when she died they should own the farm jointly. She had only sold the spring rights to the company. The rest of the corporation consisted of Harris Colesworth and his father, Rufus Castle, his mother, Grandma Castle, Lucas Pritchett and--last but not least--Mother Harrison. The widow had asked the privilege of investing in the stock of the company the fifty dollars that Professor Spink had paid her for her husband's old desk. And as that stock is becoming more and more valuable as time goes on, it was not an unwise investment on the widow's part. As for Lucas, it was by 'Phemie's advice that the young farmer put _his_ money into the stock of the mineral water concern, instead of into a red-wheeled buggy. "Wait a while, Lucas," said 'Phemie, "and you'll make money enough to own a motor car instead of a buggy." "And you'll take the first ride in it with me?" demanded Lucas, shrewdly. "Yes! I'll verily risk my life in your buzz-wagon," laughed the girl. "But now! that's a long way ahead yet, Lucas." The summer had passed ere all these things were done and said. Nor had the Bray girls lost a single opportunity of making their original venture--that of keeping boarders at Hillcrest--a success. Lyddy had bought her cooking stove, her chickens had turned out a nice little flock for the next year, the garden had done splendidly, and when the corn was harvested the girls banked a hundred dollars over and above the cost of raising the crop. Best of all, their father's state of health had so much improved, during these last few weeks, that the girls could look forward with confidence to his complete restoration, in time, to a really robust condition. Hillcrest had been his salvation. The sun and air of the mountainside home had finally brought him well on the road to recovery; and the joy his two daughters felt because of this fact can scarcely be expressed in words. Grandma Castle and the Chadwicks wanted to remain until New Year's, so the girls got no real vacation. Several automobile parties had now found their way to the house on the hill, and the old-fashioned viands, the huge rooms, open fires, and all the "queer" furniture induced them to return from time to time. So Lyddy and 'Phemie decided to be prepared for such parties, or for other people who wished to board for a week or so at a time, all winter. Mr. Bray had grown so much stronger by now that sometimes he expressed his belief that he ought to go back to the shop and earn money, too. "Wait till next season, Father," Lydia urged him, softly. "We can all pull together here, and if we have only a measure of good fortune, we shall be independent indeed by _next_ fall." The prospect was surely bright--as bright as that which lay before Lyddy and Harris Colesworth one Indian summer day as they strolled down the lane to the highroad. "I don't see how Aunt Jane can find this place lonely," sighed Lyddy, leaning just a little on the young man's arm, but with her gaze sweeping all the fair mountainside. "_You_ couldn't leave it, Lyddy?" he asked, with sudden wistfulness. "No, indeed! Not for long. No other place would seem like _home_ to me after our experience here. It's more like home than the house I was born in at Easthampton. "You see, we have struggled, and worked, and accomplished something here--'Phemie and I. And Aunt Jane says it shall some day be ours--all of Hillcrest. I love it all." "Well--I don't blame you!" exclaimed Harris, suddenly swinging about and seizing her hands. "But, say, Lyddy! don't be stingy about it." "Stingy--about what?" she asked him, rather frightened, but looking up into his sparkling eyes. "Don't be stingy with Hillcrest. If you are determined to stay here--all your life long--you know---- Don't you suppose you could find it in your heart to let _me_ come here and--and stay, too?" Nobody heard Lyddy Bray make an audible reply to this--not even the curious squirrel chattering in the big beech over their heads. But Harris seemed to see just the reply he craved in the girl's eyes, for he cried, suddenly: "You _dear_, you!" Then they walked on together, side by side, over the carpet of flame-colored leaves. 
33623	----	TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Apart from a few punctuation corrections, no other changes have been made in the text. THE INVENTIONS OF THE IDIOT by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS Author of "A House-Boat on the Styx" "The Pursuit of the House-Boat" "Olympian Nights" Etc. Etc. New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1904 Copyright, 1903, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ Published April, 1904 TO YOU Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. THE CULINARY GUILD 1 II. A SUGGESTION FOR THE CABLE-CARS 16 III. THE TRANSATLANTIC TROLLEY COMPANY 31 IV. THE INCORPORATION OF THE IDIOT 47 V. UNIVERSITY EXTENSION 64 VI. SOCIAL EXPANSION 79 VII. A BEGGAR'S HAND-BOOK 96 VIII. PROGRESSIVE WAFFLES 112 IX. A CLEARING-HOUSE FOR POETS 127 X. SOME ELECTRICAL SUGGESTIONS 142 XI. CONCERNING CHILDREN 158 XII. DREAMALINE 172 THE INVENTIONS OF THE IDIOT I The Culinary Guild It was before the Idiot's marriage, and in the days when he was nothing more than a plain boarder in Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's High-class Home for Single Gentlemen, that he put what the School-master termed his "alleged mind" on plans for the amelioration of the condition of the civilized. "The trials of the barbarian are really nothing as compared with the tribulations of civilized man," he said, as the waitress passed him a piece of steak that had been burned to a crisp. "In the Cannibal Islands a cook who would send a piece of broiled missionary to her employer's table in this condition would herself be roasted before another day had dawned. We, however, must grin and bear it, because our esteemed landlady cannot find anywhere in this town a woman better suited for the labors of the kitchen than the blank she has had the misfortune to draw in the culinary lottery, familiarly known to us, her victims, as Bridget." "This is an exceptional case," said Mr. Pedagog. "We haven't had a steak like this before in several weeks." "True," returned the Idiot. "This is a sirloin, I believe. The last steak we had was a rump steak, and it was not burned to a crisp, I admit. It was only boiled, if I remember rightly, by mistake; Bridget having lost her fifth consecutive cousin in ten days the night before, and being in consequence so prostrated that she could not tell a gridiron from a lawn-mower." "Well, you know the popular superstition, Mr. Idiot," said the Poet. "The devil sends the cooks." "I don't believe it," retorted the Idiot. "That's one of those proverbs that haven't a particle of truth in 'em--nor a foundation in reason either, like 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth.' Of all absurd advice ever given to man by a thoughtless thinker, that, I think, bears the palm. I know a man who didn't look a gift horse in the mouth, and the consequence was that he accepted a horse that was twenty-eight years old. The beast died in his stables three days later, and the beneficiary had to pay five dollars to have him carted away. As for the devil sending the cooks, I haven't any faith in the theory. Any person who had come from the devil would know how to manage a fire better than ninety-nine per cent. of the cooks ever born. It would be a good thing if every one of 'em were forced to serve an apprenticeship with the Prince of Darkness. However, steak like this serves a good purpose. It serves to bind our little circle more firmly together. There's nothing like mutual suffering to increase the sympathy that should exist between men situated as we are; and as for Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog, I wish her to understand distinctly that I am criticising the cook and not herself. If this particular dainty had been prepared by her own fair hand, I doubt not I should want more of it." "I thank you," returned the landlady, somewhat mollified by this remark. "If I had more time I should occasionally do the cooking myself, but, as it is, I am overwhelmed with work." "I can bear witness to that," observed Mr. Whitechoker. "Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog is one of the most useful ladies in my congregation. If it were not for her, many a heathen would be going without garments to-day." "Well, I don't like to criticise," said the Idiot, "but I think the heathen at home should be considered before the heathen abroad. If your congregation would have a guild to look after such heathen as the Poet and the Doctor and myself, I am convinced it would be more appreciated by those who benefited by its labors than it is at present by the barbarians who try to wear the misfits it sends out. A Christian whose plain but honest breakfast is well cooked is apt to be far more grateful than a barbarian who is wearing a pair of trousers made of calico and a coat three sizes too small in the body and nine sizes too large in the arms. I will go further. I believe that if the domestic heathen were cared for they would do much better work, would earn better pay, and would, out of mere gratitude, set apart a sufficiently large portion of their increased earnings to be devoted to the purchase of tailor-made costumes, which would please the cannibals better, far better, than the amateur creations they now get. I know I'd contribute some of my surplus." "What would you have such a guild do?" queried Mr. Whitechoker. "Do? There'd be so much for it to do that the members could hardly find time to rest," returned the Idiot. "Do? Why, my dear sir, take this house, for instance, and see what it could do here. What a boon it would be for me if some kind-hearted person would come here once a week and sew buttons on my clothes, darn my socks--in short, keep me mended. What better work for one who desires to make the world brighter, happier, and less sinful!" "I fail to see how the world would be brighter, happier, or less sinful if your suspender-buttons were kept firm, and your stockings darned, and your wardrobe generally mended," said Mr. Pedagog. "I grant that such a guild would be doing a noble work if it would take you in hand and correct many of your impressions, revise your well-known facts so as to bring them more in accord with indubitable truths, and impart to your customs some of that polish which you so earnestly strive for in your dress." "Thank you," said the Idiot, suavely. "But I don't wish to overburden the kind ladies to whom I refer. If my costumes could be looked after I might find time to look after my customs, and, I assure you, Mr. Pedagog, if at any time you will undertake to deliver a course of lectures on Etiquette, I will gladly subscribe for two orchestra-chairs and endeavor to occupy both of them. At any rate, to return to the main point, I claim that the world would be happier and brighter and less sinful if the domestic heathen were kept mended by such a guild, and I challenge any one here to deny, even on so slight a basis as the loose suspender-button, the truth of what I say. When I arise in the morning and find a button gone, do I make genial remarks about the joys of life? I do not. I use words. Sometimes one word, which need not be repeated here. I am unhappy, and, being unhappy, the world seems dark and dreary, and in speaking impatiently, though very much to the point, as I do, I am guilty of an offence that is sinful. With such a start in the morning, I come here to the table. Mr. Pedagog sees that I am not quite myself. He asks me if I am not feeling well, an irritating question at any time, but particularly so to a man with a suspender-button gone. I retort. He re-retorts, until our converse is warmer than the coffee, and our relations colder than the waffles. Finally I leave the house, slamming the door behind me, structurally weakening the house, and go to business, where I wreak my vengeance upon the second clerk, who takes it out of the office-boy, who goes home and vents his wrath on his little sister, who, goaded into recklessness, teases the baby until he yells and gets spanked by his mother for being noisy. Now, why should a loose suspender-button be allowed to subject that baby to such humiliation, and who can deny that, if it had been properly sewed on by a guild, such as I have mentioned, the baby never would have been spanked for the causes mentioned? What is _your_ answer, Mr. Whitechoker?" "Truly, I am so breathless at your logic that I cannot reason," said the Minister. "But haven't we digressed a little? We were speaking of cooks, and we conclude with a pathetic little allegory about a suspender-button and a baby that is not only teased but spanked." "The baby could get the same spanking for reasons based on the shortcomings of the cooks," said the Idiot. "I am irritated when I am served with green pease hard enough to batter down Gibraltar if properly aimed; when my coffee is a warmed-over reminiscence of last night's demi-tasse, I leave the house in a frame of mind that bodes ill for the junior clerk, and the effect on the baby is ultimately the same." "And--er--you'd have the ladies whose energies are now devoted towards the clothing of the heathen come here and do the cooking?" queried the School-master. "I leave if they do," said the Doctor. "I have seen too much of the effects of amateur cookery in my profession to want any of it. They are good cooks in theory, but not in practice." "There you have it!" said the Idiot, triumphantly. "Right in a nutshell. That's where the cooks are always weak. They have none of the theory and all of the practice. If they based practice on theory, they'd cook better. Wherefore let your theoretical cooks seek out the practical and instruct them in the principles of the culinary art. Think of what twelve ladies could do; twelve ladies trained in the sewing-circle to talk rapidly, working five hours a day apiece, could devote an hour a week to three hundred and sixty cooks, and tell them practically all they themselves know in that time; and if, in addition to this, twelve other ladies, forming an auxiliary guild, would make dresses and bonnets and things for the same cooks, instead of for the cannibals, it would keep them good-natured." "Splendid scheme!" said the Doctor. "So practical. Your brain must weigh half an ounce." "I've never had it weighed," said the Idiot, "but, I fancy, it's a good one. It's the only one I have, anyhow, and it's done me good service, and shows no signs of softening. But, returning to the cooks, good-nature is as essential to the making of a good cook as are apples to the making of a dumpling. You can't associate the word dumpling with ill-nature, and just as the poet throws himself into his work, and as he is of a cheerful or a mournful disposition, so does his work appear cheerful or mournful, so do the productions of a cook take on the attributes of their maker. A dyspeptic cook will prepare food in a manner so indigestible that it were ruin to partake of it. A light-hearted cook will make light bread; a pessimistic cook will serve flour bricks in lieu thereof." "I think possibly you are right when you say that," said the Doctor. "I have myself observed that the people who sing at their work do the best work." "But the worst singing," growled the School-master. "That may be true," put in the Idiot; "but you cannot expect a cook on sixteen dollars a month to be a prima-donna. Now, if Mr. Whitechoker will undertake to start a sewing-circle in his church for people who don't care to wear clothing, but to sow the seeds of concord and good cookery throughout the kitchens of this land, I am prepared to prophesy that at the end of the year there will be more happiness and less depression in this part of the world; and once eliminate dyspepsia from our midst, and get civilization and happiness controvertible terms, then you will find your foreign missionary funds waxing so fat that instead of the amateur garments for the heathen you now send them, you will be able to open an account at Worth's and Poole's for every barbarian in creation. The scheme for the sewing on of suspender-buttons and the miscellaneous mending that needs to be done for lone-lorn savages like myself might be left in abeyance until the culinary scheme has been established. Bachelors constitute a class, a small class only, of humanity, but the regeneration of cooks is a universal need." "I think your scheme is certainly a picturesque one and novel," said Mr. Whitechoker. "There seems to be a good deal in it. Don't you think so, Mr. Pedagog?" "Yes--I do," said Mr. Pedagog, wearily. "A great deal--of language." And amid the laugh at his expense which followed, the Idiot, joining in, departed. II A Suggestion for the Cable-cars "Heigh-ho!" sighed the Idiot, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "This is a weary world." "What? This from you?" smiled the Poet. "I never expected to hear that plaint from a man of your cheerful disposition." "Humph!" said the Idiot, with difficulty repressing a yawn. "Humph! and I may add, likewise, tut! What do you take me for--an insulated sun-beam? I can't help it if shadows camp across my horizon occasionally. I wouldn't give a cent for the man who never had his moments of misery. It takes night to enable us to appreciate daytime. Misery is a foil necessary to the full appreciation of joy. I'm glad I am sort of down in the mouth to-day. I'll be all right to-morrow, and I'll enjoy to-morrow all the more for to-day's megrim. But for the present, I repeat, this is a weary world." "Oh, I don't think so," observed the School-master. "The world doesn't seem to me to betray any signs of weariness. It got to work at the usual hour this morning, and, as far as I can judge, has been revolving at the usual rate of speed ever since." "The Idiot's mistake is a common one," put in the Doctor. "I find it frequently in my practice." "That's a confession," retorted the Idiot. "Do you find out these mistakes in your practice before or after the death of the patient?" "That mistake," continued the Doctor, paying apparently little heed to the Idiot's remark--"that mistake lies in the Idiot's assumption that he is himself the world. He regards himself as the earth, as all of life, and, because he happens to be weary, the world is a weary one." "It isn't a fatal disease, is it?" queried the Idiot, anxiously. "I am not likely to become so impressed with that idea, for instance, that I shall have to be put in a padded cell and manacled so that I may not turn perpetual handsprings under the hallucination that, being the world, it is my duty to revolve?" "No," replied the Doctor, with a laugh. "No, indeed. That is not at all likely to happen, but I think it would be a good idea if you were to carry the hallucination out far enough to put a cake of ice on your head, assuming that to be the north pole, and cool off that brain of yours." "That is a good idea," returned the Idiot; "and if Mary will bring me the ice that was used to cool the coffee this morning, I shall be pleased to try the experiment. Meanwhile, this is a weary world." "Then why under the canopy don't you leave it and go to some other world?" snapped Mr. Pedagog. "You are under no obligation to remain here. With a river on either side of the city, and a New York Juggernaut Company, Unlimited, running trolley-cars up and down two of our more prominent highways, suicide is within the reach of all. Of course, we should be sorry to lose you, in a way, but I have known men to recover from even greater afflictions than that." "Thank you for the suggestion," replied the Idiot, transferring four large, porous buckwheat-cakes to his plate. "Thank you very much, but I have a pleasanter and more lingering method of suicide right here. Death by buckwheat-cakes is like being pierced by a Toledo blade. You do not realize the terrors of your situation until you cease to be susceptible to them. Furthermore, I do not believe in suicide. It is, in my judgment, the worst crime a man can commit, and I cannot but admire the remarkable discernment evinced by the Fates in making of it its own inevitable capital punishment. A man may commit murder and escape death, but in the commission of suicide he is sure of execution. Just as Virtue is its own reward, so is Suicide its own amercement." "Been reading the dictionary again?" asked the Poet. "No, not exactly," said the Idiot, with a smile, "but--it's a kind of joke on me, I suppose--I have just been stuck, to use a polite term, on a book called Roget's _Thesaurus_, and, if I want to get hold of a new word that will increase my seeming importance to the community, I turn to it. That's where I got 'amercement.' I don't hold that its use in this especial case is beyond cavil--that's another Thesaurian term--but I don't suppose any one here would notice that fact. It goes here, and I shall not use it elsewhere." "I am interested to know how _you_ ever came to be the owner of a _Thesaurus_," said the School-master, with a grim smile at the idea of the Idiot having such a book in his possession. "Except on the score of affinities. You are both very wordy." "Meaning pleonastic, I presume," retorted the Idiot. "I beg your pardon?" said the School-master. "Never mind," said the Idiot. "I won't press the analogy, but I will say that those who are themselves periphrastic should avoid criticising others for being ambaginous." "I think you mean ambiguous," said the School-master, elevating his eyebrows in triumph. "I thought you'd think that," retorted the Idiot. "That's why I used the word 'ambaginous.' I'll lend you my dictionary to freshen up your phraseology. Meanwhile, I'll tell you how I happened to get a _Thesaurus_. I thought it was an animal, and when I saw that a New York bookseller had a lot of them marked down from two dollars to one, I sent and got one. I thought it was strange for a bookseller to be selling rare animals, but that was his business, not mine; and as I was anxious to see what kind of a creature a _Thesaurus_ was, I invested. When I found out it was a book and not a tame relic of the antediluvian animal kingdom, I thought I wouldn't say anything about it, but you people here are so inquisitive you've learned my secret." "And wasn't it an animal?" asked Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog. "My dear--my _dear_!" ejaculated Mr. Pedagog. "Pray--ah--I beg of you, do not enter into this discussion." "No, Mrs. Pedagog," observed the Idiot, "it was not. It was nothing more than a book, which, when once you have read it, you would not be without, since it gives your vocabulary a twist which makes you proof against ninety-nine out of every one hundred conversationalists in the world, no matter how weak your cause." "I am beginning to understand the causes of your weariness," observed Mr. Pedagog, acridly. "You have been memorizing syllables. Really, I should think you were in danger of phonetic prostration." "Not a bit of it," said the Idiot. "Those words are stimulating, not depressing. I begin to feel better already, now that I have spoken them. I am not half so weary as I was, but for my weariness I had good cause. I suffered all night from a most frightful nightmare. It utterly destroyed my rest." "Welsh-rarebit?" queried the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibed, with a tone of reproach. "If so, why was I not with you?" "That question should be its own answer," replied the Idiot. "A man who will eat a Welsh-rarebit alone is not only a person of a sullen disposition, but of reckless mould as well. I would no sooner think of braving a Welsh-rarebit unaccompanied than I would think of trying to swim across the British Channel without a lifesaving boat following in my wake." "I question if so light a body as you could have a wake!" said Mr. Pedagog, coldly. "I am sorry, but I can't agree with you, Mr. Pedagog," said the Bibliomaniac. "A tugboat, most insignificant of crafts, roils up the surface of the sea more than an ocean steamer does. Fuss goes with feathers more than with large bodies." "Well, they're neither of 'em in it with a cake of soap for real, bona-fide suds," said the Idiot, complacently, as he helped himself to his thirteenth buckwheat-cake. "However, wakes have nothing to do with the case. I had a most frightful dream, and it was not due to Welsh-rarebits, but to my fatal weakness, which, not having my _Thesaurus_ at hand, I must identify by the commonplace term of courtesy. You may not have noticed it, but courtesy is my strong point." "We haven't observed the fact," said Mr. Pedagog; "but what of it? Have you been courteous to any one?" "I have," replied the Idiot, "and a nightmare is what it brought me. I rode up-town on a trolley-car last night, and I gave up my seat to sixteen ladies, two of whom, by-the-way, thanked me." "I don't see why more than one of them should thank you," sniffed the landlady. "If a man gives up a trolley-car seat to sixteen ladies, only one of them can occupy it." "I stand corrected," said the Idiot. "I gave up a seat to ladies sixteen times between City Hall and Twenty-third Street. I can't bring myself to sit down while a woman stands, and every time I'd get a seat some woman would get on the car. Hence it was that I gave up my seat to sixteen ladies. Why two of them should thank me, considering the rules, I do not know. It certainly is not the custom. At any rate, if I had walked up-town, I should not have had more exercise than I got on that car, bobbing up and down so many times, and lurching here and lurching there every time the car stopped, started, or turned a corner. Whether it was the thanks or the lurching I got, I don't know, but the incidents of the ride were so strongly impressed upon me that I dreamed all night, only in my dreams I was not giving up car seats. The first seat I gave up to a woman in the dream was an eighty-thousand-dollar seat in the Stock Exchange. It was expensive courtesy, but I did it, and mourned so over the result that I waked up and discovered that it was but a dream. Then I went to sleep again. This time I was at the opera. I had the best seat in the house, when in came a woman who hadn't a chair. Same result. I got up. She sat down, and I had to stand behind a pillar where I could neither see nor hear. More grief; waked up again, more tired than when I went to bed. In ten minutes I dozed off. Found myself an ambitious statesman running for the Presidency. Was elected and inaugurated. Up comes a Woman's Rights candidate. More courtesy. Gave up the Presidential chair to her and went home to obscurity, when again I awoke tireder than ever. Clock struck four. Fell asleep again. This time I was prepared for anything that might happen. I found myself in a trolley-car, but with me I had a perforated chair-bottom, such as the street peddlers sell. Lady got aboard. I put the perforated chair-bottom on my lap and invited her to sit down. She thanked me and did so. Then another lady got on. The lady on my lap moved up and made room for the second lady. She sat down. Between them they must have weighed three hundred pounds. I could have stood that, but as time went on more ladies got aboard, and every time that happened these first-comers would move up and make room for them. How they did it I can't say, any more than I can say how in real life three women can find room in a car-seat vacated by a little child. They did the former just as they do the latter, until finally I found myself flattened into the original bench like the pattern figure of a carpet. I felt like an entaglio; thirty women by actual count were pressing me to remain, as it were, but the worst of it all was they none of them seemed to live anywhere. We rode on and on and on, but nobody got off. I tried to move--and couldn't. We passed my corner, but there I was fixed. I couldn't breathe, and so couldn't call out, and I verily believe that if I hadn't finally waked up I should by this time have reached Hong-Kong, for I have a distinct recollection of passing through Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, and Honolulu. Finally, I did wake, however, simply worn out with my night's rest, which, gentlemen, is why I say, as I have already said, this is a weary world." "Well, I don't blame you," said Mr. Whitechoker, kindly. "That was a most remarkable dream." "Yes," assented Mr. Pedagog. "But quite in line with his waking thoughts." "Very likely," said the Idiot, rising and preparing to depart. "It was absurd in most of its features, but in one of them it was excellent. I am going to see the president of the Electric Juggernaut Company, as you call it, in regard to it to-day. I think there is money in that idea of having an extra chair-seat for every passenger to hold in his lap. In that way twice as many seated passengers can be accommodated, and countless people with tender feet will be spared the pain of having other wayfarers standing upon them." III The Transatlantic Trolley Company "If I were a millionaire," began the Idiot one Sunday morning, as he and his friends took their accustomed seats at the breakfast-table, "I would devote a tenth of my income to the poor, a tenth to children's fresh-air funds, and the balance to the education through travel of a dear and intimate friend of mine." "That would be a generous distribution of your wealth," said Mr. Whitechoker, graciously. "But upon what would you live yourself?" "I should stipulate in the bargain with my dear and intimate friend that we should be inseparable; that wherever he should go I should go, and that, of the funds devoted to his education through travel, one-half should be paid to me as my commission for letting him into a good thing." "You certainly have good business sense," put in the Bibliomaniac. "I wish I had had when I was collecting rare editions." "Collecting rare books and a good business sense seldom go together, I fancy," said the Idiot. "I began collecting books once, but I gave it up and took to collecting coins. I chose my coin and devoted my time to getting in that variety alone, and it has paid me." "I don't exactly gather your meaning," said Mr. Whitechoker. "You chose your coin?" "Precisely. I said, 'Here! Most coin collectors spend their time looking for one or two rare coins, for which, when they are found, they pay fabulous prices. The result is oftentimes penury. I, on the other hand, will look for coins of a common sort which do not command fabulous prices.' So I chose United States five-dollar gold pieces, irrespective of dates, for my collection, and the result is moderate affluence. I have between sixty and a hundred of them at my savings-bank, and when I have found it necessary to realize on them I have not experienced the slightest difficulty in forcing them back into circulation at cost." "You are a wise Idiot," said the Bibliomaniac, settling back in his chair in a disgusted, tired sort of way. He had expected some sympathy from the Idiot as a fellow-collector, even though their aims were different. It is always difficult for a man whose ten-thousand-dollar library has brought six hundred dollars in the auction-room to find, even in the ranks of collectors, one who understands his woes and helps him bear the burden thereof by expressions of confidence in his sanity. "Then you believe in travel, do you?" asked the Doctor. "I believe there is nothing broadens the mind so much," returned the Idiot. "But do you believe it will develop a mind where there isn't one?" asked the School-master, unpleasantly. "Or, to put it more favorably, don't you think there would be danger in taking the germ of a mind in a small head and broadening it until it runs the risk of finding itself confined to cramped quarters?" "That is a question for a physician to answer," said the Idiot. "But, if I were you, I wouldn't travel if I thought there was any such danger." "_Tu quoque_," retorted the School-master, "is _not_ true repartee." "I shall have to take your word for that," returned the Idiot, "since I have not a Latin dictionary with me, and all the Latin I know is to be found in the quotations in the back of my dictionary, like '_Status quo ante_,' '_In vino veritas_,' and '_Et tu, Brute_.' However, as I said before, I'd like to travel, and I would if it were not that the sea and I are not on very good terms with each other. It makes me ill to cross the East River on the bridge, I'm so susceptible to sea-sickness." "You'd get over that in a very few days," said the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "I have crossed the ocean a dozen times, and I'm never sea-sick after the third day out." "Ah, but those three days!" said the Idiot. "They must resemble the three days of grace on a note that you know you couldn't pay if you had three years of grace. I couldn't stand them, I am afraid. Why, only last summer I took a drive off in the country, and the motion of the wagon going over the thank-ye-marms in the road made me so sea-sick before I'd gone a mile that I wanted to lie down and die. I think I should have done so if the horse hadn't run away and forced me to ride back home whether I wanted to or not." "You ought to fight that," said the Doctor. "By-and-by, if you give way to a weakness of that sort, the creases in your morning newspaper will affect you similarly as you read it. If you ever have a birthday, let us know, and we'll help you to overcome the tendency by buying you a baby-jumper for you to swing around in every morning until you get used to the motion." "It would be more to the purpose," replied the Idiot, "if you as a physician would invent a preventive of sea-sickness. I'd buy a bottle and go abroad at once on my coin collection if you would guarantee it to kill or to cure instantaneously." "There is such a nostrum," said the Doctor. "There is, indeed," put in the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibes. "I've tried it." "And were you sea-sick?" asked the Doctor. "I never knew," replied the Genial Old Gentleman. "It made me so ill that I never thought to inquire what was the matter with me. But one thing is certain, I'll take my sea-voyages straight after this." "I'd like to go by rail," said the Idiot, after a moment's thought. "That is a desire quite characteristic of you," said the School-master. "It is so probable that you could. Why not say that you'd like to cross the Atlantic on a tight-rope?" "Because I have no such ambition," replied the Idiot. "Though it might be fun if the tight-rope were a trolley-wire, and one could sit comfortably in a spacious cab while speeding over the water. I should think that would be exhilarating enough. Just imagine how fine it would be on a stormy day to sit looking out of your cab-window far above the surface of the raging and impotent sea, skipping along at electric speed, and daring the waves to do their worst--that would be bliss." "And so practical," growled the Bibliomaniac. "Bliss rarely is practical," said the Idiot. "Bliss is a sort of mugwump blessing--too full of the ideal and too barren in practicability." "Well," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I don't know why we should say that trolley-cars between New York and London never can be. If we had told our grandfathers a hundred years ago that a cable for the transmission of news could be laid under the sea, they would have laughed us to scorn." "That's true," said the School-master. "But we know more than our grandfathers did." "Well, rather," interrupted the Idiot. "My great-grandfather, who died in 1799, had never even heard of Andrew Jackson, and if you had asked him what he thought of Darwin, he'd have thought you were guying him." "Respect for age, sir," retorted Mr. Pedagog, "restrains me from characterizing your great-grandfather, if, as you intimate, he knew less than you do. However, apart from the comparative lack of knowledge in the Idiot's family, Mr. Whitechoker, you must remember that with the advance of the centuries we have ourselves developed a certain amount of brains--enough, at least, to understand that there is a limit even to the possibilities of electricity. Now, when you say that just because an Atlantic cable would have been regarded as an object of derision in the eighteenth century, we should not deride one who suggests the possibility of a marine trolley-road between London and New York in the twentieth century, it appears to me that you are talking--er--talking--I don't like to say nonsense to one of your cloth, but--" "Through his hat is the idiom you are trying to recall, I think, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "Mr. Whitechoker is talking through his hat is what you mean to say?" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Idiot," said the School-master; "but when I find that I need your assistance in framing my conversation, I shall--er--I shall give up talking. I mean to say that I do not think Mr. Whitechoker can justify his conclusions, and talks without having given the subject concerning which he has spoken due reflection. The cable runs along the solid foundation of the bed of the sea. It is a simple matter, comparatively, but a trolley-wire stretched across the ocean by the simplest rules of gravitation could not be made to stay up." "No doubt you are correct," said Mr. Whitechoker, meekly. "I did not mean that I expected ever to see a trolley-road across the sea, but I did mean to say that man has made such wonderful advances in the past hundred years that we cannot really state the limit of his possibilities. It is manifest that no one to-day can devise a plan by means of which such a wire could be carried, but--" "I fear you gentlemen would starve as inventors," said the Idiot. "What's the matter with balloons?" "Balloons for what?" retorted Mr. Pedagog. "For holding up the trolley-wires," replied the Idiot. "It is perfectly feasible. Fasten the ends of your wire in London and New York, and from coast to coast station two lines of sufficient strength to keep the wire raised as far above the level of the sea as you require. That's simple enough." "And what, pray, in this frenzy of the elements, this raging storm of which you have spoken," said Mr. Pedagog, impatiently--"what would then keep your balloons from blowing away?" "The trolley-wire, of course," said the Idiot. Mr. Pedagog lapsed into a hopelessly wrathful silence for a moment, and then he said: "Well, I sincerely hope your plan is adopted, and that the promoters will make you superintendent, with an office in the mid-ocean balloon." "Thanks for your good wishes, Mr. Pedagog," the Idiot answered. "If they are realized I shall remember them, and show my gratitude to you by using my influence to have you put in charge of the gas service. Meantime, however, it seems to me that our ocean steamships could be developed along logical lines so that the trip from New York to Liverpool could be made in a very much shorter period of time than is now required." "We are getting back to the common-sense again," said the Bibliomaniac. "That is a proposition to which I agree. Ten years ago eight days was considered a good trip. With the development of the twin-screw steamer the time has been reduced to approximately six days." "Or a saving, really, of two days because of the extra screw," said the Idiot. "Precisely," observed the Bibliomaniac. "So that, provided there are extra screws enough, there isn't any reason why the trip should not be made in two or three hours." "Ah--what was that?" said the Bibliomaniac. "I don't exactly follow you." "One extra screw, you say, has saved two days?" "Yes." "Then two extra screws would save four days, three would save six days, and five extra screws would send the boat over in approximately no time," said the Idiot. "So, if it takes a man two hours to succumb to sea-sickness, a boat going over in less than that time would eliminate sea-sickness; more people would go; boats could run every hour, and Mr. Whitechoker could have a European trip every week without deserting his congregation." "Inestimable boon!" cried Mr. Whitechoker, with a laugh. "Wouldn't it be!" said the Idiot. "Unless I change my mind, I think I shall stay in this country until this style of greyhound is perfected. Then, gentlemen, I shall tear myself away from you, and seek knowledge in foreign pastures." "Well, I am sure," said Mr. Pedagog--"I am sure that we all hope you will change your mind." "Then you want me to go abroad?" said the Idiot. "No," said Mr. Pedagog. "No--not so much that as that we feel if you were to change your mind the change could not fail to be for the better. A mind like yours ought to be changed." "Well, I don't know," said the Idiot. "I suppose it would be a good thing if I broke it up into smaller denominations, but I've had it so long that I have become attached to it; but there is one thing about it, there is plenty of it, so that in case any of you gentlemen find your own insufficient I shall be only too happy to give you a piece of it without charge. Meanwhile, if Mrs. Pedagog will kindly let me have my bill for last week, I'll be obliged." "It won't be ready until to-morrow, Mr. Idiot," said the landlady, in surprise. "I'm sorry," said the Idiot, rising. "My scribbling-paper has run out. I wanted to put in this morning writing a poem on the back of it." "A poem? What about?" said Mr. Pedagog, with an irritating chuckle. "It was to be a triolet on Omniscience," said the Idiot. "And, strange to say, sir, you were to be the hero, if by any possibility I could squeeze you into a French form." IV The Incorporation of the Idiot "How is business these days, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Poet, as the one addressed laid down the morning paper with a careworn expression on his face. "Good, I hope?" "Fair, only," replied the Idiot. "My honored employer was quite blue about things yesterday, and if I hadn't staved him off I think he'd have proposed swapping places with me. He has said quite often of late that I had the best of it, because all I had to earn was my salary, whereas he had to earn my salary and his own living besides. I offered to give him ten per cent. of my salary for ten per cent. of his living, but he said he guessed he wouldn't, adding that I seemed to be as great an Idiot as ever." "I fancy he was right there," said Mr. Pedagog. "I should really like to know how a man of your peculiar mental construction can be of the slightest practical value to a banker. I ask the question in all kindness, too, meaning to cast no reflections whatever upon either you or your employer. You are a roaring success in your own line, which is all any one could ask of you." "There's hominy for you, as the darky said to the hotel guest," returned the Idiot. "Any person who says that discord exists at this table doesn't know what he is talking about. Even the oil and the vinegar mix in the caster--that is, I judge they do from the oleaginous appearance of the vinegar. But I am very useful to my employer, Mr. Pedagog. He says frequently that he wouldn't know what not to do if it were not for me." "Aren't you losing control of your tongue?" queried the Bibliomaniac, looking at the Idiot in wonderment. "Don't you mean that he says he wouldn't know what to do if it were not for you?" "No, I don't," said the Idiot. "I never lose control of my tongue. I meant exactly what I said. Mr. Barlow told me, in so many words, that if it were not for me he wouldn't know what _not_ to do. He calls me his Back Action Patent Reversible Counsellor. If he is puzzled over an intricate point he sends for me and says: 'Such and such a thing being the case, Mr. Idiot, what would you do? Don't think about it, but tell me on impulse. Your thoughtless opinions are worth more to me than I can tell you.' So I tell him on impulse just what I should do, whereupon he does the other thing, and comes out ahead in nine cases out of ten." "And you confess it, eh?" said the Doctor, with a curve on his lip. "I certainly do," said the Idiot. "The world must take me for what I am. I'm not going to be one thing for myself, and build up a fictitious Idiot for the world. The world calls you men of pretence conceited, whereas, by pretending to be something that you are not, you give to the world what I should call convincing evidence that you are not at all conceited, but rather somewhat ashamed of what you know yourselves to be. Now, I rather believe in conceit--real honest pride in yourself as you know yourself to be. I am an Idiot, and it is my ambition to be a perfect Idiot. If I had been born a jackass, I should have endeavored to be a perfect jackass." "You'd have found it easy," said Mr. Pedagog, dryly. "Would I?" said the Idiot. "I'll have to take your word for it, sir, for _I_ have never been a jackass, and so cannot form an opinion on the subject." "Pride goeth before a fall," said Mr. Whitechoker, seeing a chance to work in a moral reflection. "Exactly," said the Idiot. "Wherefore I admire pride. It is a danger-signal that enables man to avoid the fall. If Adam had had any pride he'd never have fallen--but speaking about my controlling my tongue, it is not entirely out of the range of possibilities that I shall lose control of myself." "I expected that, sooner or later," said the Doctor. "Is it to be Bloomingdale or a private mad-house you are going to?" "Neither," replied the Idiot, calmly. "I shall stay here. For, as the poet says, "''Tis best to bear the ills we hov Nor fly to those we know not of.'" "Ho!" jeered the Poet. "I must confess, my dear Idiot, that I do not think you are a success in quotation. Hamlet spoke those lines differently." "Shakespeare's Hamlet did. My little personal Shakespeare makes his Hamlet an entirely different, less stilted sort of person," said the Idiot. "You have a personal Shakespeare, have you?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "Of course I have," the Idiot answered. "Haven't you?" "I have not," said the Bibliomaniac, shortly. "Well, I'm sorry for you then," sighed the Idiot, putting a fried potato in his mouth. "Very sorry. I wouldn't give a cent for another man's ideals. I want my own ideals, and I have my own ideal of Shakespeare. In fancy, Shakespeare and I have roamed over the fields of Warwickshire together, and I've had more fun imagining the kind of things he and I would have said to each other than I ever got out of his published plays, few of which have escaped the ungentle hands of the devastators." "You mean commentators, I imagine," said Mr. Pedagog. "I do," said the Idiot. "It's all the same, whether you call them commentors or devastators. The result is the same. New editions of Shakespeare are issued every year, and people buy them to see not what Shakespeare has written, but what new quip some opinionated devastator has tried to fasten on his memory. In a hundred years from now the works of Shakespeare will differ as much from what they are to-day as to-day's versions differ from what they were when Shakespeare wrote them. It's mighty discouraging to one like myself who would like to write works." "You are convicted out of your own mouth," said the Bibliomaniac. "A moment since you wasted your pity on me because I didn't mutilate Shakespeare so as to make him my own, and now you attack the commentators for doing precisely the same thing. They're as much entitled to their opinions as you are to yours." "Did you ever learn to draw parallels when you were in school?" asked the Idiot. "I did, and I think I've made a perfect parallel in this case. You attack people in one breath for what you commiserate me for not doing in another," said the Bibliomaniac. "Not exactly," said the Idiot. "I don't object to the commentators for commentating, but I do object to their putting out their versions of Shakespeare as Shakespeare. I might as well have my edition published. It certainly would be popular, especially where, in 'Julius Cæsar,' I introduce five Cassiuses and have them all fall on their swords together with military precision, like a 'Florodora' sextette, for instance." "Well, I hope you'll never print such an atrocity as that," cried the Bibliomaniac, hotly. "If there's one thing in literature without excuse and utterly contemptible it is the comic version, the parody of a masterpiece." "You need have no fear on that score," returned the Idiot. "I haven't time to rewrite Shakespeare, and, since I try never to stop short of absolute completeness, I shall not embark on the enterprise. If I do, however, I shall not do as the commentators do, and put on my title-page 'Shakespeare. Edited by Willie Wilkins,' but 'Shakespeare As He Might Have Been, Had His Plays Been Written By An Idiot.'" "I have no doubt that you could do great work with 'Hamlet,'" observed the Poet. "I think so myself," said the Idiot. "But I shall never write 'Hamlet.' I don't want to have my fair fame exposed to the merciless hands of the devastators." "I shall never cease to regret," said Mr. Pedagog, after a moment's thought, "that you are so timid. I should very much like to see 'The Works of the Idiot.' I admit that my desire is more or less a morbid one. It is quite on a plane with the feeling that prompts me to wish to see that unfortunate man on the Bowery who exhibits his forehead, which is sixteen inches high, beginning with his eyebrows, for a dime. The strange, the bizarre in nature, has always interested me. The more unnatural the nature, the more I gloat upon it. From that point of view I do most earnestly hope that when you are inspired with a work you will let me at least see it." "Very well," answered the Idiot. "I shall put your name down as a subscriber to the _Idiot Monthly Magazine_, which some of my friends contemplate publishing. That is what I mean when I say I may shortly lose control of myself. These friends of mine profess to have been so impressed by my dicta that they have asked me if I would allow myself to be incorporated into a stock company, the object of which should be to transform my personality into printed pages. Hardly a day goes by but I devote a portion of my time to a poem in which the thought is conspicuous either by its absence or its presence. My schemes for the amelioration of the condition of the civilized are notorious among those who know me; my views on current topics are eagerly sought for; my business instinct, as I have already told you, is invaluable to my employer, and my fiction is unsurpassed in its fictitiousness. What more is needed for a magazine? You have the poetry, the philanthropy, the man of to-day, the fictitiousness, and the business instinct necessary for the successful modern magazine all concentrated in one person. Why not publish that person, say my friends, and I, feeling as I do that no man has a right to the selfish enjoyment of the great gifts nature has bestowed upon him, of course can only agree. I am to be incorporated with a capital stock of five hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand dollars' worth of myself I am to be permitted to retain; the rest my friends will subscribe for at fifty cents on the dollar. If any of you want shares in the enterprise I have no doubt you can be accommodated." "I'm obliged to you for the opportunity," said the Doctor. "But I have to be very careful about things I take stock in, and in general I regard you as a thing in which I should prefer not to take stock." "And I," observed Mr. Pedagog--"I have never up to this time taken any stock in you, and I make it a rule to be guided in life by precedent. Therefore I must be counted out." "I'll wait until you are listed at the Stock Exchange," put in the Bibliomaniac, "while thanking you just the same for the chance." "You can put me down for one share, to be paid for in poetry," said the Poet, with a wink at the Idiot. "You'll never make good," said the Idiot, slyly. "And I," said the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibes, "shall be most happy to take five shares to be paid for in advice and high-balls. Moreover, if your company needs good-will to establish its enterprise, you may count upon me for unlimited credit." "Oh, as for that," said the Idiot, "I have plenty of good-will. Even Mr. Pedagog supplies me with more of it than I deserve, though by no means with all that I desire." "That good-will is yours as an individual, Mr. Idiot," returned the School-master. "As a corporation, however, I cannot permit you to trade upon me even for that. Your value is, in my eyes, entirely too fluctuating." "And it is in the fluctuating stock that the great fortunes are made, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "As an individual I appreciate your good-will. As a corporation I am soulless, without emotions, and so cherish no disappointments over your refusal. I think if the scheme goes through it will be successful, and I fully expect to see the day when Idiot Preferred will be selling as high, if not higher, than Steel, and leaving utterly behind any other industrial that ever was known, copper or rope." "If, like the railways, you could issue betterment bonds you might do very well," said the Doctor. "I think ten million dollars spent in bettering you might bring you up to par." "Or a consolidated first-mortgage bond," remarked the Bibliomaniac. "Consolidate the Idiot with a man like Chamberlain or the German Emperor, and issue a five-million-dollar mortgage on the result, and you might find people who'd take those bonds at seventy-five." "You might if they were a dollar bond printed on cartridge-paper," said Mr. Pedagog. "Then purchasers could paper their walls with them." "Rail on," said the Idiot. "I can stand it. When I begin paying quarterly dividends at a ten-per-cent. rate you'll wish you had come in." "I don't know about that," said Mr. Pedagog. "It would entirely depend." "On what?" queried the Idiot, unwarily. "On whether that ten per cent. was declared upon your own estimate of your value or upon ours. On yours it would be fabulous; on ours--oh, well, what is the use of saying anything more about it. We are not going in it, and that's an end to it." "Well, I'll go in it if you change your scheme," said the Doctor. "If instead of an Idiot Publishing Company you will try to float yourself as a Consolidated Gas Company you may count on me to take a controlling interest." "I will submit the proposition to my friends," said the Idiot, calmly. "It would be something to turn out an honest gas company, which I should, of course, try to be, but I am afraid the public will not accept it. There is little demand for laughing-gas, and, besides, they would fear to intrust you with a controlling interest for fear that you might blow the product out and the bills up--coining millions by mere inflation. They've heard of you, Doctor, and they know that is the sort of thing you'd be likely to do." V University Extension "I was surprised and gratified last evening, Mr. Idiot," observed the School-master as breakfast was served, "to see you at the University Extension Lecture. I did not know that you admitted the necessity of further instruction in any matter pertaining to human knowledge." "I don't know that I do admit the necessity," returned the Idiot. "Sometimes when I take an inventory of the contents of my mind it seems to me that about everything I need is there." "There you go again!" said the Bibliomaniac. "Why do you persist in your refusal to allow any one to get a favorable impression concerning you? Mr. Pedagog unbends sufficiently to tell you that you have at last done something which he can commend, and you greet him with an Idiotism which is practically a rebuff." "Very well said," observed the School-master, with an acquiescent nod. "I came to this table this morning encouraged to believe that this young man was beginning to see the error of his ways, and I must confess to a great enough interest in him to say that I was pleased at that encouragement. I saw him at a lecture on literature at the Lyceum Hall last evening, and he appeared to be interested, and yet this morning he seems to show that he is utterly incorrigible. May I ask, sir, why you attended that lecture if, as you say, your mind is already sufficiently well furnished?" "Certainly you may ask that question," replied the Idiot. "I went to that lecture to have my impressions confirmed, that is all. I have certain well-defined notions concerning University Extension, and I wished to see if they were correct. I found that they were." "The lecture was not upon University Extension, but upon Romanticism, and it was a most able discourse," retorted Mr. Pedagog. "Very likely," said the Idiot. "I did not hear it. I did not want to hear it. I have my own ideas concerning Romanticism, which do not need confirmation or correction. I have already confirmed and corrected them. I went to see the audience and not to hear Professor Peterkin exploding theories." "It is a pity the chair you occupied was wasted upon you," snapped Mr. Pedagog. "I agree with you," said the Idiot. "I could have got a much better view of the audience if I had been permitted to sit on the stage, but Professor Peterkin needed all that for his gestures. However, I saw enough from where I sat to confirm my impression that University Extension is not so much of a public benefit as a social fad. There was hardly a soul in the audience who could not have got all that Professor Peterkin had to tell him out of his books; there was hardly a soul in the audience who could not have afforded to pay one dollar at least for the seat he occupied; there was not a soul in the audience who had paid more than ten cents for his seat or her seat, and those for whose benefit the lecture was presumably given, the ten-cent people, were crowded out. The lectures themselves are not instructive--Professor Peterkin's particularly--except in so far as it is instructive to hear what Professor Peterkin thinks on this or that subject, and his desire to be original forces him to cook up views which no one else ever held, with the result that what he says is most interesting and proper to be presented to the attention of a discriminating audience, but not proper to be presented to an audience that is supposed to come there to receive instruction." "You have just said that you did not listen to the lecture. How do you know that what you say is true?" put in the Bibliomaniac. "I know Professor Peterkin," said the Idiot. "Does he know you?" sneered Mr. Pedagog. "I don't think he would remember me if you should speak my name in his presence," observed the Idiot, calmly. "But that is easily accounted for. The Professor never remembers anybody but himself." "Well, I admit," said Mr. Pedagog, "that the Professor's lectures were rather advanced for the comprehension of a person like the Idiot, nevertheless it was an enjoyable occasion, and I doubt if the fulminations of our friend here will avail against University Extension." "You speak a sad truth," said the Idiot. "Social fads are impervious to fulmination, as Solomon might have said had he thought of it. As long as a thing is a social fad it will thrive, and, on the whole, perhaps it ought to thrive. Anything which gives society something to think about has its value, and the mere fact that it makes society _think_ is proof of that value." "We seem to be in a philosophic frame of mind this morning," said Mr. Whitechoker. "We are," returned the Idiot. "That's one thing about University Extension. It makes us philosophic. It has made a stoic of my dear old daddy." "Oh yes!" cried Mr. Pedagog. "You _have_ a father, haven't you? I had forgotten that." "Wherein," said the Idiot, "we differ. _I_ haven't forgotten that I have one, and, by-the-way, it is from him that I first heard of University Extension. He lives in a small manufacturing town not many miles from here, and is distinguished in the town because, without being stingy, he lives within his means. He has a way of paying his grocer's bills which makes of him a marked man. He hasn't much more money than he needs, but when the University Extension movement reached the town he was interested. The prime movers in the enterprise went to him and asked him if he wouldn't help it along, dilating upon the benefits which would accrue to those whose education stopped short with graduation from the high-schools. It was most plausible. The notion that for ten cents a lecture the working masses could learn something about art, history, and letters, could gather in something about the sciences, and all that, appealed to him, and while he could afford it much more ill than the smart people, the four hundred of the town, he chipped in. He paid fifty dollars and was made an honorary manager. He was proud enough of it, too, and he wrote a long, enthusiastic letter to me about it. It was a great thing, and he hoped the State, which had been appealed to to help the movement along, would take a hand in it. 'If we educate the masses to understand and to appreciate the artistic, the beautiful,' he wrote, 'we need have little fear for the future. Ignorance is the greatest foe we have to contend against in our national development, and it is the only thing that can overthrow a nation such as ours is.' And then what happened? Professor Peterkin came along and delivered ten or a dozen lectures. The masses went once or twice and found the platform occupied by a man who talked to them about Romanticism and Realism; who told them that Dickens was trash; who exalted Tolstoi and Ibsen; but who never let them into the secret of what Romanticism was, and who kept them equally in the dark as to the significance of Realism. They also found the best seats in the lecture-hall occupied by the smart set in full evening-dress, who talked almost as much and as loudly as did Professor Peterkin. The masses did not even learn manners at Professor Peterkin's first and second lectures, and the third and fourth found them conspicuous by their absence. All they learned was that they were ignorant, and that other people were better than they, and what my father learned was that he had subscribed fifty dollars to promote a series of social functions for the diversion of the four hundred and the aggrandizement of Professor Peterkin. He started in for what might be called Romanticism, and he got a Realism that he did not like in less time than it takes to tell of it, and to-day in that town University Extension is such a fad that when, some weeks ago, the swell club of that place talked of appointing Thursday evening as its club night, it was found to be impossible, for the reason that it might interfere with the attendance upon the University Extension lectures. That, Mr. Pedagog, is a matter of history and can be proven, and last night's audience confirmed the impression which I had formed from what my father had told me. Professor Peterkin's lectures are interesting to you, a school-master, but they are pure Greek to me, who would like to know more about letters. I would gather more instruction from your table-talk in an hour than I could from Professor Peterkin's whole course." "You flatter me," said Mr. Pedagog. "No," returned the Idiot. "If you knew how little the ignorant gain from Peterkin you would not necessarily call it flattery if one should say he learned more from your conversation over a griddle-cake." "You misconceive the whole situation, I think, nevertheless," said Mr. Whitechoker. "As I understand it, supplementary lectures, and examinations based on them, are held after the lectures, when the practical instruction is given with great thoroughness." "I'm glad you spoke of that," said the Idiot. "I had forgotten that part of it. Professor Peterkin received pay for his lectures, which dealt in theories only; plain Mr. Barton, who delivered the supplementary lectures, got nothing. Professor Peterkin taught nothing, but he represented University Extension. Plain Mr. Barton did the work and represented nothing. Both reached society. Neither reached the masses. In my native town plain Mr. Barton's supplementary lectures, which were simply an effort to unravel the Peterkin complications, were attended by the same people in smaller crowds--people of social standing who were curious enough to devote an hour a week to an endeavor to find out the meaning of what Professor Peterkin had told them at the function the week before. The students examined were mostly ladies, and I happen to know that in a large proportion they were ladies whose husbands could have afforded to pay Professor Peterkin his salary ten times over as a private tutor." "As I look at it," said Mr. Pedagog, gravely, "it does not make much difference to whom your instruction is given, so long as it instructs. What if these lectures do interest those who are comparatively well off? Your society woman may be as much in need of an extended education as your factory girl. The University Extension idea is to convey knowledge to people who would not otherwise get it. It simply sets out to improve minds. If the social mind needs improvement, why not improve it? Why condemn a system because it does not discriminate in the minds selected for improvement?" "I don't condemn a system which sets out to improve minds irrespective of conditions," replied the Idiot. "But I should most assuredly condemn a man, or a set of men, who induced me to subscribe to a bread fund for the poor and who afterwards expended that money on cream-cakes for the Czar of Russia. The fact that the Czar of Russia wanted the cream-cakes and was willing to accept them would not affect my feelings in the matter, though I have no doubt the people in charge of the fund would find themselves far more conspicuous for having departed from the original idea. Some of them might be knighted for it if the Czar happened to be passionately fond of cream-cakes." "Then, having attacked this system, what would you have? Would you have University Extension stop?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Not at all," returned the Idiot. "Anything which can educate society is a good thing, but I should change the name of it from University Extension to Social Expansion, and I should compel those whose minds were broadened by it to pay the bills." "But as yet you have failed to hit the nail on the head," persisted the Bibliomaniac. "The masses can attend these lectures if they wish to, and on your own statement they don't. You don't seem to consider that point, or, if you do, you don't meet it." "I don't think it necessary to meet it," said the Idiot. "Though I will say that if you were one of the masses--a girl, say, with one dress, threadbare, poor, and ill-fitting, and possessed of a natural bit of pride--you would find little pleasure in attending a lecture your previous education does not permit of your comprehending, and sitting through an evening with a lot of finely dressed, smart folk, with their backs turned towards you. The plebeians have _some_ pride, my dear Bibliomaniac, and they are decidedly averse to mixing with the swells. They would like to be educated, but they don't care to be snubbed for the privilege of being mystified by a man like Professor Peterkin, even for so small a sum as ten cents an evening." VI Social Expansion "We were talking about University Extension the other day, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot, as the School-master folded up the newspaper and put it in his pocket, "and I, as you remember, suggested that it might better be called Social Expansion." "Did you?" said Mr. Pedagog, coldly. "I don't remember much about it. I rarely make a note of anything you may say." "Well, I did suggest the change of name, whether your memory is retentive or not, and I have been thinking the matter over a good deal since, and I think I've got hold of an idea," returned the Idiot. "In that case," said the Bibliomaniac, "we would better lock the door. If you have really got hold of an idea you should be very careful not to let it get away from you." "No danger of that," said the Idiot, with a smile. "I have it securely locked up here," tapping his forehead. "It must be lonesome," said Mr. Pedagog. "And rather uncomfortable--if it is a real idea," observed the Doctor. "An idea in the Idiot's mind must feel somewhat as a tall, stout Irish maid feels when she goes to her bedroom in one of those Harlem flat-houses." "You men are losing a great opportunity," said the Idiot, with a scornful glance at the three professional gentlemen. "The idea of your following the professions of pedagogy, medicine, and literature, when the three of you combined could make a fortune as an incarnate comic paper. I don't see why you don't make a combination like those German bands that play on the street corners, and go about from door to door, and crack your jokes just as they crack their music. I am sure you'd take, particularly in front of barber-shops." "It would be hard on the comic papers," said the Poet, who was getting a little unpopular with his fellow-boarders because of his tendency, recently developed, to take the Idiot's part in the breakfast-table discussions. "They might be so successful that the barber-shops, instead of taking the comic papers for their customers to read, would employ one or more of them to sit in the middle of the room and crack jokes aloud." "We couldn't rival the comic papers though," said the Doctor, wishing to save his dignity by taking the bull by the horns. "We might do the jokes well enough, but the comic papers are chiefly pictorial." "You'd be pictorial enough," said the Idiot. "Wasn't it you, Mr. Pedagog, that said the Doctor here looked like one of Cruikshank's physicians, or as if he had stepped out of Dickens's pages, or something like it?" "I never said anything of the sort!" cried the School-master, wrathfully; "and you know I didn't." "Who was it said that?" asked the Idiot, innocently, looking about the table. "It couldn't have been Mr. Whitechoker, and I know it wasn't the Poet or my Genial Friend who occasionally imbibes. Mr. Pedagog denies it; I didn't say it; Mrs. Pedagog wouldn't say it. That leaves only two of us--the Bibliomaniac and the Doctor himself. I don't think the Doctor would make a personal remark of that kind, and--well, there is but one conclusion. Mr. Bibliomaniac, I am surprised." "What?" roared the Bibliomaniac, glaring at the Idiot. "Do you mean to fasten the impertinence on me?" "Far from it," returned the Idiot, meekly. "Very far from it. It is fate, sir, that has done that--the circumstantial evidence against you is strong; but then, mercifully enough, circumstantial evidence is not permitted to hang a man." "Now see here, Mr. Idiot," said the Bibliomaniac, firmly and impressively, "I want you to distinctly understand that I am not going to have you put words into my mouth that I never uttered. I--" "Pray, don't attack me," said the Idiot. "I haven't made any charge against you. I only asked who could have said that the Doctor looked like a creation of Cruikshank. I couldn't have said it, because I don't think it. Mr. Pedagog denies it. In fact, every one here has a clear case of innocence excepting yourself, and I don't believe _you_ said it, only the chain of circumstance--" "Oh, hang your chain of circumstance!" interrupted the Bibliomaniac. "It is hung," said the Idiot, "and it appears to make you very uncomfortable. However, as I was saying, I think I have got hold of an idea involving a truly philanthropic and by no means selfish scheme of Social Expansion." "Heigho!" sighed Mr. Pedagog. "I sometimes think that if I had not the honor to be the husband of our landlady I'd move away from here. Your views, sir, are undermining my constitution." "You only think so, Mr. Pedagog," replied the Idiot. "You are simply going through a process of intellectual reconstruction at my hands. You feel exactly as a man feels who has been shut up in the dark for years and suddenly finds himself in a flood of sunlight. I am doing with you as an individual what I would have society do for mankind at large--in other words, while I am working for individual expansion upon the raw material I find here, I would have society buckle down to the enlargement of itself by the improvement of those outside of itself." "If you swim in water as well as you do in verbiage," said the Bibliomaniac, "you must be able to go three or four strokes without sinking." "Oh, as for that, I can swim like a duck," said the Idiot. "You can't sink me." "I fancied not," observed Mr. Pedagog, with a smile at his own joke. "You are so light I wonder, indeed, that you don't rise up into space, anyhow." "What a delightful condition of affairs that suggestion opens up!" said the Idiot, turning to the Poet. "If I were you I'd make a poem on that. Something like this, for instance: "I am so very, very light That gravitation curbs not me. I rise up through the atmosphere Till all the world I plainly see. "I dance about among the clouds, An airy, happy, human kite. The breezes toss me here and there, To my exceeding great delight. "And when I would return to sup, To breakfast, or perchance to dine, I haul myself once more to earth By tugging on a piece of twine." Mr. Pedagog grinned broadly at this. "You aren't entirely without your good points," he said. "If we ever accept your comic-paper idea we'll have to rely on you for the nonsense poetry." "Thank you," said the Idiot. "I'll help. If I had a man like you to give me the suggestions I could make a fortune out of poetry. The only trouble is I have to quarrel with you before I can get you to give me a suggestion, and I despise bickering." "So do I," returned Mr. Pedagog. "Let's give up bickering and turn our attention to--er--Social Extension, is it?" "Yes--or Social Expansion," said the Idiot. "Some years ago the world was startled to hear that in the city of New York there were not more than four hundred people who were entitled to social position, and, as I understand it, as time has progressed the number has still further diminished. Last year the number was only one hundred and fifty, and, as I read the social news of to-day, not more than twenty-five people are now beyond all question in the swim. At dinners, balls, functions of all sorts, you read the names of these same twenty-five over and over again as having been present. Apparently no others attended--or, if they did, they were not so indisputably entitled to be present that their names could be printed in the published accounts. Now all of this shows that society is dying out, and that if things keep on as they are now going it will not be many years before we shall become a people without society, a nation of plebeians." "Your statement so far is lucid and logical," said Mr. Pedagog, who did not admire society--so called--and who did not object to the goring of an ox in which he was not personally interested. "Well, why is this social contraction going on?" asked the Idiot. "Clearly because Social Expansion is not an accepted fact. If it were, society would grow. Why does it not grow? Why are its ranks not augmented? There is raw material enough. You would like to get into the swim; so would I. But we don't know how. We read books of etiquette, but they are far from being complete. I think I make no mistake when I say they are utterly valueless. They tell us no more than the funny journal tells us when it says: "'Never eat pease with a spoon; Never eat pie with a knife; Never put salt on a prune; Never throw crumbs at your wife.'" They tell most of us what we all knew before. They tell us not to wear our hats in the house; they tell us all the obvious things, but the subtleties of how to get into society they do not tell us. The comic papers give us some idea of how to behave in society. We know from reading the funny papers that a really swell young man always leans against a mantel-piece when he is calling; that the swell girl sits on a comfortable divan with her feet on a tiger-skin rug, and they converse in epigram. Sometimes the epigram is positively rude; when it is not rude it is so dull that no one wonders that the tiger's head on the rug represents the tiger as yawning. But, while this is instructive, it teaches us how to behave on special occasions only. You or I might call upon a young woman who did not sit on a divan, who had no tiger-skin rug to put her feet on, and whose parlor had a mantel-piece against which we could not lean comfortably. What are we to do then? As far as they go, the funny papers are excellent, but they don't go far enough. They give us attractive pictures of fashionable dinners, but it is always of the dinner after the game course. Some of us would like to know how society behaves while the soup is being served. We know that after the game course society girls reach across the table and clink wine-glasses with young men, but we do not know what they do before they get to the clink stage. Nowhere is this information given. Etiquette books are silent on the subject, and though I have sought everywhere for information, I do not know to this day how many salted almonds one may consume at dinner without embarrassing one's hostess. Now, if I can't find out, the million can't find out. Wherefore, instead of shutting themselves selfishly up and, by so doing, forcing society finally into dissolution, why cannot some of these people who know what is what give object-lessons to the million; educate them in _savoir-faire_? "Last summer there was a play put on at one of our theatres in which there was a scene at a race-track. At one side was a tally-ho coach. For the first week the coach was an utterly valueless accessory, because the people on it were the ordinary supers in the employ of the theatre. They did not know how to behave on a coach, and nobody was interested. The management were suddenly seized with a bright idea. They invited several swell young men who knew how things were done on coaches to come and do these things on their coach. The young men came and imparted a realism to the scene that made that coach the centre of attraction. People who went to that play departed educated in coach etiquette. Now there lies my scheme in a nutshell. If these twenty-five, the Old Guard of society, which dines but never surrenders, will give once a week a social function in some place like Madison Square Garden, to which the million may go merely as spectators, not as participators, is there any doubt that they would fail to be instructed? The Garden will seat eight or ten thousand people. Suppose, for an instance, that a dozen of your best exponents of what is what were to give a dinner in the middle of the arena, with ten thousand people looking on. Do you mean to say that of all that vast audience no one would learn thereby how to behave at a dinner?" "It is a great scheme," said the Doctor. "It is!" said the Idiot, "and I venture to say that a course of, say, twelve social functions given in that way would prove so popular that the Garden would turn away every night twice as many people as it could accommodate." "It would be instructive, no doubt," said the Bibliomaniac; "but how would it expand society? Would you have examinations?" "Most assuredly," said the Idiot. "At the end of the season I should have a rigid examination of all who chose to apply. I would make them dine in the presence of a committee of expert diners, I would have them pass a searching examination in the Art of Wearing a Dress Suit, in the Science of Entering a Drawing-room, in the Art of Behavior at Afternoon Teas, and all the men who applied should also be compelled to pass a physical examination as an assurance that they were equal to the task of getting an ice for a young lady at a ball." "Society would get to be too inclusive and would cease to be exclusive," suggested Mr. Whitechoker. "I think not," said the Idiot. "I should not give a man or a woman the degree of B.S. unless he or she had passed an examination of one hundred per cent." "B.S.?" queried Mr. Pedagog. "Yes," returned the Idiot. "Bachelor of Society--a degree which, once earned, should entitle one to recognition as a member of the upper ten anywhere in Christendom." "It is superb!" cried Mr. Pedagog, enthusiastically. "Yes," said the Idiot. "At ten cents a function it would beat University Extension out of sight, and, further, it would preserve society. If we lose society we lose caste, and, worse than all, our funny men would have to go out of business, for there would be no fads or Willieboys left to ridicule." VII A Beggar's Hand-book "Mr. Idiot," said the Poet one morning, as the waffles were served, "you are an inventive genius. Why don't you invent an easy way to make a fortune? The trouble with most methods of making money is that they involve too much labor." "I have thought of that," said the Idiot. "And yet the great fortunes have been made in a way which involved very little labor, comparatively speaking. You, for instance, probably work harder over a yard of poetry that brings you in ten dollars than any of our great railroad magnates have over a mile of railroad which has brought them in a million." "Which simply proves that it is ideas that count rather than labor," said the Poet. "Not exactly," said the Idiot. "If you put a hundred ideas into a quatrain you will get less money for it than you would for a two-volume epic in which you have possibly only half an idea. It isn't idea so much as nerve that counts. The man who builds railroads doesn't advance any particular idea, but he shows lots of nerve, and it is nerve that makes wealth. I believe that if you literary men would show more nerve force and spare the public the infliction of what you call your ideas, you would make more money." "How would you show nerve in writing?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "If I knew I'd write and make my fortune," said the Idiot. "Unfortunately, I don't know how one can show nerve in writing, unless it be in taking hold of some particularly popular idiosyncrasy of mankind and treating it so contemptuously that every one would want to mob you. If you could get the public mad enough at you to want to mob you they'd read everything you'd write, simply to nourish their wrath, and you'd soon be cutting coupons for a living, and could then afford to take up more ideas--coupon-cutters can afford theories. For my own part, one reason why I do not myself take up literature for a profession is that I have neither the nerve nor the coupons. I'd probably run along in the rut like a majority of the writers of to-day, and wouldn't have the grit to strike out in a new line of my own. Men say, and perhaps very properly, this is the thing that has succeeded in the past. I'll do this. Something else that appears alluring enough in the abstract has never been done, and for that reason I won't do it. There have been clever men before me, men clever enough to think of this something that I fondly imagine is original, and they haven't done it. Doubtless they refrained from doing it for good and sufficient reasons, and I am not going to be fool enough to set my judgment up against theirs. In other words, I lack the nerve to go ahead and write as I feel. I prefer to study past successes, with the result that I am moderately successful only. It's the same way in every line of business. Precedent guides in all things, but where occasionally you find a man courageous enough to cast precedent to the winds, one of two things happens. Either fortune or ruin follows. Hence, the thing to do if you want to make a fortune is to eliminate the possibility of ruin as far as may be. You cannot ruin a man who has nothing. He is down on bed-rock, anyhow; so for a receipt for fortune I should say, start a pauper, show your nerve, and you'll make a pile, or you won't make a pile. If you make it you are fortunate. If you fail to make it you are no more unfortunate than you were before you started." "For plausibility, Mr. Idiot," said Mr. Pedagog, "you are to me a perfect wonder. I do not think that any one can deny, with confidence born of certainty, the truth of your premises, and it must be admitted that your conclusions are based properly upon those premises, and yet your conclusions are almost invariably utterly absurd, if not absolutely grotesque. Here is a man who says, to make a fortune become a beggar!" "Precisely," said the Idiot. "There is nothing like having a clean slate to work on. If you are not a beggar you have something, and having something promotes caution and tends to destroy nerve. As a beggar you have everything to gain and nothing to lose, so you can plunge. You can swim better in deep water than in the shallow." "Well," said the Doctor, "enlighten us on this point. You may not know how to show nerve as a writer--in fact, you confess that you don't. How would you show nerve as a beggar? Would you strive to enforce your demands and degenerate into a common highwayman, or would you simply go in for big profits, and ask passers-by for ten dollars instead of ten cents?" "He'd probably take a bag of dynamite into a millionaire's office and threaten to blow him to pieces if he didn't give him a house and lot," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "Not at all," said the Idiot. "That's cowardice, not nerve. If I went into a millionaire's office and demanded a million--or a house and lot even--armed with a bag full of newspapers, pretending it held dynamite, it might be more like nerve; but my beggar would do nothing contrary to the law. He'd simply be nervy, that's all--cheeky, perhaps you'd call it. For instance, I believe that if I were to hire in the elevated cars one of those advertising spaces above the windows, and were to place in that space a placard saying that I was by nature too lazy to work, too fond of life to starve, too poor to live, and too honest to steal, and would be placed in affluence if every man and woman who saw that sign would send me ten cents a week in two-cent postage-stamps for five weeks running, I should receive enough money to enable me to live at the most expensive hotel in town during that period. By living at that hotel and paying my bills regularly I could get credit enough to set myself up in business, and with credit there is practically no limit to the possibilities of fortune. It is simply honest nerve that counts. The beggar who asks you on the street for five cents to keep his family from starving is rebuffed. You don't believe his story, and you know that five cents wouldn't keep a family from starving very long. But the fellow who accosts you frankly for a dime because he is thirsty, and hasn't had a drink for two hours, in nine cases out of ten properly selected ones will get a quarter for his nerve." "You ought to write a _Manual for Beggars_," said the Bibliomaniac. "I have no doubt that the Idiot Publishing Company would publish it." "Yes," said Mr. Pedagog. "A sort of beggar's _Don't_, for instance. It would be a benefit to all men, as well as a boon to the beggars. That mendicancy is a profession to-day there is no denying, and anything which could make of it a polite calling would be of inestimable value." "I have had it in mind for some time," said the Idiot, blandly. "I intended to call it _Mendicancy Made Easy_, or _the Beggar's Don't: With Two Chapters on Etiquette for Tramps_." "The chief trouble with such a book I should think," said the Poet, "would be that your beggars and tramps could not afford to buy it." "That wouldn't interfere with its circulation," returned the Idiot. "It's a poor tramp who can't steal. Every suburban resident in creation would buy a copy of the book out of sheer curiosity. I'd get my royalties from them; the tramps could get the books by helping themselves to the suburbanites' copies as they do to chickens, fire-wood, and pies put out to cool. As for the beggars, I'd have it put into their hands by the people they beg from. When a man comes up to a wayfarer, for instance, and says, 'Excuse me, sir, but could you spare a nickel to a hungry man?' I'd have the wayfarer say, 'Excuse _me_, sir, but unfortunately I have left my nickels in my other vest; but here is a copy of the Idiot's _Mendicancy Made Easy, or the Beggar's Don't_.'" "And you think the beggar would read it, do you?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "I don't know whether he would or not. He'd probably either read it or pawn it," the Idiot answered. "In either event he would be better off, and I would have got my ten per cent. royalty on the book. After the _Beggars' Manual_ I should continue my good work if I found the class for whom it was written had benefited by my first effort. I should compile as my contribution to the literature of mendicancy for the following season what I should call _The Beggar's �lite Directory_. This would enlarge my sphere a trifle. It would contain as complete lists as could be obtained of persons who give to street beggars, with their addresses, so that the beggars, instead of infesting the streets at night might go to the houses of these people and collect their incomes in a more business-like and less undignified fashion. Added to this would be two lists, one for tramps, stating what families in the suburbs kept dogs, what families gave, whether what they gave was digestible or not, rounding up with a list of those who do not give, and who have telephone connection with the police station. This would enable them to avoid dogs and rebuffs, would save the tramp the time he expends on futile efforts to find work he doesn't want, and as for the people who have to keep the dogs to ward off the tramps, they, too, would be benefited, because the tramps would begin to avoid them, and in a short while they would be able to dispense with the dogs. The other list would be for organ-grinders, who are, after all, only beggars of a different type. This list would comprise the names of persons who are musical and who would rather pay a quarter than listen to a hand-organ. By a judicious arrangement with these people, carried on by correspondence, the organ-grinder would be able to collect a large revenue without venturing out, except occasionally to play before the house of a delinquent subscriber in order to remind him that he had let his contract expire. So, by slow degrees, we should find beggars doing their work privately and not publicly, tramps circulating only among those whose sympathies they have aroused, and organ-grinding only a memory." "The last, I think, would not come about," said Mr. Pedagog. "For there are people who like the music of hand-organs." "True--I'm one of 'em. I'd hire a hansom to follow a piano-organ about the city if I could afford it, but as a rule the hand-organ lovers are of the one-cent class," returned the Idiot. "The quarter class are people who would rather not hear the hand-organ, and it is to them that a grinder of business capacity would naturally address himself. It is far pleasanter to stay at home and be paid large money for doing nothing than to undertake a weary march through the city to receive small sums for doing something. That's human nature, Mr. Pedagog." "I presume it is," said Mr. Pedagog; "but I don't think your scheme is. Human nature works, but your plan wouldn't." "Well, of course," said the Idiot, "you never can tell about ideals. The fact that an ideal is ideal is the chief argument against its amounting to much. But I am confident that if my _Beggar's Don't_ and _�lite Directory_ fail, my other book will go." "You appear to have the writing of a library in mind," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "I have," said the Idiot. "If I write all the books I have in mind, the public library will be a small affair beside mine." "And your other book is to be what?" queried Mr. Whitechoker. "_Plausible Tales for Beggars to Tell_," said the Idiot. "If the beggar could only tell an interesting story he'd be surer of an ear in which to whisper it. The usual beggar's tale is commonplace. There's no art in it. There are no complications of absorbing interest. There is not a soul in creation, I venture to say, but would be willing to have a beggar stop right in the middle of his story. The tales I'd write for them would be so interesting that the attention of the wayfarer would be arrested at once. His mind would be riveted on the situation at once, and, instead of hurrying along and trying to leave the beggar behind, he would stop, button-hole him, and ask him to sit down on a convenient doorstep and continue. If a beggar could have such a story to tell as would enable him in the midst of one of its most exciting episodes to whisper hoarsely into the ear of the man whose nickel he was seeking, 'The rest of this interesting story I will tell you in Central Park at nine o'clock to-morrow night,' in such a manner as would impel the listener to meet him in the Park the following evening, his fortune would be made. Such a book I hope some day to write." "I have no doubt," said Mr. Whitechoker, "that it will be an entertaining addition to fiction." "Nor have I," said the Idiot. "It will make the writers of to-day green with envy, and, as for the beggars, if it is not generally known that it is I and not they who are responsible for the work, the beggars will shortly find themselves in demand as writers of fiction for the magazines." "And you?" suggested the Poet. "I shall be content. Mere gratitude will force the beggars to send me the magazine orders, and _I'll_ write their articles and be glad of the opportunity, giving them ten per cent. of the profits. I know a man who makes fifty dollars a year at magazine work, and one of my ambitions is to rival the Banker-Poets and Dry Goods Essayists by achieving fame as the Boarding-house Dickens." VIII Progressive Waffles "I am afraid," said Mr. Pedagog, in a loud whisper to the Bibliomaniac, "that the Idiot isn't feeling well this morning. He has eaten three fish-cakes and a waffle without opening his mouth." The Idiot looked up, and, gazing wearily at Mr. Pedagog for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and ejaculated, "Tutt!" "He's off," said the Bibliomaniac. "Whenever he says 'Tutt!' you can make up your mind that his vocabulary is about to be loosed." "If my vocabulary were as warped as some other vocabularies I might mention," said the Idiot, helping himself to another waffle modelled after the six of hearts, "I'd keep it in a cage. A man who observes that I have eaten three fish-cakes and a waffle without opening my mouth hasn't a very good command of language. He simply states as a fact what is in reality an impossibility, granting that I eat with my mouth, which I am told I do." "You know what I mean," retorted Mr. Pedagog, impatiently. "I am so much in your society that I have acquired the very bad habit of speaking in the vernacular. When I say you haven't opened your mouth I do not refer to the opening you make for the receipt of waffles and fish-cakes, but for those massive openings which you require for your exuberant loquacity. In other words, I mean that you haven't spoken a word for at least three minutes, which is naturally an indication to us that you aren't feeling well. You and talk are synonymous as far as we are concerned." "I _have_ been known to speak--that is true," said the Idiot. "That I am not feeling very well this morning is also true. I have a headache." "A what ache?" asked the Doctor, scornfully. "A very bad headache," returned the Idiot, looking about him for a third waffle. "How singular!" said the Bibliomaniac. "Reminds me of a story I heard of a man who had lost his foot. He'd had his foot shot off at Gettysburg, and yet for years after he could feel the pangs of rheumatism in that foot from which he had previously suffered." "Pardon me for repeating," observed the Idiot. "But, as I have already said, and as I expect often to have to say again, Tutt! I can't blame you for thinking that I have no head, however. I find so little use for one here that in most instances I do not obtrude it upon you." "I haven't noticed any lack of head in the Idiot," put in the School-master. "As a rule, I can agree to almost anything my friend the Bibliomaniac says, but in this case I cannot accept his views. You have a head. I have always said you had a head--in fact, that is what I complain about chiefly, it is such a big head." "Thank you," said the Idiot, ignoring the shaft. "I shall never forget your kindness in coming to my aid, though I can't say that I think I needed it. Even with a racking headache sustained by these delicious waffles, I believe I can handle the Doctor and my bookish friend without assistance. I am what the mathematicians would call an arithmetical absurdity--I am the one that is equal to the two they represent. At present, however, I prefer to let them talk on. I am too much absorbed in thought and waffles to bandy words." "If I had a headache," said Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog, without, it must be said, in any way desiring to stem the waffle tide which was slowly but surely eating into the profits of the week--"if I had a headache I should not eat so many waffles, Mr. Idiot." "I suppose I ought not to," replied the Idiot, "but I can't help it, ma'am. Waffles are my weakness. Some men take to drink, some to gaming; I seek forgetfulness of woe in waffles. Mr. Whitechoker, will you kindly pass me that steaming ten of diamonds that is wasting its warmth upon the desert air before you?" Mr. Whitechoker, with a sigh which indicated that he had had his eye on the ten of diamonds himself, did as he was requested. "Many thanks," said the Idiot, transferring the waffle to his plate. "Let me see--that is how many?" "Five," said Mr. Pedagog. "Eight," said the Bibliomaniac. "Dear me!" ejaculated the Idiot. "Why can't you agree? I never eat less than twelve waffles, and now that you have failed to keep tab I shall have to begin all over again. Mary, bring me one dozen fresh waffles in squads of four. This is an ideal breakfast, Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog." "I am glad you are pleased," said the landlady, graciously. "My one aim is to satisfy." "You are a better shot than most women," said the Idiot. "I wonder why it is," he added, "that waffles are so generally modelled after playing-cards, and also why, having been modelled after playing-cards, there is not a full pack?" "Fifty-two waffles," said Mr. Whitechoker, "would be too many." "Fifty-three, including the joker," said Mr. Pedagog. "What do _you_ know about cards, John?" asked Mrs. Pedagog, severely. The Idiot laughed. "Did you ever hear that pretty little song of Gilbert and Sullivan's, Mr. Poet, 'Things are seldom what they seem'?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I know about playing-cards?" said Mr. Pedagog, acridly. "Mr. Whitechoker seems to be aware that a pack holds fifty-two cards--if he, why not I?" "I--ah--I of course have to acquaint myself with many vicious things with which I have very little sympathy," observed Mr. Whitechoker, blandly. "I regard cards as an abomination." "So do I," said Mr. Pedagog--"so do I. But even then I know a full house--I should say a full pack from a--er--a--er--" "Bob-tail flush," suggested the Idiot. "Sir," said Mr. Pedagog, "I am not well up in poker terms." "Then you ought to play," said the Idiot. "The man who doesn't know the game has usually great luck. But I am sorry, Mrs. Pedagog, that you are so strongly opposed to cards, for I was going to make a suggestion which I think would promote harmony in our little circle on waffle days. If you regard cards as wholly immoral, of course the suggestion is without value, since it involves two complete packs of cards--one cardboard pack and one waffle pack." "I don't object to cards as cards, Mr. Idiot," said the landlady. "It is the games people play with cards that I object to. They bring a great deal of unnecessary misery into the world, and for that reason I think it is better to avoid them altogether." "That is quite true," said the Idiot. "They do bring about much unhappiness. I know a young woman who became a victim of insomnia once because in a series of ten games of old maid she got the odd card seven times. Of course it wasn't entirely the cards' fault. Superstition had something to do with it. In fact, I sometimes think the fault lies with the people who play, and not with the cards. I owe much to the game of whist. It taught me to control my tongue. I should have been a regular talk-fiend if it hadn't been for whist." Mr. Pedagog looked unutterable things at the Idiot. "Are you laboring under the delusion that you have any control over your tongue?" he asked, savagely. "Most certainly," said the Idiot. "Well, I'll have to make a note of that," said Mr. Pedagog. "I have a friend who is making a collection of hallucinations." "If you'll give me his address," said the Idiot, "I'll send him thousands. For five dollars a dozen I'll invent hallucinations for him that people ought to have but haven't." "No," returned the School-master. "In his behalf, however, I thank you. He collects only real hallucinations, and he finds there are plenty of them without retaining a professional lunatic to supply him." "Very well," said the Idiot, returning to his waffles. "If at any time he finds the supply running short, I shall be glad to renew my offer." "You haven't unfolded your Harmony Promoting Scheme for Waffle Days," suggested the Poet. "It has aroused my interest." "Oh, it is simple," said the Idiot. "I have noticed that on waffle days here most of us leave the table more or less dissatisfied. We find ourselves plunged into acrimonious discussions, which, to my mind, arise entirely from the waffles. Mr. Pedagog is a most amiable gentleman, and yet we find him this morning full of acerbity. On the surface of things I seem to be the cause of his anger, but in reality it is not I, but the waffles. He has seen me gradually absorbing them and it has irritated him. Every waffle that I eat _he_ might have had if I had not been here. If there had been no one here but Mr. Pedagog, he would have had all the waffles; as it is, his supply is limited. This affects his geniality. It makes him--" "Pardon me," said Mr. Pedagog. "But you are all wrong. I haven't thought of the things at all." "Consciously to yourself you have not," said the Idiot. "Subconsciously, however, you have. The Philosophy of the Unconscious teaches us that unknown to ourselves our actions are directly traceable to motives we wot not of. The truth of this is conclusively proven in this case. Even when I point out to you the facts in the case you deny their truth, thereby showing that you are not conscious of the real underlying motive for your irritation. Now, why is that irritation there? Because our several rights to the individual waffles that are served here are not clearly defined at the outset. When Mary brings in a steaming platter full of these delicious creations of the cook, Mr. Pedagog has quite as much right to the one with the six of hearts on it as I have, but I get it. He does not. Hence he is irritated, although he does not know it. So with Mr. Whitechoker. Five minutes ago he was hastening through the four of spades in order that he might come into possession of the ten of diamonds that lay smoking before him. As he was about to put the last spade in his mouth I requested him to hand me the ten of diamonds, having myself gulped down the deuce of clubs to get ahead of him. He couldn't decline to give me that waffle because he wanted it himself. He had to give it to me. He was irritated--though he did not know it. He sighed and gave me the waffle." "I did want it," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But I did not know that I sighed." "There you are," said the Idiot. "It is the Philosophy of the Unconscious again. If you are not conscious of so actual a thing as a sigh, how much the more unconscious must you be of something so subtle as motive?" "And your waffle-deck?" said the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibes. "How will that solve the problem? It seems to me to complicate the problem. As it is, we have about thirty waffles, each one of which is a germ of irritation in the breast of the man who _doesn't_ eat it. If you have fifty-two waffles you have twenty-two more germs to sow discord in our midst." "You would have but for my scheme," said the Idiot. "I'd have a pack of cards at the table, and I'd deal them out just as you do in whist. Each card would represent the corresponding waffle. We'd begin breakfast by playing one hand after the manner of whist. Each man would keep his tricks, and when the waffles were served he would receive those, and those only, represented by the cards in the tricks he had taken. If you took a trick with the king of diamonds in it, you'd get the waffle with the king of diamonds on it, and so on. Every man would be clearly entitled through his skill in the game to the waffles that he ate." "Very good," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But suppose you had bad luck and took no tricks?" "Then," said the Idiot, "you'd have bad luck and get no waffles." "Tutt!" said Mr. Pedagog. And that was the sole criticism any of the boarders had to make, although there is reason to believe that the scheme had objectionable features to the majority of them, for as yet Progressive Waffles has not been played at Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's. IX A Clearing-house for Poets "How is your Muse these days, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Bibliomaniac one Sunday morning while the mush was being served. "Flourishing," said the Idiot. "Just flourishing--and no more." "I should think you'd be pleased if she is flourishing," said the Doctor. "I'd rather she'd stop flourishing and do a little writing," said the Idiot. "She's a queer Muse, that one of mine. She has all the airs and graces of an ordinary type-writer with an unconquerable aversion to work." "You look upon your Muse as you would upon your type-writer, eh?" said Mr. Pedagog. "Yes," said the Idiot. "That's all my Muse is, and she isn't even a capable type-writer. The general run of type-writers make sense of what you write, but my Muse won't. You may not believe it, but out of ten inspirations I had last week not one of them is fit for publication anywhere but in a magazine or a puzzle column. I don't know what is the matter with her, but when I sit down to dictate a comic sonnet she turns it into a serious jingle, and _vice versa_. We can't seem to get our moods to fit. When I want to be serious she's flippant, and when I become flippant she's serious." "She must be very serious most of the time," said the Doctor. "She is," said the Idiot, innocently. "But that's only because I'm flippant most of the time. I'm going to give her warning. If she doesn't brace up and take more interest in her work I'm going to get another Muse, that's all. I can't afford to have my income cut down fifty per cent. just because she happens to be fickle." "Maybe she is flirting with somebody else," suggested the Poet. "My Muse does that occasionally." "I doubt it," said the Idiot. "I haven't observed any other poet encroaching upon my particular province. Even you, good as you are, can't do it. But in any event I'm going to have a change. The day has gone by when a one-muse poet achieves greatness. I'm going to employ a half-dozen and try to corner the poetry market. Queer that in all these years that men have been writing poetry no one has thought of that. People get up grain corners, corners in railway stock, monopolies in gas and oil and everything else, about, but as yet no poet has cornered the market in his business." "That's easily accounted for," said the Bibliomaniac. "The poet controls only his own work, and if he has any sense he doesn't want to monopolize that." "That isn't my scheme at all," said the Idiot. "You have a monopoly of your own work always if you choose to avail yourself of it, and, as you say, a man would be crazy to do so. What I'd like to see established is a sort of Poetic Clearing-house Association. Supposing, for instance, that I opened an office in Wall Street--a Bank for Poets, in which all writers of verse could deposit their rhymes as they write them, and draw against them just as they do in ordinary banks with their money. It would be fine. Take a man like Swinburne, for instance, or our friend here. Our poet could take a sonnet he had written, endorse it, and put it in the bank. He'd be credited with one sonnet, and wouldn't have to bother his head about it afterwards. He could draw against it. If the Clearing-house company could dispose of it to a magazine his draft would be honored in cash to its full value, less discount charges, which would include postage and commissions to the company." "And suppose the company failed to dispose of it?" suggested the Poet. "They'd do just as ordinary banks do with checks--stamp it 'Not Good,'" said the Idiot. "That, however, wouldn't happen very often if the concern had an intelligent receiving-teller to detect counterfeits. If the receiving-teller were a man fit for the position and a poet brought in a quatrain with five lines in it, he could detect it at once and hand it back. So with comic poems. I might go there with a poem I thought was comic, and proceed to deposit it with the usual deposit slip. The teller would look at it a second, scrutinize the humor carefully, and then if it was not what I thought it, would stamp it 'Not Comic' or 'Counterfeit.' It is perfectly simple." "Very simple," said Mr. Pedagog. "Though I should have used a synonym of simple to describe it. It's idiotic." "That's what people said of Columbus's idea that he could discover America," said the Idiot. "Everything that doesn't have dollars slathered all over it in plain view is idiotic." "The word slathered is new to me," said the School-master; "but I fancy I know what you mean." "The word slathered may be new to you," said the Idiot, "but it is a good word. I have used it with great effect several times. Whenever any one asks me that foolish question that is asked so often, 'What is the good word?' I always reply 'Slathered,' and the what's-the-good-word fiend goes off hurt in his mind. He doesn't know what I mean any more than I do, but it shuts him up completely, which is just so much gained." "I must confess," said the Poet, "that I cannot myself see where there is any money for your Rhyme Clearing-house. Ordinarily I quite approve of your schemes, but in this instance I go over to the enemy." "I don't say that it is a gold-mine," said the Idiot. "I doubt if I had every cent that is paid for poetry in a year by everybody to everybody that my income would reach one hundredth part of what I'd receive as a successful manufacturer of soap; but there would be more money in poetry than there is if by some pooling of our issues we could corner the market. Suppose every writer of a quatrain in America should send his whole product to us. We could say to the magazines, 'Gentlemen, quatrains are not quatraining as hard as they were. If you need a four-line bit of gloom and rhyme to finish off your thirty-second page, our price is twenty-five dollars instead of seventy-five cents, as of yore.' So with all other kinds of verse. We'd simply name our figure, force the editors to accept it, and unload. We might get caught on the last thirty or forty thousand, but our profits on the others would enable us to more than meet the losses." "And would you pay the author the twenty-five dollars?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "Not if we were sane," replied the Idiot. "We'd pay the author two dollars and fifty cents, which is one dollar and seventy-five cents more than he gets now. _He_ couldn't complain." "And those that you couldn't sell?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "We'd simply mark 'Not Good' and return to the author. That's what happens to him now, so no objection could be raised to that. But there's still another side to this matter," said the Idiot. "Publishers would be quite as anxious to help it along as the poets. Dealing through us, they would be spared the necessity of interviewing poets, which I am informed is always painful because of the necessity which publishers labor under to give the poet to understand that they are in the business for profit, not for pleasure or mere love of sinking money in a magazine. So the publishers would keep a standing account of hard cash in our bank. Say a magazine used one hundred dollars' worth of verse in a month. The publisher at the beginning of the year would deposit twelve hundred dollars with us, and throughout the year would draw out sonnets, ballads, or pastels-in-metre just as he needed them. The checks would read something like this: 'The Poets' Clearing-house Association of the City of New York will pay to John Bluepencil, Editor, or Order, Ten Sonnets. (Signed) Blank Brothers & Co.' Or perhaps we'd receive a notice from a Southern publisher to this effect: 'Have drawn on you at sight for eight quatrains and a triolet.' Now, when you consider how many publishers there are who would always keep a cash balance in the treasury, you begin to get some notion as to how we could meet our running expenses and pay our quarterly dividends to our stockholders anyhow; and as for future dividends, I believe our loan department would net us a sufficient amount to make the stock gilt-edged." "You would have a loan department, eh?" said Mr. Pedagog. "That would be popular," said the Poet; "but there again I dispute the profit. You could find plenty of poets who would borrow your funds, but I doubt the security of the loans." "All of your objections are based on misconceptions," said the Idiot. "The loan department would not lend money. It would lend poems for a consideration to those who are short and who need them to fulfil their obligations." "Who on earth would want to borrow a poem, I'd like to know?" said the Bibliomaniac. "Lovers, chiefly," said the Idiot. "Never having been a poet yourself, sir, you have no notion how far the mere faculty of being able to dash off a sonnet to a lady's eyebrow helps a man along in ultimately becoming the possessor of that eyebrow, together with the rest of the lady. _I_ have seen women won, sir, by a rondeau. In fact, I have myself completely routed countless unpoetic rivals by exploding in their ranks burning quatrains to the fair objects of our affections. With woman the man who can write a hymn of thanksgiving that he is permitted to gaze into her cerulean orbs has a great advantage over the wight who has to tell her she has dandy blue eyes in commonplace prose. The commonplace-prose wight knows it, too, and he'd pay ten per cent. of his salary during courtship if he could devise a plan by means of which he could pass himself off as a poet. To meet this demand, our loan department would be established. An unimaginative lover could come in and describe the woman he adored; the loan clerk would fish out a sonnet to fit the girl, and the lover could borrow it for ten days, just as brokers borrow stock. Armed with this he could go up to Harlem, or wherever else the maiden lived, and carry consternation into the hearts of his rivals by spouting the sonnet as nonchalantly as though he had just thought of it. So it would go on. For the following call he could borrow a ballad singing the glories of her raven locks, likening them to the beautiful night, or, if the locks were red instead of black, to the aurora borealis." "You'd have trouble finding a rhyme to borealis," said the Poet. "Tutt!" said the Idiot. "What's the matter with 'Glory, Alice,' 'Listen to my story, Alice,' 'I'm going to war so gory, Alice,' 'I fear you are a Tory, Alice' (this for a Revolutionary poem), or 'Come rowing in my dory, Alice'? There's no end to 'em." "If you'll write a rhyming dictionary I'll buy a copy," was the Poet's sole comment. "That will come later," said the Idiot. "Once get our clearing-house established, we can branch out into a general Poetry Trust and Supply Company that will make millions. We'll make so much money, by Jove!" he added, slapping the table enthusiastically, "that we can afford to go into the publishing business ourselves and bring out volumes of verse for anybody and everybody. We can deal in Fame! A man that couldn't write his own name so that anybody could read it could come to us and say: 'Gentlemen, I've got everything but brains. I want to be an author and 'mongst the authors stand. I am told it is delightful to see one's book in print. I haven't a book, but I've got a dollar or two, and if you'll put out a first-class book of poems under my name I'll pay all expenses and give you a royalty of twenty per cent. on every copy I give away!' No money in it? Bah! You gentlemen don't know. If you say fortune would not wait upon this venture _I_ say you are the kind of men who would sell government bonds for their value as mere engravings if you had the chance." "You certainly do draw a roseate picture," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I do indeed," said the Idiot, "and the paint is laid on thick." "Well, I hope it goes," said the Poet. "I'll make a deposit the first day of three hundred and sixty-seven ballads, four hundred and twenty-three couplets, eighty-nine rondeaus, and one epic about ten yards in length, all of which I have in my desk at this moment." "Very well," said the Idiot, rising, "With that encouragement from you I feel warranted in ordering the 'Not Good' stamp at least." X Some Electrical Suggestions "If I were beginning life all over again," said the Idiot, "I'd be an electrician. It seems to me that of all modern pursuits, barring architecture perhaps, electricity is the most fascinating." "There's probably more money in it than there is in Idiocy, too, I fancy," said the Bibliomaniac, dryly. "Well, I should think so," assented the Idiot. "Idiocy is merely an intellectual diversion. Electricity is a practical science. Idiocy cannot be said to be anything more than a luxury, while electricity has become a necessity. I do not even claim that any real lasting benefit can come to the world through Idiocy, but in electricity are possibilities, not yet realized, for which the world will be distinctly better and happier." "It is kind of you to speak so highly of electricity," said the Doctor. "The science may now advance, knowing that you approve." "Approve?" cried the Idiot. "Approve is not the word, sir. I enthuse--and why should I not, feeling, as I do, that in the electrical current lies the germ of the Elixir of Life! I thoroughly believe that a bottle of liquefied electricity would make us all young." "Then don't take it!" said the School-master. "You have suffered from an aggravated case of youngness for as long a time as I have known you. Pray do nothing to intensify your youth." "I fear I shall be forced to deny myself that pleasure, Mr. Pedagog," returned the Idiot, mildly, "for the unhappy reason that as yet the formula for the Electrical Elixir has not been discovered; that it will be discovered before I die I hope and pray, because, unlike the man in the hymn, I would live always. I'd like to be an immortal." "An immortal Idiot! Think of it!" said the Doctor. "I didn't expect much sympathy from you, Dr. Capsule," said the Idiot. "The man with car-horses to sell does not dote upon the trolley-car." "The application of the allegory is not entirely apparent," said the Doctor. "No?" said the Idiot. "I am surprised. I thought you intellectuals absorbed ideas more quickly. To deal in plain terms, since it appears to be necessary, a plan which involves the indefinite extension of mortal life and the elimination of bodily ills is not likely to receive the hearty endorsement of the medical profession. If a man could come home on a stormy night and offset the deleterious effects of wet feet by swallowing an electric pill, one containing two volts, like a two-grain quinine pill, for instance, with greater certainty than one feels in taking quinine, your profession would have to put up the shutters and go into some such business as writing articles on 'Measles as It Used to Be,' or 'Disorders of the Ante-Electrical Period.' The fine part of it all is that we should not have to rely for our medicines upon the state of the arsenic market, or the quinine supply, or the squill product of the year. Electric sparks can be made without number whether the sun shines or not. The failure of the Peruvian Bark Crop, or the destruction by an early frost of the Castor Oil Wells, would cease to be a hideous possibility to delicate natures. They could all fail for all mankind need fear, for electricity can be generated when and wherever one has need of it. If your electric pills were used up, and the chemist too far away from your house for you to get the supply replenished at the moment, you could put on your slippers and by walking up and down your carpeted floor for ten or fifteen minutes generate enough electricity to see you through. Of course you'd have to have a pair of dynamic-storage-reservoir slippers to catch the sparks as they flew, but I fancy they'd be less costly in the long run than the medicines we have to-day." "Why have wet feet at all if electricity is to be so all-powerful?" suggested Mr. Whitechoker. "Why not devise an electrical foot-protector and ward off all possibility of damp, cold feet?" "You couldn't do that with men and women constituted as they are," said the Idiot. "Your foot-protector would no doubt be a good thing, but so are rubber overshoes. Nothing will ever be patented to compel a man to keep his feet dry, and he won't do it except under compulsion, but once having his feet wet he will seek the remedy. It's the Elixir of Life that I bank on most, however. I don't believe there is one among us, excepting Mrs. Pedagog, to whom twenty-five was not the most delightful period of existence. To Mrs. Pedagog, as to all women, eighteen is the limit. But men at twenty-five and women at eighteen know so much, enjoy so much, regard themselves so highly! There is nothing _blasé_ about them then. Disillusion--which I think ought to be called dissolution--comes later. At thirty a man discovers that the things he knew at twenty-five aren't so; and as for a woman at twenty-five, if so be she is unmarried, her life is empty, and if so be she is married, she has cares in the shape of children and a husband, who as a theory was a poet, but who as a reality is a mere business machine who is oftentimes no fonder of staying at home than he was before he was married and went out to see her every night." "What a wise little pessimist he is!" said Mr. Pedagog to the Doctor. "Very. But I fail to comprehend why he branches off into Pessimism when Electricity was his text," said the Doctor. "Because he's the Id--" began the Bibliomaniac, but the Idiot interrupted him. "Don't jump fences, gentlemen, before you know whether they are made of barbed wire or not. I'm coming to the points you are bringing up, and if you are not careful they may puncture you," he said. "I am not in any sense a pessimist. Quite the contrary. I am an optimist. I'm not old enough or cross-grained enough as yet to be a pessimist, and it's because I don't want to be a pessimist that I want this Elixir of Electricity to hurry up and have itself patented. If men when they reached the age of twenty-five, and women at eighteen, would begin to take this they might live to be a thousand and yet retain all the spirit and feelings of twenty-five and eighteen. That's the connection, Dr. Capsule. If I could be twenty-five all my life I'd be as happy as a bird--and if I were the Poet here I'd immortalize that idea in verse-- "A man's the biggest thing alive When he has got to twenty-five; And as for woman, she's a queen Whose summers number just eighteen." "That's a good idea," returned the Poet. "I'll make a note of that, and if I sell it I'll give you a commission." "No, don't do that," said the Idiot, slyly. "I shall be satisfied to see your name in print." The Poet having accepted this sally in the spirit in which it was intended, the Idiot resumed: "But of course the Elixir and the Electrical Pills are as yet all in the air. We haven't even taken a step in that direction. Mr. Edison and other wizards have been too much occupied with electric lights and telephones and phonographs and transatlantic notions to pay any attention to schemes to prolong life and keep us, despite our years, perpetually young." "I fancy they are likely to continue to do so," said the Doctor. "Whatever motive you may attribute to me for pooh-poohing your notions, I do so. No sane person wants to live forever, and if it were possible that all men might live forever, you'd soon find the world so crowded that the slighter actors in the human comedy would be shoved off the stage. There are enough people in the world now, without man's adding all future generations to their number and making death an impossibility." "That's all nonsense," said the Idiot. "My Elixir wouldn't make death an impossibility. Any man who thought he'd had enough at the end of a thousand years could stop taking the Elixir and shuffle off the mortal coil. As a matter of fact, not more than ten per cent. of the people in the world would have any faith in the Elixir at all. I know people to-day who do not take advantage of the many patent remedies that are within their reach, preferring the mustard-plaster and catnip-tea of their forefathers. There's where human nature works again. I believe that if I were myself the discoverer of the formula for my mixture, and for an advertisement secured a letter from a man saying, 'I was dying of old age, having reached the advanced period of ninety-seven; I took two bottles of your Electrical Elixir and am now celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday again,' ninety-nine per cent. of the people who read it would laugh and think it had strayed out of the funny column. People lack confidence in their fellow-men--that's all; but if they were twenty-five and eighteen that would all be changed. We are very trustful at twenty-five and eighteen, which is one of the things I like about those respective ages. When I was twenty-five I believed in everybody, including myself. Now--well, I'm older. But enough of schemes, which I must admit are somewhat visionary--as the telephone would have seemed one hundred years ago. Let us come down to realities in electricity. I can't see why more is not made of the phonograph for the benefit of the public. Take a man like Chauncey M. De Choate. He goes here and he goes there to make speeches, when I've no doubt he'd much prefer to stay at home cutting coupons off his bonds. Why can't the phonograph voice do _his_ duty? Instead of making the same speech over and over again, why can't some electrician so improve the phonograph that De Choate can say what he has to say through a funnel, have it impressed on a cylinder, duplicated and reduplicated and scattered broadcast over the world? If Mr. Edison could impart what poets call stentorian tones to the phonograph, he'd be doing a great and noble work. Again, for smaller things, like a dance, Why can't the phonograph be made useful at a ball? I attended one the other night, and when I wanted to dance the two-step the band played the polka; if I wished the polka it played a waltz. Some men can only dance the two-step--they don't know the waltz, the polka, or the schottische. Now why can't the phonograph come to the rescue? In almost any hotel in New York you can drop a nickel in a slot and hear Sousa's band on the phonograph. Why not extend the principle and have a phonograph for men who can dance nothing but the two-step, charged with 'The Washington Post March,' and supplied with four tubes with receivers to put in the ears of the listeners? Make it small enough for a man to carry in his pocket; then at a ball he could go up to a young lady, ask her to dance, put two of the receivers in her ears, two in his, and trip the light fantastic toe utterly independently of what other people were dancing. It's possible. Mr. Edison could do it in five minutes, and every one would be satisfied. It might be rather droll to see two people dancing the two-step while eight others were fastened on to a lanciers phonograph, and a dozen or more other couples were dancing respectively the waltz, schottische, and Virginia reel, but we'd soon get used to that, and no man need become a wall-flower because he couldn't dance the dance that happened to be on. Furthermore, you'd be able to do away with the musicians, who always cast a pall over dances because of their superiority to the rest of the world in general and the dancers in particular." "How about your couple that prefer to sit out the dance on the stairs?" said the Poet, who, in common with the Idiot, knew several things about dances that Messrs. Pedagog and Whitechoker did not. "It would be particularly attractive to them," said the Idiot. "They could sit on the stairs and wax sentimental over any dreamy air the man happened to have in his vest-pocket. He could arrange all that beforehand--find out what song she thought divinest, and go loaded accordingly. And as for the things that usually happen on stairs at dances, as well as in conservatories at balls, with the aid of a phonograph a man could propose to a girl in the presence of a thousand people, and nobody but the maiden herself would be the wiser. I tell you, gentlemen," the Idiot added, enthusiastically, as he rose to depart, "if the phonograph people only knew their power they'd do great things. The patent vest-pocket phonograph for music at balls and proposals for bashful men alone would make their fortunes if they only could see it. I almost wish I were an electrician and not an Idiot." With which he left the room, and Mr. Pedagog whispered to Mrs. Pedagog that while he considered the Idiot very much of an idiot, there was no denying that at times he did get hold of ideas that were not wholly bad. "That's true," said the good landlady. "I think if you had proposed to me through a phonograph I should not have had to guess at what you meant and lead you on to express yourself more clearly. I didn't want to say yes until I was fully convinced that you meant what you didn't seem able to say." XI Concerning Children The Poet had been away for a week, and on his return to his accustomed post at the breakfast-table seemed but a shadow of his former self. His eyes were heavy and his long locks appeared straggly enough for a man of far more extended reputation as a singer of melodious verse. "To judge from your appearance, Mr. Poet," said the Idiot, after welcoming his friend, "you've had a lively vacation. You certainly do not look as if you had devoted much of it to sleep." "I haven't," said the Poet, wearily, "I haven't averaged more than two hours of sleep daily since I went away." "I thought you told me you were going off into the country for a rest?" observed the Idiot. "I did--and this is what comes of it," returned the Poet. "I went to visit my sister up in Saratoga County. She has seven children." "Aha!" smiled the Idiot. "That's it, is it--well, I can sympathize with you. I've had experience with youngsters myself. I love 'em, but I like to take 'em on the instalment plan--very little at a time. I have a small cousin with a capacity for play and impudence that can't be equalled. His mother wrote me once and asked if I thought Hagenbeck, the wild-animal tamer, could be induced to take him in hand." "That's the kind," put in the Poet, his face lighting up a little upon discovering that there was some one at least at the board who could sympathize with him. "My sister's seven are all of the wild-animal variety. I'd rather fall in with seven tigers than put in another week with my beloved nephews and nieces." "Did they play Alp with you?" the Idiot asked, with a grin. "Alp?" said the Poet. "No--not that I know of. They may have, however. I was hardly conscious of what they were doing the last two days of my stay there. They simply overpowered me, and I gave in and became a toy for the time." "It isn't much fun being a toy," said the Idiot. "I think I'd rather play Alp." "What on earth is Alp?" asked Mr. Pedagog, his curiosity aroused. "I've heard enough absurd names for games in the last five years, but I must say, for pure idiocy and lack of suggestiveness, the name of Alp surpasses all." "That's as it should be," said the Idiot. "My small cousin invented Alp, and anything that boy does is apt to surpass all. He takes after me in some things. But Alp, while it may seem to lack suggestiveness as a name, is really just the name for the game. It's very simple. It is played by one Alp and as many chamois as desire to take a hand. As a rule the man plays the Alp and the children are the chamois. The man gets down on his hands and knees, puts his head on the floor, and has a white rug put on his back, the idea being that he is an Alp and the rug represents its snow-clad top." "And the chamois?" asked Mr. Whitechoker. "The chamois climbs the Alp and jumps about on the top of it," said the Idiot. "My experience, based upon two hours a day of it for ten consecutive days, is that it's fun for the chamois but rough on the Alp; and I got so after a while that I really preferred business to pleasure and gave up playing Alp to return to work before my vacation was half over." "How do you score in this game of Alp?" said Mr. Pedagog, smiling broadly as he thought of there being an embryo idiot somewhere who could discomfit the one fate had thrown across his path. "I never had the strength to inquire," said the Idiot. "But my impression is that the game is to see which has the greater endurance, the chamois or the Alp. The one that gets tired of playing first loses. I always lost. My small cousin is a storehouse of nervous energy. I believe he could play choo-choo cars with a real engine and last longer than the engine--which being the case, I couldn't hope to hold out against him." "My nephews didn't play Alp," said the Poet. "I believe Alp would have been a positive relief to me. They made me tell them stories and poems from morning until night, and all night too, for one of them shared his room with me, and the worst of it all was that they all had to be new stories and new poems, so I was kept composing from one week's end to the other." "Why weren't you firm with them and say you wouldn't, and let that end it?" said Mr. Pedagog. "Ha--ha!" laughed the Idiot. "That's fine, isn't it, Mr. Poet? It's very evident, Mr. Pedagog, that you're not acquainted with children. Now, my small cousin can make the same appeal over and over again in a hundred and fifty different ways. You may have the courage to say no a hundred and forty-nine times, but I have yet to meet the man who could make his no good with a boy of real persistent spirit. I can't do it. I've tried, but I've had to give in sooner or later." "Same way with me, multiplied by seven," said the Poet, with difficulty repressing a yawn. "I tried the no business on the morning of the third day, and gave it up as a hopeless case before the clock struck twelve." "I'd teach 'em," said Mr. Pedagog. "You'd have to learn 'em first," retorted the Idiot. "You can't do anything with children unless you understand them. You've got to remember several things when you have small boys to deal with. In the first place, they are a great deal more alert than you are. They are a great deal more energetic; they know what they want, and in getting it they haven't any dignity to restrain them, wherein they have a distinct advantage over you. Worst of all, down in your secret heart you want to laugh, even when they most affront you." "I don't," said Mr. Pedagog, shortly. "And why? Because you don't know them, cannot sympathize with them, and look upon them as evils to be tolerated rather than little minds to be cultivated. Hard a time as I have had as an Alp, I'd feel as if a great hole had been punched in my life if anything should deprive me of my cousin Sammie. He knows it and I know it, and that is why we are chums," said the Idiot. "What I like about Sammie is that he believes in me," he added, a little wistfully. "I wouldn't mind doing that myself--if I could." "You might think differently if you suffered from seven Sammies the way the Poet does," said the Bibliomaniac. "There couldn't be seven Sammies," said the Idiot. "Sammie is unique--to me. But I am not at all narrow in this matter. I can very well imagine how Sammie could be very disagreeable to some people. I shouldn't care much for Alp, I suppose, if when night came on Sammie didn't climb up on my lap and tell me he thought I was the greatest man that ever lived next to his mother and father. That's the thing, Mr. Pedagog, that makes Alp tolerable--it's the sugar sauce to the batter pudding. There's a good deal of plain batter in the pudding, but with the sauce generously mixed in you don't mind it so much. That boy would be willing to go to sleep on a railway track if I told him I'd stand between him and the express train. If I told him I could hammer down Gibraltar with putty he'd believe it, and bring me his putty-blower to help along in the great work. That's why I think a man's so much better off if he is a father. Somebody has fixed a standard for him which, while he may know he can't live up to it, he'll try to live up to, and by aiming high he won't be so apt to hit low as he otherwise might. As Sammie's father once said to me: 'By Jove, Idiot,' he said, 'if men could _only_ be what their children think them!'" "Nevertheless they should be governed, curbed, brought up!" said the Bibliomaniac. "They should, indeed," said the Idiot. "And in such a fashion that when they are governed, curbed, and brought up they do not realize that they have been governed, curbed, and brought up. The man who plays the tyrant with his children isn't the man for me. Give me the man who, like my father, is his son's intimate, personal friend, his confidant, his chum. It may have worked badly in my case. I don't think it has--in any event, if I were ever the father of a boy I'd try to make him feel that I was not a despot in whose hands he was powerless, but a mainstay to fall back on when things seemed to be going wrong--fountain-head of good advice, a sympathizer--in short, a chum." "You certainly draw a pleasant picture," said Mr. Whitechoker, kindly. "Thank you," said the Idiot. "It's not original with me. My father drew it. But despite my personal regard for Sammie, I do think something ought to be done to alleviate the sufferings of the parent. Take the mother of a boy like Sammie, for instance. She has him all day and generally all night. Sammie's father goes to business at eight o'clock and returns at six, thinking he has worked hard, and wonders why it is that Sammie's mother looks so confoundedly tired. It makes him slightly irritable. She has been at home taking things easy all day. He has been in town working like a dog. What right has she to be tired? He doesn't realize that she has had to entertain Sammie at those hours of the day when Sammie is in his best form. She has found him trying to turn somersaults at the top of the back stairs; she has patiently borne his musical efforts on the piano, upon which he practises daily for a few minutes, generally with a hammer or a stick, or something else equally well calculated to beautify the keys; she has had to interfere in Sammie's well-meant efforts to instruct his small brother in the art of being an Indian who can whoop and scalp all in the same breath, thereby incurring for the moment Sammie's undying hatred; she has heard Sammie using language which an inconsiderate hired man has not scrupled to use in Sammie's presence; she has, with terror in her soul, watched him at play with a knife which some friend of the family who admires Sammie had given him, and has again incurred his enmity by finally, to avoid nervous prostration, taken that treasure from him. In short, she has passed a day of real tragedy. Sammie is farce to me, comedy to his father, and tragedy to his mother. Cannot something be done for her? Is there no way by means of which Sammie can be entertained during the day, for entertained he must be, that does not utterly destroy the nervous system of his mother? Can't some inventive genius who has studied the small boy, who knows the little ins and outs of his nature, and who, above all, sympathizes with those ins and outs, put his mind on the life of the woman of domestic inclination, and do something to make her life less of a burden and more of a joy?" "You are the man to do it," said the Bibliomaniac. "An inventive genius such as you are ought to be able to solve the problem." "Perhaps he ought to be," said the Idiot; "but we are not all what we ought to be, I among the number. Almost anything seems possible to me until I think of the mother at home all day with a dear, sweet, bright, energetic boy like Sammie. Then, I confess, I am utterly at a loss to know what to do." And then, as none of the boarders had any solution of the problem to suggest, I presume there was none among them who knew "How To Be Tranquil Though A Mother." Perhaps when women take up invention matters will seem more hopeful. XII Dreamaline "Well, Mr. Idiot," said Mr. Pedagog, as the guests gathered about the table, "how goes the noble art of invention with you? You've been at it for some time now. Do you find that you have succeeded in your self-imposed mission and made the condition of the civilized less unbearable?" "Frankly, Mr. Pedagog, I have failed," said the Idiot, sadly. "Failed egregiously. I cannot find that of all the many schemes I have evolved for the benefit of the human race any single one has been adopted by those who would be benefited. Wherefore, with the exception of Dreamaline, which I have not yet developed to my satisfaction, I shall do no more inventing. What is the use? Even you, gentlemen, here have tacitly declined to accept my plan for the elimination of irritation on Waffle Days, a plan at once simple, picturesque, and efficacious. With such discouragement at home, what hope have I for better fortune abroad?" "It is dreadful to be an unappreciated genius!" said the Bibliomaniac, gruffly. "It's better to be a plain lunatic. A plain lunatic is at least free from the consciousness of failure." "Nevertheless, I'd rather be myself than any one else at this board," rejoined the Idiot. "Unappreciated though I be, I am at least happy. Consciousness of failure need not necessarily destroy one's happiness. If I do the best I can with the tools I have I needn't weep because I fail, and with his consciousness of failure the unappreciated genius always has the consolation of knowing that it is not he but the world that is wrong. If I am a philanthropist and offer a thousand dollars to a charity, and the charity declines to accept it because I happen to have made it out of my interest in 'A Widows' and Orphans' Speculation Company, Large Losses a Surety,' it is the charity that loses, not I. So with my plans. Social expansion is not taken up by society--who dies, I or society? Capitalists decline to consider my proposition for a General Poetry Trust and Supply Company. Who loses a fine chance, I or the capitalists? I may be a little discouraged for the time being, but what of that? Invention isn't the only occupation in the world for me. I can give up Philanthropy and take up Misanthropy in a moment if I want to--and with Dreamaline I can rule the world." "Ah--just what is this Dreamaline?" asked Mr. Whitechoker, interested. "That, sir, is the question which I am now trying to answer for myself," returned the Idiot. "If I could answer it, as I have said, I could rule the world--everybody could rule the world; that is to say, his own world. It is based on an old idea which has been found by some to be practicable, but it has never been developed to the point which I hope to attain." "Wake me up when he gets to the point, will you, kindly?" whispered the Doctor to the Bibliomaniac. "If you sleep until then you'll never wake," said the Bibliomaniac. "To my mind the Idiot never comes to a point." "You are a little too mysterious for me," observed Mr. Whitechoker. "I know no more about Dreamaline now than I did when you began." "Which is my case exactly," said the Idiot. "It is a vague, shadowy something as yet. It is only a germ lost in my cerebral wrinkles, but I hope by a persistent smoothing out of those wrinkles with what I might call the flat-iron of thought, I may yet lay hold of the microbe, and with it electrify the world. Once Dreamaline is discovered all other discoveries become as nothing; all other inventions for the amelioration of the condition of the civilized will be unnecessary, and even Progressive Waffles will cease to fascinate." "Perhaps," said the Bibliomaniac, "if you will give us a hint as to the nature of your plan in general we may be able to help you in carrying it out." "The Doctor might," said the Idiot. "My genial friend who occasionally imbibes might--even the Poet, with his taste for Welsh rarebits, might--but from you and Mr. Pedagog and Mr. Whitechoker I fear I should receive little assistance. Indeed, I am not sure but that Mr. Whitechoker might disapprove of the plan altogether." "Any plan which makes life happier and better is sure to meet with my approval," said Mr. Whitechoker. "With that encouragement, then," said the Idiot, "I will endeavor to lay before you my crowning invention. Dreamaline, as its name may suggest, should be a patent medicine, by taking which man should become oblivious to care." "What's the matter with champagne for that?" interrupted the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibes. "Champagne has some good points," said the Idiot. "But there are two drawbacks--the effects and the price. Both of these drawbacks, so far from making us oblivious to our cares, add to them. The superiority of Dreamaline over champagne, or even over beer, which is comparatively cheap, is that one dose of Dreamaline, costing one cent, will do more for the patient than one case of champagne or one keg of beer; it is not intoxicating or ruinous to the purse. Furthermore, it is more potent for good, since, under its genial influences, man can do that to which he aspires, or, what is perhaps better yet, merely imagine that he is doing that to which he aspires, and so avoid the disappointment which I am told always comes with ambition achieved. "Take, for instance, the literary man. We know of many cases in which the literary man has stimulated his imagination by means of drugs, and while under the influence has penned the most marvellous tales. That man sacrifices himself for the delectation of others. In order to write something for the world to rave over, he takes a dose which makes him rave, and which ultimately kills him. Dreamaline will make this entirely unnecessary. Instead of the writers taking hasheesh, the reader takes Dreamaline. Instead of one man having to smoke opium for millions, the millions take Dreamaline for themselves as individuals. I would have the scientists, then, the chemists, study the subject carefully, decide what quality it is in hasheesh that makes a writer conceive of these horrible situations, put this into a nostrum, and sell it to those who like horrible situations, and let them dream their own stories." "Very interesting," said the Bibliomaniac, "but all readers do not like horrible situations. We are not _all_ morbid." "For which we should be devoutly thankful," said the Idiot. "But your point is not well taken. On each bottle of what I should call 'Literary Dreamaline,' to distinguish it from 'Art Dreamaline,' 'Scientific Dreamaline,' and so on, I should have printed explicit directions showing consumers how the dose should be modified to meet the consumer's taste. One man likes a De Maupassant story. Let him take his Dreamaline straight, lie down and dream. He'd get his De Maupassant story with a vengeance. Another likes the modern story in realism--a story in which a prize might be offered to the reader who finds a situation, an incident in the three hundred odd pages of the book he reads. This man could take a spoonful of Dreamaline and dilute it to his taste. A drop of Dreamaline, which taken raw would give a man a dream like Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, put into a hogshead of pure water would enable the man who took a spoonful of it before going to bed to fall asleep and walk through a three-volume novel by Henry James. Thus every man could get what he wanted at small expense. Dreamaline for readers sold at a dollar a quart would give every consumer as big and varied a library as he wished, and would be a great saving to the eyes. People would have more time for other pleasures if by taking a dose of Dreamaline before retiring they could get all their literature in their sleeping hours. Then every bottle would pay for itself ten times over if on awakening the next morning the consumer would write out the story he had dreamed and publish it for the benefit of those who were afraid to take the medicine." "You wouldn't make much money out of it, though," said the Poet. "If one bottle sufficed for a library you wouldn't find much of a demand." "That could be got around in two ways," said the Idiot. "We could copyright every bottle of Dreamaline and require the consumers to pay us a royalty on every book inspired by it, or we could ourselves take what I would call Financial Dreamaline, one dose of which would make a man feel like a millionaire. Life is only feeling after all. If you feel like a millionaire you are as happy as a millionaire--happier, in fact, because in reality you do not have to wear your thumbs out cutting coupons on the first of every month. Then I should have Art Dreamaline. You could have it arranged so that by a certain dose you could have old masters all over your house; by another dose you could get a collection of modern French paintings, and by swallowing a whole bottle you could dream that your walls were lined with mysteries that would drive the Impressionists crazy with envy. In Scientific Dreamaline you would get ideas for invention that would revolutionize the world." "How about the poets and the humorists?" asked the Poet. "They'd be easy," said the Idiot. "I wouldn't have any hasheesh in the mixture for them. Welsh rarebit would do, and you'd get poems so mysterious and jokes so uproarious that the whole world would soon be filled with wonder and with laughter. In short, Dreamaline would go into every walk of life. Music, letters, art, poetry, finance. Every man according to his bent or his tastes could partake. Every man could make with it his own little world in which he was himself the prime mover, and so harmless would it be that when next morning he awoke he would be as tranquil and as happy as a babe. I hope, gentlemen, to see the day when Dreamaline is an established fact, when we cannot enter a household in the land that does not have hanging on its walls, after the manner of those glass fire hand-grenades, a wire rack holding a row of bottles labelled Art, Letters, Music, and so on, instead of libraries, picture-galleries, music-rooms, and laboratories. The rich and the poor alike may have it. The child who loves to have stories told to him will cry for it; the poor wanderer who loves opera and cannot afford even to pass the opera-house in a cable-car, can go into a drug-store, and for a cent, begged of a kind-hearted pedestrian on the street, purchase a sufficient quantity to imagine himself a box-holder; the ambitious statesman can through its influences enjoy the sensation of thinking himself President of the United States. Not a man, woman, or child lives but would find it a boon, and as harmless as a Graham cracker. That, gentlemen, is my crowning invention, and until I see it realized I invent no more. Good-morning." And in a moment he was gone. "Well!" said Mr. Pedagog. "That's the cap to the climax." "Yes," said Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog. "Where do you suppose he got the idea?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "I don't know," said the Doctor. "But I suspect that without knowing it he's had some of the stuff he describes. Most of his schemes indicate it, and Dreamaline, I think, proves it." THE END 
35017	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. HALF HOURS WITH THE IDIOT By John Kendrick Bangs * * * * * A LITTLE BOOK OF CHRISTMAS A LINE O' CHEER FOR EACH DAY O' THE YEAR HALF HOURS WITH THE IDIOT HALF HOURS WITH THE IDIOT BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS [Illustration] BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1917 _Copyright, 1917,_ BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I AS TO AMBASSADORS' RESIDENCES 1 II AS TO THE FAIR SEX 22 III HE GOES CHRISTMAS SHOPPING 43 IV AS TO THE INCOME TAX 65 V A PSYCHIC VENTURE 84 VI ON MEDICAL CONSERVATION 101 VII THE U. S. TELEPHONIC AID SOCIETY 119 VIII FOR TIRED BUSINESS MEN 137 I AS TO AMBASSADORS' RESIDENCES "I am glad to see that the government is beginning to think seriously of providing Ambassadors' residences at the various foreign capitals to which our Ambassadors are accredited," said the Idiot, stirring his coffee with a small pocket thermometer, and entering the recorded temperature of 58 degrees Fahrenheit in his little memorandum book. "That's a thing we have needed for a long time. It has always seemed a humiliating thing to me to note the differences between the houses of our government officials of equal rank, but of unequal fortune, abroad. To leave the home of an Ambassador to Great Britain, a massive sixteen-story mausoleum, looking like a collision between a Carnegie Library and a State Penitentiary, with seven baths and four grand pianos on every floor, with guides always on duty to show you the way from your bedchamber to the breakfast room, and a special valet for each garment you wear, from sock to collar, and go over to Rome and find your Ambassador heating his coffee over a gas-jet in a hall bedroom on the top floor of some dusty old Palazzo, overlooking the garage of the Spanish Minister, is disconcerting, to say the least. It may be a symptom of American fraternity, but it does not speak volumes for Western Hemispherical equality, and the whole business ought to be standardized. An American Embassy architecturally should not be either a twin brother to a Renaissance lunatic asylum, or a replica of a four thousand dollar Ladies' Home Journal bungalow that can be built by the owner himself working Sunday afternoons for eight hundred dollars, exclusive of the plumbing." "You are right for once, Mr. Idiot," said the Bibliomaniac approvingly. "The last time I was abroad traveling with one of those Through Europe in Ten Days parties, I could not make up my mind which was the more humiliating to me as an American citizen, the lavish ostentation of one embassy, or the niggardly squalor of another; and it occurred to me then that here was a first-class opportunity for some patriot to come along and do his country's dignity some good by pruning a little in one place, and fattening things up a bit in another." "Quite so," said the Idiot, inhaling a waffle. "And I have been hoping," continued the Bibliomaniac, "that Congress would authorize the purchase of suitable houses in foreign capitals for the purpose of correcting the evil." "That's where we diverge, sir," said the Idiot, "as the lady said to her husband, when they got their first glimpse of the courthouse at Reno. We don't want to purchase. We want to build. The home of an American Ambassador should express America, not the country to which he is sent to Ambass. There's nothing to my mind less appropriate than to find a diplomat from Oklahoma named, let us say, Dinkelspiel, housed in a Louis Fourteenth chateau on the Champs Eliza; or a gentleman from Indiana dwelling in the palace of some noble but defunct homicidal Duck of the Sforza strain in Rome; or a leading Presbyterian representing us at Constantinople receiving his American visitors in a collection of bargain-counter minarets formerly occupied by the secondary harem of the Sublime Porte. There is an incongruity about that sort of thing that, while it may add to the gaiety of nations, leaves Uncle Sam at the wrong end of the joke. When the thing is done it ought to be done from the ground up. Uncle Sam should always feel at home in his own house, and I contend that he couldn't really feel that way in an ex-harem, or in one of those cold-storage Roman Palazzos where the Borgias used to dispense cyanide of potassium _frappé_ to their friends and neighbors. He doesn't fit into that sort of thing any more than he fits into those pink satin knee-breeches, and the blue cocked hat with rooster feathers that diplomatic usage requires him to wear when he goes to make a party call on the Czar. So I am hoping that when Congress takes the matter up it will consider only the purchase of suitable sites, and then go on to adopt a standardized residence which from cellar to roof, from state salon to kitchen, shall express the American idea." "You talk as if there were an American idea in architecture," said the Doctor. "If there is such a thing to be found anywhere under the canopy, let's have it." "Oh, it hasn't been evolved, yet," said the Idiot. "But it soon would be if we were to put our minds on it. We can be just as strong on evolution as we always have been on revolution if we only try. The first thing would be for us to recognize that in his fullest development up to date the real American is a composite of everything that is best in all other nations. Take my humble self for instance." "What, again?" groaned the Bibliomaniac. "Really, Mr. Idiot, you are worse than the measles. You can take that only once, but you--why, we've had you so often that it sometimes seems as if life were just one idiotic thing after another." "Oh, all right," said the Idiot. "In that case, let's take you for a dreadful example. What are you, anyhow, Mr. Bib, but the ultimate result of a highly variegated international complication in the matter of ancestry? Your father was English; your mother was German. Your grandparents were Scotch, Irish, and Manx, with a touch of French on one side, and a mixture of Hungarian, Danish, and Russian on the other. It is just possible that without knowing it you also contain traces of Italian and Spanish. Your love of classic literature suggests that somewhere back in the ages one of your forbears swarmed about Athens as a member of that famous clan, the Hoi Polloi. The touch of melancholy in your nature may be attributed to overindulgence in waffles, but it suggests also that Scandinavia had a hand in the evolution of your Ego. In other words, sir, you are a sort of human _pousse-café_, a mighty agreeable concoction, Mr. Bib, though a trifle dangerous to tackle at breakfast. Now, as I wanted to say in the beginning, when you intimated that I was in danger of becoming chronic, I am out of the same box of ancestral odds and ends that you are. I am a mixture of Dutch, French, English, and Manx, with an undoubted strain of either Ciceronian Roman or Demosthenesian Greek thrown in--I'm not certain which--as is evidenced by my overwhelming predilection for the sound of my own voice." "That much is perfectly clear," interjected the Bibliomaniac, "though the too-easy and overcontinuous flow of your speech indicates that your veins contain some of the torrential qualities of the Ganges." "Say rather the Mississippi, Mr. Bib," suggested Mr. Brief. "The Mississippi has the biggest mouth." "Well, anyhow," continued the Idiot, unabashed, "whether my speech suggests the unearthly, mystic beauty of the Ganges, or the placid fructifying flow of the Mississippi, the fact remains that the best American type is a composite of all the best that human experience has been able to produce in the way of a featherless biped since Doctor Darwin's friend, Simian, got rid of his tail, preferring to sleep quietly on his back in bed rather than spend his nights swinging nervously to and fro from the limb of a tree. Since we can't deny this, let's make a virtue of it, and act accordingly. What is more simple, then, than that a composite people should go in for a composite architecture to express themselves in marble, stone, and brick? Acting on this principle let our architecture express the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome, the utility that was England, the economy that was Scotch, the _espièglerie_ that was France, the simplicity that was Holland, and the efficiency that was Germany, not to mention the philandery that was Constantinople. The problem will be how to combine all these various strains and qualities in one composite building, and that, of course, will have to be solved by architects. It isn't a thing like banking that under the theories of modern Statesmanship can be settled by chauffeurs, tobacconists, and undertakers, but will require expert handling. I don't know very much about architecture myself, but off-hand I should say that the exterior of the building might be a combination of late Victorian Queen Anne, softened somewhat with Elizabethan suggestions of neo-Gothic Graeco-Roman Classicism; with a Byzantine fullness about the eaves, relieved with a touch of Hebridean French Renaissance manifested in the rococo quality of the pergola effect at the front, the whole building welded into a less inchoate mass by a very pronounced feeling of Georgian decadence, emphasized with a gambrel roof, and the façade decorated with flamboyant Dutch fire escapes, bringing irresistibly to mind the predominance in all American art of the Teutonic-Doric, as shown in our tendency to gables supported by moorish pilasters done in Hudson River brick. Not being an architect myself I don't know that a building of that kind could be made to stand up, but we might experiment on the proposition by erecting a Pan-European building in Washington, and see whether it would stand or not. If it could stand through one extra session of Congress without cracking, I don't see why it couldn't be put up anywhere abroad with perfect confidence that it would stay up through one administration, anyhow." "A nightmare of that kind erected in the capital city of a friendly power would be just cause for war to the knife!" said Mr. Brief. "Well, I have an alternative proposition," said the Idiot, "and I am not sure that it isn't far better than the other. Why not erect a Statue of Liberty in every capital abroad, an exact reproduction of that monumental affair in New York Harbor, and let our Ambassadors live in them? They tell me there's as much room inside Liberty's skirts as there is in any ordinary ten-story apartment house, and there is no reason why it should not be utilized. My suggestion would be to have all the offices of the Embassies in the pedestals, and let the Ambassador and his family live in the overskirt. There'd be plenty of room left higher up in the torso for guest chambers, and in the uplifted arm for nurseries for the ambassadorial children, and the whole could be capped with a magnificent banquet hall on the rim of the torch, at the base of the brazen flame." "A plan worthy of the gigantic intellect that conceived it," smiled the Doctor. "But how would you have this thing furnished, Mr. Idiot? Would that be done by the Ambassadors themselves, or would the President have to call a special session of Congress to tackle the job?" "I was coming to that," said the Idiot. "It has occurred to me that it would be a fine thing to have forty-eight rooms in the statue, each named after one of our American States, and then leave it to each State to furnish its own room. This would lend a pleasing variety to the inside of the building that could hardly fail to interest the visitor, and would give the foreigners a very clear insight into our resources along lines of interior decorations. Think of the Massachusetts Room, for example--a fine old horse-hair mahogany sofa in one corner; a rosewood highboy off in another; an old-fashioned four-poster bed projecting out into the middle of the room, and a blue china wash-bowl and pitcher on a spindle-legged washstand near by; and on the wall three steel engravings, one showing John Hancock signing the Declaration of Independence, another of Charles Sumner preaching emancipation, and a third showing Billy Sunday trying to sweep back the waves of a damp Boston from the sand dunes of a gradually drying Commonwealth. Then the Michigan room would be a corker, lavishly filled with antique furniture fresh from Grand Rapids, and a bronze statuette of Henry Ford at each end of the mantelpiece for symmetry's sake, the ceiling given over to a symbolical painting entitled The Confusion of Bacchus, reproducing scenes in Detroit when announcement was made that the good old State had voted for grape-juice as the official tipple. Missouri's room could be made a thing of beauty and a joy forever, with its lovely wall paper showing her favorite sons, Dave Francis and Champ Clark alternately, separated by embossed hound-dogs, rampant, done in gilt bronze, and the State motto, Show Me, in red, white, and blue tiles over the fireplace. Really I can't imagine anything more expressive of all-America than that would be. Florida could take the Palm Room; New York the rather frigid and formal white and gold reception room; Maine as the leading cold-water State of the Union could furnish the bathrooms; California could provide a little cafeteria affair for a quick lunch in mission style, and owing to her pre-eminence in literature, the library could be turned over to Indiana with every assurance that if there were not books enough to go round, any one of her deservedly favorite sons, from George Ade to George McCutcheon, would write a five-foot shelfful at any time to supply the deficiency. "Murally speaking, a plan of this sort could be made historically edifying also. Florida could supply a handsome canvas showing Ponce de Leon discovering Palm Beach. In the New Jersey room the Battle of Trenton could be shown, depicting the retreat of Jim Smith, and the final surrender of Democracy to General Wilson. Ohio could emphasize in an appropriate medium the Discovery of the Oil Fields by Mr. Rockefeller. Pennsylvania could herald her glories with a mural painting apotheosizing William Penn and Andrew Carnegie in the act of forging her heart of steel in the fires of immortality, kept burning by a never-ending stream of bonds poured forth from the end of a cornucopia by Fortune herself. An heroic figure of Governor Blease defying the lightning would come gracefully from South Carolina, and Rhode Island, always a most aristocratic little State, could emphasize the descent of some of her favorite sons from Darwin's original inspiration by a frieze depicting a modern tango party at Newport, in which the preservation of the type, and a possible complete reversion thereto, should be made imperishably obvious to all beholders. "Then, to make the thing consistent throughout, the homes of Ambassadors having been standardized, Congress should order a standard uniform for her representatives abroad. This would settle once and for all the vexed question as to what an Ambassador shall wear when presented to King This, or Emperor That, or the Ponkapog of Thingumbob. I think it ought to be a definitely established principle that every nation should be permitted to choose its own official dud, but not the duds of others. There is no reason in the world why the King of England should be permitted to dictate the style of garments an American Ambassador shall wear. Suppose he ordered him to attend a five o'clock tea clad in yellow pajamas trimmed with red-plush fringe and gold tassels emerging from green rosettes? It would be enough to set the eagle screaming and to justify the sending of a Commission of Protest headed by Mr. Bryan over to London to slap Mr. Lloyd George on the wrist. Nor should the Kaiser be permitted to say how an American representative shall dress when calling upon him, compelling him to appear perhaps in a garb entirely unsuited to his style of beauty--something like the uniform of a glorified White Wing, for instance, decorated with peacock feathers, and wearing an alpine hat with a stuffed parrot lying flat on its back on the peak, on his head. That sort of thing does not gee with our pretensions. We are a free and independent nation, and it is time to assert our independence of the sartorial shackles those foreign potentates would fasten upon us. Let the fiat go forth that hereafter all American Ambassadors wheresoever accredited shall wear a long blue swallow-tail coat with brass buttons, and forty-eight stars, lit by electricity from a small battery concealed in the pistol pocket, appliquéd on the tails; red and white-striped doeskin trousers, skin tight, held down by straps under the boots; and an embroidered waist-coat, showing a couple of American eagles standing on their hind legs and facing the world with the defiant cry of We Pluribus Us; the whole topped off with a bell-crowned, fuzzy beaver hat, made of silver-gray plush, which shall never be removed in the presence of anybody, potentate or peasant, plutocrat or Cook tourist. If in addition to these items the Ambassador were compelled to wear a long, yellow chin whisker, it would be just the liverest livery that ever came down the pike of Brummelian splendor. It would emphasize the presence of the American Ambassador wherever he went, and make the effete nations of Europe, Asia, Africa, and Pan America sit up and take notice." "Doubtless," said the Bibliomaniac, rising impatiently. "And do you suppose the President could find any self-respecting American in or out of jail who would be willing to wear such a costume as that?" "Well," said the Idiot, "of course some of 'em might object, but I'll bet you four dollars and eighty-seven cents' worth of doughnuts against a Chautauqua rain check that any man who offered you seventeen thousand five hundred dollars a year for wearing those duds without having the money to back the offer up would find your name at the head of the list of his preferred creditors in less than three shakes of a lamb's tail!" II AS TO THE FAIR SEX "I observe with pain," said the Idiot, as he placed the Bibliomaniac's pat of butter under his top waffle, "that there is a more or less acrimonious dispute going on as to the propriety of admitting women to the Hall of Fame. The Immortals already in seem to think that immortality belongs exclusively to the male order of human beings, and that the word is really 'Him-mortality', and decline to provide even a strap for the ladies to hang on in the cars leading to the everlasting heights, all of which causes me to rejoice that I am not an Immortal myself. If the one durable joy in life, the joy that neither crocks nor fades, association with the fair sex, a diversion which age cannot wither nor custom stale its infinite variety, is something an Immortal must get along without, it's me for the tall timbers of fameless existence. I rejoice that I am but a plain, common-garden, everyday mortal thing, ready for shipment, f. o. b., for the last terminal station on the road to that well-known Irish settlement, O'Blivion." "I didn't know that you were such an admirer of the fair sex, Mr. Idiot," said the Doctor. "Many years' residence in a refined home for single gentlemen like this would seem to indicate that the allurements of feminine society were not for you." "Quite the contrary," said the Idiot. "It proves rather my interest in the fair sex as a whole. If I had specialized sufficiently upon one single blessed damozel with pink cheeks, snappy brown eyes, and a pompadour that might strike a soaring lark as the most desirable nest in the world, to ask her to share my lot, and go halves with me in an investment in the bonds of matrimony, it might have been said--I even hope it would have been said--that the allurements of feminine society were not for me. Marriage, my dear Doctor, is no symptom that a man is interested in women. It is merely evidence of the irresistible attraction of one person for another. It's like sampling a box of candy--you may find the sample extremely pleasing and gobble it up ferociously, but if you were to gobble up the whole box with equal voracity it might prove hateful to you. In my case, I confess that I am so deeply interested in the whole box of tricks that it is the sample I fight shy of, and I have remained single all these years because my heart is no miserable little one-horse-power affair that beats only for one single individual, but a ninety-million horse-power dynamo that whirls madly around day and night, on time and overtime, on behalf of all. I could not possibly bring myself to love only one pair of blue eyes to the utter exclusion of black, brown, or gray; nor can I be sure that if in some moment of weakness I were to tie up irrevocably to a pair of black eyes, somewhere, some day, with the moon just right, and certain psychological conditions wholly propitious, a pair of coruscating brown beads, set beneath two roguish eyebrows, would labor in vain to win a curve of interest from my ascetic upper lip. To put it in the brief form of a cable dispatch, rather than in magazine language at fifteen cents a word, I love 'em all! Blonde, brunette, or in between, in every maid I see a queen, as Shakespeare would have said if he had thought of it." "That's rather promiscuous, isn't it?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "No, it's just playing safe, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot. "It's like a man with a million dollars to invest. It isn't considered quite prudent for him to put every red cent of that million into one single stock. If he put his whole million into U. S. Hot Air Preferred, at 97-7/8, for instance, and some day Hot Air became so cheap that the bottom dropped out of the market, and the stock fell to 8-3/8 that man would practically be a busted community. But if like a true sage he divided his little million up into twenty fifty-thousand dollar lots, and put each lot into some separate stock or bond, the general average would probably maintain itself somewhere around par whether the tariff on lyonnaise potatoes was removed or not. So it is with my affections. If I could invest them in some such way as that I might have to move out of here, and seek some pleasant little domestic Eden where matrimony is not frowned upon." "I rather guess you would have to move out of here," sniffed Mrs. Pedagogy the Landlady. "I might be willing to forego my rules and take somebody in here with one wife, but when a man talks about having twenty--why, I am almost disposed to give you notice now, Mr. Idiot." "Don't you worry your kindly soul about me on that score, Mrs. Pedagog," smiled the Idiot. "With ostrich feathers at seventy-five dollars a plume, and real Connecticut sealskin coats made of angora plush going at ninety-eight dollars, and any old kind of a falal selling in the open market at a hundred and fifty per frill, there is no danger of my startling this company by bringing home one bride, much less twenty. I was only speculating upon a theoretical ideal of matrimony, a sort of _e pluribus unum_ arrangement which holds much speculative charm, but which in practice would undoubtedly land a man in jail." "I had no idea that any of my boarders could ever bring themselves to advance a single word in favor of polygamy," said the Landlady sternly. "Nor I," said the Idiot. "I don't believe even Mr. Bib here would advocate anything of the sort. I was merely trying to make clear to the Doctor, my dear lady, why I have never attempted to make some woman happy for a week and a martyr for the rest of time. It is due to my deep admiration for the whole feminine sex, and not, as he seemed to think, to a dislike of feminine society. The trace of polygamy which you seem to find in my discourse is purely academic, and it is clear to me that you have quite misunderstood my scheme. A true marriage, one of those absolutely indestructible companionships that we read about in poetry, involves so many more things than any ordinary human being is really capable of, that one who thinks about the matter at all cannot resist the temptation to speculate on how things might be if they were different. The active man of affairs these busy times needs many diverse things in the way of companionship. He needs a helpmate along so many different lines that no single daughter of Eve can reasonably hope to supply them all. For example, if a man marries a woman who is deeply interested in Ibsen and Bernard Shaw abroad, and deep thinkers like William J. Bryan and Thomas Riley Marshall at home, she no doubt makes him ecstatically happy in those solemn moments when his mind wishes to grapple understandingly with the infinite. But suppose that poor chap comes home some night worn to a frazzle with the worries and complications of his business affairs, his spirit fairly yearning for something fluffy and intellectually completely restful, do you suppose for a moment that he is going to be lifted out of the morass of his woe by a conversation with that lady of his on the subject of the Inestimable Infinitude of the Protoplasmic Suffragette as outlined by Professor Sophocles J. Plato in the latest issue of the _South American Review_? Not he, my dear Mrs. Pedagog. What he wants on that occasion is somebody to sit alongside of him while he pulls away on his old briarwood pipe, holding his tired little paddy in her soft right hand, while she twitters forth George Ade's latest Fable on 'The Flipper that Flapped', or something else equally diverting. The reverse of the picture is equally true. If there is anything in the world that drives a man to despair it is to have to listen to five o'clock tea gabble when he happens to be in a mood for the Alexander Hamilton, or Vice-President Marshall style of discourse. The facts are the same in both cases. The Bernard Shaw lady is a delight to the heart and soul in his Bernard Shaw moods. The George Ade lady is a source of unalloyed bliss in a George Ade mood, but they don't reverse readily, and in most cases they can't reverse at all. Then there are other equally baffling complications along other lines. A man may be crazy about poetry, and he falls in love, as he supposes, with a dainty little creature in gold-rimmed eyeglasses, who writes the most exquisite lyrics, simply because he thinks at the moment that those lyrics are going to make his life just one sweet song after another. He marries the little songbird, and then what happens?" "Never having married a canary, I don't know," said the Landlady, with a glance at her husband. "Well, I'll tell you," said the Idiot. "He has a honeymoon of lovely images. He feels like a colt put out to pasture on the slopes of Parnassus. Life runs along with the lilt of a patter song--and then, to indulge in a joke worthy of the palmiest days of London Punch, he comes out of Patter-Song! There dawns a day when he is full chock-a-block up to his neck with poetry, and the inner man craves the re-enforcement of the kind of flapjacks his mother used to make. One good waffle would please him more than sixty-seven sonnets on the subject of 'Aspiration.' Nothing short of a lustrous, smoking, gleaming stack of fresh buckwheats can hold him on the pinnacle of joy, and the lovely little lyrist, to whom he has committed himself, his destinies, and all that he has under a vow for life, hies herself singing to the kitchen, mixes the necessary amount of concrete, serves the resulting dishes at the breakfast table, and gloom, gloom unmitigated, falls upon that house. After eating two of her cakes poor old hubby begins to feel as if he had swallowed the corner stone of a Carnegie library. That lyric touch that Herrick might have envied and Tennyson have viewed with professional alarm has produced a buckwheat cake of such impenetrable density that the Navy Department, if it only knew about it, would joyously grant her the contract for furnishing the armor plate for the new superdreadnoughts we are about to build so as to be prepared for Peace after Germany gets through with us. While eating those cakes the victim speculates on that old problem, Is Suicide a Sin? A cloud rises upon the horizon of his joy, and without intending any harm whatsoever, his mind involuntarily reverts to another little lady he once knew, who, while she couldn't tell the difference between a sonnet and a cabriolet, and had a dim notion when she heard people speaking of Keats that keats were some sort of a shellfish found on the rocks of the Hebrides at low tide, and much relished by the natives, could yet put together a tea biscuit so delicately tenuous of character that it melted in the mouth like a flake of snow on the smokestack of a Pittsburgh blast furnace. Thus an apparently secured joy loses its keen edge, and without anybody being really to blame, life becomes thenceforward, very gradually, but none the less surely, a mere test of endurance--a domestic marathon which must be run to the end, unless the runners collapse before reaching the finish." "For both parties!" snapped the Landlady, pursing her lips severely. "You needn't think that the men are the only ones to suffer--don't you fool yourself on that point." "Oh, indeed I don't, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "It's just as bad for the woman as for the man--sometimes a little worse, for there is no denying that women are after all more chameleonic, capable of a greater variety of emotions than men are. A man may find several women in one--in fact, he generally does. It is her frequent unlikeness to herself that constitutes the chief charm of some women. Take my friend Spinks' wife, for instance. She's the most exacting Puritan at home that you ever met. Poor Spinksy has to toe a straight mark for at least sixteen hours out of every twenty-four. Mrs. Spinks rules him with a rod of iron, but when that little Puritan goes to a club dance--well, believe me, she is the snappiest eyed, most flirtatious little tangoer in ninety-seven counties. Sundays in church she is the demurest bit of sartorial impressiveness in sight, but at the bridge table you want to keep your eyes wide open all the time lest your comfortable little balance at the bank be suddenly transformed into a howling overdraft. I should say that on general principles Mrs. Spinks is not less than nine or ten women, all rolled into one--Joan of Arc, Desdemona, Lucrezia Borgia, Cleopatra, Nantippe, Juliet, Mrs. Pankhurst, Eve, and the late Carrie Nation. But Spinks--poor old Spinksy--there's no infinite variety about him. At most Spinks is only two men--Mr. Henpeck at home and Mr. Overworked when he gets out." "I suppose from all of this nonsense," said the Landlady, "that your matrimonial ideal would be found in a household where a man rejoiced in the possession of a dozen wives--one frivolous little Hebe for his joyous moods; one Junoesque thundercloud for serious emergencies; one capable seamstress to keep his buttons sewed on; one first-class housekeeper to look after his domestic arrangements; one suffragette to talk politics to; one blue-stocking for literary companionship; one highly-recommended cook to preside over his kitchen; one musical wife to bang on the piano all day; one athletic girl for outdoor consumption, and a plain, common-garden giggler to laugh at his jokes." "I think I could be true to such a household, madame," said the Idiot, "but please don't misunderstand me. I'm not advocating such a scheme. I am only saying that since such a scheme is impossible under modern conditions I think it is the best thing that ever happened to my wife that she and I never met." "Do you think a household of that sort would be satisfied with you?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "The chances are six to one that it wouldn't be," said the Idiot. "I'd probably get along gloriously with Hebe and the giggler, but I guess the others would stand a fair show of finding marriage a failure. Wherefore am I wedded only to my fancies, content that my days should not be subjected to the strain of trying to be all things to one woman, preferring as I do to remain one thing to all women instead--their devoted admirer and willing slave." "Well, to come back to the Immortals," said the Doctor. "You don't really think, do you, that we have any women Immortals?" "Of course, I do," replied the Idiot. "The world is full of them, and always has been." Mr. Brief, the lawyer, tapped his forehead significantly. "I'm afraid that screw has come loose again, Doctor," he said. "Looks that way," said the Doctor, "but we'll tighten it up again in a jiffy." He paused a moment, and then resumed. "Well, Mr. Idiot," he said, "of course our ideas may differ on the subject of what makes an Immortal. Now, I should say that it is by their fruits that ye shall know them." "A highly original remark," observed the Idiot, with a grin. "That aside," said the Doctor, coolly, "let's take up, for purposes of discussion, a few standards. In music, Wagner was an Immortal, and produced his great trilogy. In poetry, Milton was an Immortal, and produced 'Paradise Lost.' In the drama, Shakespeare was an Immortal, and produced 'Hamlet', and, coming down to our own time, let us grant the obvious fact that Edison is headed toward immortality because of his wizardry in electricity." "Sure thing!" said the Idiot. "It is good to have you grant all I say so readily," said the Doctor. "Now then--let me ask you where in all history you find four women who in the matter of their achievement, in the demonstrated fruits of their labors, even measurably approached any one of these four I have mentioned?" "Why, Doctor," grinned the Idiot, "why ask me to steal candy from a baby? Why suggest that I try to drive a tack with a sledgehammer, or cut a mold of currant jelly with the whirring teeth of a buzz saw--" "Sparring for time as usual," cried the Doctor triumphantly. "You can't name one, and are simply trying to asphyxiate us with that peculiar variety of natural gas for which you have long been famous." "I'll fill the roster with examples if you'll sit and listen," said the Idiot. "I can match every male genius that ever lived from Noah down to Josephus Daniels with a woman whose product was of equal if not even greater value. Begin where you please--in any century before or since the flood, and I'll be your huckleberry--Wagner, Milton, Cromwell, Roosevelt, Secretary Daniels, Kaiser Wilhelm, Methuselah--I don't care who or what he is--I'll match him." "All right," said the Doctor. "Suppose we begin low with that trifling little frivoler in literature, William Shakespeare!" "Good!" cried the Idiot. "He'll do--I'll just mark him off with Mrs. Shakespeare." "What?" chuckled the Doctor. "Anne Hathaway?" "No," said the Idiot. "Not Anne Hathaway, but Shakespeare's mother." "Oh, tush!" ejaculated the Bibliomaniac impatiently. "What rot! A wholly unknown provincial person of whom the world knows about as much as a beetle knows about Mars. What on earth did she ever produce?" "Shakespeare!" said the Idiot, in an impressive basso-profundo tone that echoed through the room like a low rumble of thunder. And a silence fell upon that table so deep, so abysmally still, that one could almost hear the snowflakes falling upon the trolley tracks sixteen blocks away. III HE GOES CHRISTMAS SHOPPING "Mercy, Mr. Idiot," cried Mrs. Pedagog, as the Idiot entered the breakfast room in a very much disheveled condition, "what on earth has happened to you? Your sleeve is almost entirely torn from your coat, and you really look as if you had been dropped out of an aëroplane." "Yes, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, wearily, "I feel that way. I started in to do my Christmas Shopping early yesterday, and what you now behold is the dreadful result. I went into Jimson and Slithers' Department Store to clean up my Christmas list, and, seeing a rather attractive bargain table off at one end of the middle aisle, in the innocence of my young heart, I tried to get to it. It contained a lot of mighty nice, useful presents that one could give to his friends and relatives and at the same time look his creditors in the face--pretty little cakes of pink soap made of rose leaves for five cents for three; lacquered boxes of hairpins at seven cents apiece; silver-handled toothpicks at two for five; French-gilt hatpins, with plate-glass amethysts and real glue emeralds set in their heads for ten cents a pair, and so on. Seen from the floor above, from which I looked down upon that busy hive, that bargain table was quite the most attractive thing you ever saw. It fairly glittered with temptation, and I went to it; or at least I tried to go to it. I had been so attracted by the giddy lure of the objects upon that table that I failed to notice the maelstrom of humanity that was whirling about it--or perhaps I would better say the fe-maelstrom of humanity that was eddying about its boundaries, for it was made up wholly of women, as I discovered to my sorrow a moment later when, caught in the swirl, I was tossed to and fro, whirled, pirouetted, revolved, twisted, turned, and generally whizzed about, like a cork on the surface of the Niagara whirlpool. What with the women trying to get to the table, and the women trying to get away from the table, and the women trying to get around the table, I haven't seen anything to beat it since the day I started to take a stroll one afternoon out in Kansas, and was picked up by a cyclone and landed down by the Alamo in San Antonio ten minutes later." "You ought to have known better than to try to get through such a crowd as that these days," said the Doctor. "How are your ribs--" "Know better?" retorted the Idiot. "How was I to know any better? There the thing was ready to do business, and nothing but a lot of tired-looking women about it. It looked easy enough, but after I had managed to get in as far as the second layer from the outside I discovered that it wasn't; and then I struggled to get out, but you might as well struggle to get away from the tentacles of an octopus as to try to get out of a place like that without knowing how. I was caught just as surely as a fox with his foot in a trap, and the harder I struggled to get out the nearer I was carried in toward the table itself. It required all my strategy to navigate my face away from the multitude of hatpins that surged about me on all sides. Twice I thought my nose was going to be served _en brochette_. Thrice did the penetrating points of those deadly pins pierce my coat and puncture the face of my watch. Three cigars I carried in my vest pocket were shredded into food for moths, and I give you my word that to keep from being smothered to death by ostrich feathers I bit off the tops of at least fifteen hats that were from time to time thrust in my face by that writhing mass of feminine loveliness. How many aigrettes I inhaled, and the number of artificial roses I swallowed, in my efforts to breathe and bite my way to freedom I shall never know, but I can tell you right now, I never want to eat another aigrette so long as I shall live, and I wouldn't swallow one more canvas-backed tea rose if I were starving. At one time I counted eight ladies standing on my feet instead of on their own; and while I lost all eight buttons off my vest, and six from various parts of my coat, when I got home last night I found enough gilt buttons, crocheted buttons, bone buttons, filagree buttons, and other assorted feminine buttons, inside my pockets to fill an innovation trunk. And talk about massages! I was rubbed this way, and scourged that way, and jack-planed the other way, until I began to fear I was about to be erased altogether. The back breadth of my overcoat was worn completely through, and the tails of my cutaway thereupon coming to the surface were transformed into a flowing fringe that made me look like the walking advertisement of a tassel factory. My watch chain caught upon the belt buckle of an amazon in front of me, and the last I saw of it was trailing along behind her over on the other side of that whirling mass far beyond my reach. My strength was oozing, and my breath was coming in pants short enough to be worn by a bow-legged four-year-old pickaninny, when, making a last final herculean effort to get myself out of that surging eruption, I was suddenly ejected from it, like Jonah from the jaws of the whale, but alas, under the bargain table itself, instead of on the outside, toward which I had fondly hoped I was moving." "Great Heavens!" said the Poet. "What an experience. And you had to go through it all over again to escape finally?" "Not on your life," said the Idiot. "I'd had enough. I just folded my shredded overcoat up into a pillow, and lay down and went to sleep there until the time came to close the shop for the night, when I sneaked out, filled my pockets full of soap, clothespins, and other knickknacks, and left a dollar bill on the floor to pay for them. They didn't deserve the dollar, considering the damage I had sustained, but for the sake of my poor but honest parents I felt that I ought to leave something in the way of ready money behind me to pay for the loot." "It's a wonder you weren't arrested for shoplifting," said Mr. Brief. "They couldn't have proved anything on me," said the Idiot, "even if they had thought of it. I had a perfectly good defense, anyhow." "What was that?" asked the Lawyer. "Temporary insanity," said the Idiot. "After my experience yesterday afternoon I am convinced that no jury in the world would hold that a man was in his right mind who, with no compelling reasons save generosity to stir him to do so, plunged into a maelstrom of that sort. It would be a clear case of either attempted suicide or mental aberration. Of course, if I had been dressed for it in a suit of armor, and had been armed with a battle-axe, or a long, sharp-pointed spear, it might have looked like a case of highway robbery; but no male human being in his right mind is going to subject himself to the hazards to life, limb, eye, ear, and happiness, that I risked when I entered that crowd for the sole purpose of getting away unobserved with a package of nickel-plated hairpins, worth four cents and selling at seven, and a couple of hand-painted fly swatters worth ten cents a gross." The Landlady laughed a long, loud, silvery laugh, with just a little touch of derision in it. "O you men, you men!" she ejaculated. "You call yourselves the stronger sex, and plume yourselves on your superior physical endurance, and yet when it comes to a test, where are you?" "Under the table, Madame, under the table," sighed the Idiot. "I for one frankly admit the soft impeachment." "Yes," said the Landlady, "but I'll warrant you never found a woman under the table. We women, weak and defenseless though we be, go through that sort of thing day after day from youth to age, and we never even think of complaining, much less giving up the fight the way you did. Once a woman gets her eye on a bargain, my dear Mr. Idiot, and really wants it, it would take a hundred and fifty maelstroms such as you have described to keep her from getting it." "I don't doubt it," said the Idiot, "but you see, my dear Mrs. Pedagog," he added, "you women are brought up to that sort of thing. You are trained from infancy to tackle just such problems, while we poor men have no such advantages. The only practice in domestic rough-housing that we men ever get in our youth is possibly a season on the football team, or in those pleasing little games of childhood like snap-the-whip, and mumbledypeg where we have to dig pegs out of the ground with our noses. Later in life, perhaps, there will come a war to teach us how to assault an entrenched enemy, and occasionally, perhaps around election time, we may find ourselves mixed up in some kind of a free fight on the streets, but all of these things are as child's play compared to an assault upon a bargain table by one who has never practiced the necessary maneuvers. To begin with we are absolutely unarmed." "Unarmed?" echoed the Landlady. "What would you carry, a Gatling gun?" "Well, I never thought of that," said the Idiot, "but if I ever tackle the proposition again, which, believe me, is very doubtful, I'll bear the suggestion in mind. It sounds good. If I'd had a forty-two centimeter machine-gun along with me yesterday afternoon I might have stood a better chance." "O you know perfectly well what I mean," said Mrs. Pedagog. "You implied that women are armed when they go shopping, while men are not." "Well, aren't they?" asked the Idiot. "Every blessed daughter of Eve in that mêlée yesterday was armed, one might almost say, to the teeth. There wasn't one in the whole ninety-seven thousand of them that didn't have at least two hatpins thrust through the middle of her head with their sharp-pointed ends sticking out an inch and a half beyond her dear little ears; and every time a head was turned in any direction blood was shed automatically. All I had was the stiff rim of my derby hat, and even that fell off inside of three minutes, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of it since. Then what the hatpins failed to move out of their path other pins variously and strategically placed would tackle; and as for auxiliary weapons, what with sharp-edged jet and metal buttons sprouting from one end of the feminine form to the other, up the front, down the back, across the shoulders, along the hips, executing flank movements right and left, and diagonally athwart every available inch of superficial area elsewhere, aided and abetted by silver and steel-beaded handbags and featherweight umbrellas for purposes of assault, I tell you every blessed damozel of the lot was a walking arsenal of destruction. All one of those women had to do was to whizz around three times like a dervish, poke her head either to the right or to the left, and gain three yards, while I might twist around like a pinwheel, or an electric fan, and get nothing for my pains save a skewered nose, or a poke in the back that suggested the presence of a member of the Black Hand Society. In addition to all this I fear I have sustained internal injuries of serious import. My teeth are intact, save for two feathers that are so deeply imbedded at the back of my wisdom teeth that I fear I shall have to have them pulled, but every time I breathe one of my ribs behaves as if in some way it had got itself tangled up with my left shoulder blade. Why, the pressure upon me at one time was so great that I began to feel like a rosebud placed inside the family Bible by an old maid whose lover has evaporated, to be pressed and preserved there until his return. This little pancake that is about to fulfill its destiny as a messenger from a cold and heartless outside world to my inner man, is a rotund, bulgent, balloon-shaped bit of puffed-up convex protuberance compared to the way I felt after that whirl of feminity had put me through the clothes-wringer. I was as flat as a joke of Caesar's after its four thousandth semiannual appearance in London Punch, and in respect to thickness I was pressed so thin that you could have rolled me around your umbrella, and still been able to get the cover on." "You never were very deep, anyhow," suggested the Bibliomaniac. "Whence the wonder of it grows," said the Idiot. "Normally I am fathomless compared to the thin, waferlike quality of my improfundity as I flickered to the floor after that dreadful pressure was removed." "How about women getting crushed?" demanded the Landlady defiantly. "If a poor miserable little wisp of a woman can go through that sort of thing, I don't see why a big, brawny man like you can't." "Because, as I have already said," said the Idiot, "I wasn't dressed for it. My clothes aren't divided up into airtight compartments, rendering me practically unsinkable within, nor have I any steel-constructed garments covering my manly form to resist the pressure." "And have women?" asked Mrs. Pedagog. The Idiot blushed. "How should I know, my dear Mrs. Pedagog?" replied the Idiot. "I'm no authority on the subtle mysteries of feminine raiment, but from what I see in the shop windows, and in the advertising pages of the magazines, I should say that the modern woman could go through a courtship with a grizzly bear and come out absolutely undented. As I pass along the highways these days, and glance into the shop windows, mine eyes are constantly confronted by all sorts of feminine under-tackle, which in the days of our grandmothers were regarded as strictly confidential. I see steel-riveted contraptions, marked down from a dollar fifty-seven to ninety-eight cents, which have all the lithe, lissom grace of a Helen of Troy, the which I am led to infer the women of to-day purchase and insert themselves into, gaining thereby not only a marvelous symmetry of figure hitherto unknown to them, but that same security against the bufferings of a rude outside world as well, which a gilt-edged bond must feel when it finds itself locked up behind the armor-plated walls of a Safe Deposit Company. Except that these armorial undergarments are decorated with baby-blue ribbons, and sporadic, not to say spasmodic, doodads in filmy laces and chiffon, they differ in no respect from those wonderful combinations of slats, chest-protectors, and liver pads which our most accomplished football players wear at the emergent moments of their intellectual development at college. In point of fact, without really knowing anything about it, I venture the assertion that the woman of to-day wearing this steel-lined chiffon figure, and armed with seventy or eighty different kinds of pins from plain hat to safety, which protrude from various unexpected parts of her anatomy at the psychological moment, plus the devastating supply of buttons always available for moments of aggressive action, is the most powerfully and efficiently developed engine of war the world has yet produced. She is not only protected by her unyielding figure from the onslaughts of the enemy, but she fairly bristles as well with unsuspected weapons of offense against which anything short of a herd of elephants on stampede would be powerless. Your modern Amazon is an absolutely irrefragable, irresistible creature, and it makes me shudder to think of what is going to happen when this war of the sexes, now in its infancy, really gets going, and we defenseless men have nothing but a few regiments of artillery, and a division or two of infantry and cavalry standing between us and an advancing column of super-insulated shoppers, using their handbags as clubs, their hatpins glistening wickedly in the morning light, as they tango onward to the fray. When that day comes, frankly, I shall turn and run. I had my foretaste of that coming warfare in my pursuit of Christmas gifts yesterday afternoon, and my motto henceforth and forever is Never Again!" "Then I suppose we need none of us expect to be remembered by you this Christmas," said the Doctor. "Alas, and alas! I shall miss the generous bounty which led you last year to present me with a cold waffle on Christmas morn." "On the contrary, Doctor," said the Idiot. "Profiting from my experience of yesterday I am going to start in on an entirely new system of Christmas giving. No more boughten articles for me--my presents will be fashioned by loving hands without thought of dross. You and all the rest of my friends at this board are to be remembered as usual. For the Bibliomaniac I have a little surprise in store in the shape of a copy of the _Congressional Record_ for December 7th which I picked up on a street car last Friday morning. It is an absolutely first edition, in the original wrappers, and will make a fine addition to his collection of Americana. For Mr. Brief I have a copy of the New York Telephone Book for 1906, which he will find full of most excellent addresses. For my dear friend, the Poet, I have set aside a charming collection of rejection slips from his friends the editors; and for you, Doctor, as an affectionate memento of my regard, I have prepared a little mixture of all the various medicines you have prescribed for me during the past five years, none of which I have ever taken, to the vast betterment of my health. These, consisting of squills, cod-liver oil, ipecac, quinine, iron tonic, soothing syrup, spirits of ammonia, horse liniment, himalaya bitters, and calomel, I have mixed together in one glorious concoction, which I shall bottle with my own hands in an old carboy I found up in the attic, on the side of which I have etched the words, When You Drink It Think of Me!" "Thanks, awfully," said the Doctor. "I am sure a mixture of that sort could remind me of no one else." "And, finally, for our dear Landlady," said the Idiot, smiling gallantly on Mrs. Pedagog, "I have the greatest surprise of all." "I'll bet you a dollar I know what it is," said the Doctor. "I'll take you," said the Idiot. "You're going to pay your bill!" roared the Doctor. "There's your dollar," said the Idiot, tossing a silver cartwheel across the table. "Better hand it right over to Mrs. Pedagog on account, yourself." IV AS TO THE INCOME TAX "Well, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot cheerfully, as he speared a lonely prune and put it out of its misery, "have you made your return to the income tax collector yet?" "I both rejoice and regret to say that my income is not large enough to come under the provisions of the act," said the Bibliomaniac, "and consequently I haven't bothered my head about it." "Then you'd better get busy and send in a statement of your receipts up to January first, or you'll find Uncle Sam after you with a hot stick. For the sake of the fair name of our beloved home here, sir, don't delay. I'd hate to see a federal patrol wagon rolling up to our door for the purpose of taking you to jail." "But I am exempt," protested the Bibliomaniac. "I don't come within a thousand dollars of the minimum." "That may be all true enough," said the Idiot. "You know that, and I know that, but Uncle Sam doesn't know it, and you've got to satisfy him that you are not a plutocrat trying to pass yourself off as a member of one of those respectable middle-class financial families in which this land is so pleasingly rich. You've got to lay a statement of your financial condition before the government whether your income is ninety-seven cents a minute or forty-seven thousand dollars an hour. Nobody is exempt from that nuisance. As I understand it, the government requires every man, woman, and child to go to confession, and own up to just how little or how much he or she hasn't got. All men stand equal in the eyes of the law when it comes to the show-down. There is no discrimination in favor of the rich in this business, and the inconvenience of having a minion of authority prying into your private affairs is as much a privilege of yours as it is of Uncle John's, or good old Brother Scramble, the Egg King. Uncle Sam is going to put his eye on every man-jack of us and find out whether we are any good or not, and if so, for how much. He will have sleuths everywhere about to estimate the cubic financial contents of your trousers' pockets, and whether you keep your money in a bank, in a trust company, in a cigar box, your sock, or your wife's name, he is going right after it, and he'll get his share or know the reason why. There isn't a solitary nickel circulating in this land to-day that can hope to escape the eagle eye of the Secretary of the Treasury and his financial ferrets." "You surprise me," said the Bibliomaniac. "If what you say is true, it is a perfect outrage. You don't really mean to tell me that I have got to give a statement of my receipts to some snoopy-nosed old government official, do you?" "Even so," said the Idiot, "or at least that is the way I understand it. You've not only got to tell how much you've got, but you must also disclose the sources of your revenue. If you found a cent on the corner of Main Street and Desdemona Alley on the fifteenth day of December, 1916, thereby adding that much to your annual receipts, you have got to enter it in your statement, and so clearly that the authorities will understand just how, when, and where it came into your possession, all under oath; and you are not allowed to deduct your current living expenses from it, either. If in stooping over to pick up that cent you busted your suspenders, and had to go and pay fifty cents for a new pair, thereby losing forty-nine cents on the transaction, you aren't allowed to make any deductions on that account. That cent is 'Net'--not 'Nit', but 'Net.' Same way if in a crowded car you put your hand into what you presumed to be your own pocket, and pulled out unexpectedly a roll of twenty dollar bills amounting to two hundred dollars in all, and then in an absent-minded moment got away with it before you realized that it belonged to the man standing next to you, you'd have to put it down on your statement just the same as all the rest of the items, under penalty of prosecution for concealing sources of revenue from the officers of the law. Oh, it's a fine mess we smart Alexanders of the hour have got ourselves into in our effort to establish a pipe line between the plutocratic pocketbook and the United States Treasury. We all hypnotized ourselves into the pleasing belief that the income tax was going to be a jolly little club with which to hit old Brother Plute on the head, and make him fork over, while we Nixicrats sat on the fence and grinned. It was going to be great fun watching the Plutes disgorge, and we all had a notion that life was going to be just one exgurgitating moving picture after another, with us sitting in front row seats gloating over the Sorrows of Croesus and his coughing coffers. But, alas for our dreams of joy, it hasn't worked out quite that way. The vexation of the blooming thing is visited upon every one of us. Them as has has got to pay. Them as hasn't has got to prove that they don't have to pay, and I tell you right now, Mr. Bib, it is going to be a terrific proposition for a lot of chaps in this land of ours who are skinning along on nothing a year, but making a noise like a ten-thousand-dollar proposition." "I fear me their name is legion," said the Bibliomaniac. "I know one named Smythe," said the Idiot. "If a painter were looking around for a model for Ready Money in an allegorical picture Smythe would fill the bill to perfection. You ought to see him. He walks about the streets of this town giving everybody he meets a fifteen-thousand per annum look when, as a matter of fact, he hasn't got ten cents to his name. If he was invited to a submarine masquerade all he'd have to do would be to swallow a glass of water and go as a sponge. He makes about as big a splurge on a deficit as you or I could make if our salaries were raised nine hundred ten per cent., and then some. As a weekender he is in the A 1 class. He hasn't paid for a Sunday dinner in five years, nor has he paid for anything else in earned cash for three. His only sources of revenue are his friends, the pawn-shops, and his proficiency at bridge and poker. His only hope for staving off eventual disaster is the possibility of hanging on by his eyelids until he dawns as the last forlorn hope on the horizon of some freckle-faced, red-haired old maid, with nine millions in her own right. He owes every tailor, hatter, and haberdasher in town. When he needs twenty-five dollars he buys a fifty-dollar overcoat, has it charged, and takes it around the corner and pawns it, and ekes out the deficiency with a jackpot or a grand slam, in the manipulation of both of which he is what Socrates used to call a cracker-jack. If you ever saw him walking on the avenue, or entering a swagger restaurant anywhere, you'd stop and say to yourself, 'By George! That must be Mr. Idle Rich, of whom I have heard so much lately. Gosh! I wonder how it feels to be him!'" "Him?" sniffed the Bibliomaniac, always a stickler for purity of speech. "Sure thing!" said the Idiot. "You don't stop to think of grammar when you are dazzled by that spectacle. You just give way, right off, to your natural, unrestrained, primitive instincts, and speak English in exactly the same way that the caveman spoke his tongue in those glorious days before grammar came along to curse education with its artificial restraints upon ease of expression. 'Gosh! I wonder how it feels to be him', is what you'd say as old Empty Wallet passed you by disguised as the Horn of Plenty, and all day long your mind would continue to advert to him and the carefree existence you'd think to look at him he was leading; and you, with a four-dollar bill within your reach every Saturday night, would find yourself positively envying him his wealth, when, as a matter of fact, he hasn't seen a single red cent he could properly call his own for ten years." "Oh, well--what of it?" said the Bibliomaniac. "Of course, there are sponges and snobs in the world. What are they to us?" "Why, nothing," said the Idiot, "only I wonder what Smythe and his kind are going to do when the income tax collector comes along and asks for his little two per cent. of all this showy exterior. It will be a terribly humiliating piece of business to confess that all this ostentatious show of prosperity is nothing but an empty shell, and that way down inside he is only an eighteen-karat, copper-fastened, steel-riveted bluff; fact is, he'll have the dickens of a time making the tax collectors believe it, and then he'll be face to face with a federal indictment for trying to dodge his taxes. And that business of dodging--that brings up another phase of this income tax that I don't believe many of us realized when we were shouting for it as a means of shackling Mr. Plute. Did you ever realize that it won't be very long before the government, in order to get this income tax fixed right, will have a lot of inspectors who will be delegated to do for you and me, and all the rest of us, what the Custom House inspectors now do for travelers returning from abroad? Every man and woman traveling upon the seas of life, Mr. Bib, will be required to enter the port of taxation and there submit a declaration of the contents of their boxes to the tax inspectors, which will be followed, as in the case of the traveler from abroad, by a complete overhauling of their effects by those same inspectors. The tesselated pave of your safe deposit companies and banks will look like the floor of an ocean steamship pier on the arrival of a big liner, only instead of being snowed under by a mass of shirts, trousers, Paris-made revelations in chiffons, silks, and brocades, necklaces, tiaras, pearl ropes, snipped aigrettes, and snowy drifts of indescribable, but in these free days no longer unmentionable, lingerie, it will be piled high with steel bonds, New Haven deferred dividends, sinking fund debenture certificates, government five eighths per cent. bonds, certificates of deposit, miscellaneous stocks, mining, industrial, railway, gilt-edged and wildcat, in one red unburial blent; while the poor owner, fearful lest in the excitement of the ordeal he may have neglected to mention some insignificant item of a million or two in Standard Oil, will sit by and sweat as the inspector tears his ruthless way through his accumulated stores for wealth." "It will be almost enough to make a man sorry he's rich," said the Doctor. "Oh, no," said the Idiot, "for the rest of us will be in the same pickle, only in a more humiliating position as the intruder reveals that the sum total of out lifetime of endeavor consists chiefly in unpaid bills labeled Please Remit. The Custom House inspectors are harder on the man with nothing to declare than they are on those whose boxes are full. They slam their things all over creation, and insult the owner with the same abandon with which they greet a recognized past-mistress in the arts of smuggling. Innocence is no protection when a Custom House inspector gets after you, and it will be the same way with the new kind. None of us can hope to escape. The income tax inspectors will come here just as eagerly as they will go to that palatial mausoleum in which Mr. Rockernegie dwells on the corner of Bond Avenue and Easy Street, and they'll rummage through our trunks, boxes, and bureaus in search of such interest-bearing securities as they may suspect us of trying to get by with. Mr. Bib will have to dump his bureau drawer full of red neckties out on the floor to prove to Uncle Sam's satisfaction that he hasn't got a fourteen-million-dollar bond issue concealed somewhere behind their lurid glow. The Doctor will have to sit patiently by and unprotestingly watch the inspectors going through the pockets of his unrivaled collection of fancy waist-coats in a heart-breaking quest for undeclared interests in mining enterprises and popular cemeteries. Trunks, chests, hatboxes, soapboxes, pillboxes, safety razor boxes--in fact, all kinds of receptacles in this house, from Mrs. Pedagog's ice chest to Mr. Whitechoker's barrel of sermons--will be compelled to disgorge their uttermost content in order to satisfy the government sleuths that we who dwell in this Palace of Truth, Joy, and Waffles, have not a controlling interest in Standard Oil hidden away lest we be compelled to pay our due to the treasury." "You don't mean to say that the law so provides, do you?" said the Bibliomaniac. "Not yet," said the Idiot, "but it will--it's bound to come. In the very nature of the beast it is inevitable. There never was a tax yet that found a warm spot awaiting it in the hearts of its countrymen. The human mind with all its diabolical ingenuity has never yet been able to devise a tax that somebody somewhere--nay, that most people everywhere--did not try to dodge, and to catch the dodgers the government is compelled to view everybody with suspicion, and treat hoi polloi from top to bottom as if they were nothing more nor less than a lot of unregenerate pickpockets, horse-thieves, and pastmasters in the gentle art of mendacity." "Frightful!" said Mr. Whitechoker. "And is not a man's word to be taken as a guarantee of the accuracy of his return?" "Not so's anybody would notice it," grinned the Idiot. "When the government finds it necessary to nab leaders of fashionable society for trying to smuggle in one-hundred-thousand-dollar pearl necklaces by sewing them up in the lining of their hats, and to fine the most eminently respectable citizens in the country as much as five thousand dollars for returning from abroad portly with five or six-hundred yards of undeclared lace wound inadvertently about their stomachs, having in the excitement of their homecoming put it on in the place of the little flannel bands they have worn to ward off cholera and other pleasing foreign maladies, it loses some of its confidence in human nature, and acquires some of that penetrating inquisitiveness of mind which is said to be characteristic of the native of Missouri. It wants to be shown, and if the income tax remains in force, we might as well make up our minds that the inquisitorial inspector will soon be added to the official pay roll of the United States of America." "But," protested the Bibliomaniac, "that will be a plain common-garden espionage of so intolerable a nature that no self-respecting free people will submit to it. It will be an abominable intrusion upon our rights of privacy." The Idiot laughed long and loud. "It seems to me," said he, after a moment, "that when Colonel John W. Midas, of the International Hickory Nut Trust, advanced that same objection against the proposed tax a year or so ago, Mr. Bib, you sat in that very same chair where you are now and vociferously announced that there was nothing in it." "Oh, but that's different," said the Bibliomaniac. "Midas is a rich man, and I am not." "Well, I suppose there is a difference between a prune and a Canadian melon, old man, but after all, they're both fruit, and when it comes to being squeezed, I guess it hurts a lemon just as much as it does a lime. I, for one, however, do not fear the inspector. My securities are exempt, for they all pay their tax at the source." "What are they, coupon bonds?" grinned the Lawyer. "No," said the Idiot; "pawn tickets, interest on which is always paid in advance." V A PSYCHIC VENTURE "I beg your pardon, Doctor," said the Idiot, as he laid aside his morning paper and glanced over the gastronomic delights spread upon the breakfast table at Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's high-class home for single gentlemen. "I don't wish to intrude upon this moment of blissful intercourse which you are enjoying with your allotment of stock in the Waffle Trust, but do you happen to have any A No. 1 eighteen-karat psychrobes among your patients that you could introduce me to? I need one in my business." "Sike whats?" queried the Doctor, pausing in the act of lifting a sizable section of the eight of diamonds done in batter to his lips. "Psychrobes," said the Idiot. "You know what I mean--a clairvoyant, a medium, a sike--somebody in the spiritual inter-State commerce business, who knows his or her job right down to the ground and back again." "H'm! Why--yes, I know one or two mediums," said the Doctor. "Strictly up-to-date and reliable?" said the Idiot. "Ready to trot in double harness?" "Oh, as to their reliability as mediums I can't testify," said the Doctor. "You never can tell about those people, but I will say that in all respects other than their psychic indulgences I have always found those I know wholly reliable." "You mean they wouldn't take a watch off a bureau when the owner wasn't looking, or beat a suffering corporation out of a nickel if they had a chance?" said the Idiot. "That's it," said the Doctor. "But, as I say, you never can tell. A man may be the soul of honor in respect to paying his board bill, and absolutely truthful in statements of the everyday facts of life, and yet when he goes off, er--when he goes off--" "Psychling," suggested the Idiot. "Bully good title for a story that--'Psychling with a Psychrobe'--eh? What?" "Fair," said the Doctor. "But what I was going to say was that when he goes off psychling, as you put it, he may, or may not, be quite so reliable. So if I were to indorse any one of my several clairvoyant patients for you, it would have to be as patients, and not as psychlists." "That's all right," said the Idiot. "That's all I really want. If I can be sure that a medium is a person of correct habits in all other respects, I'll take my chances on his reliability as a transient." "As a transient?" repeated the Bibliomaniac. "Yes," said the Idiot. "A person in a state of trance." "What has awakened this sudden interest of yours in things psychic?" asked the Doctor. "Are you afraid that your position as a dispenser of pure idiocy is threatened by the recorded utterances of great thinkers now passed into the shadowy vales, as presented to us by the mediums?" "Not at all," said the Idiot. "Fact is, I do not consider their utterances as idiotic. Take that recent report of the lady who got into communication with the spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte, and couldn't get anything out of him but a regretful allusion to Panama hats and pink pajamas, for instance. Everybody thought it was very foolish, but I didn't. To me it was merely a sad intimation of the particular kind of climate the great Corsican had got for his in the hereafter. He needed his summer clothes, and couldn't for the moment think of anything else. I should have been vastly more surprised if he had called for a pair of ear-tabs and a fur overcoat." "And do you really believe, also for instance," put in the Bibliomaniac scornfully, "that with so many big questions before the public to-day Thomas Jefferson would get off such drivel as has been attributed to him by these people, having a chance to send a real message to his countrymen?" "I've only seen one message from Jefferson," said the Idiot, "and it seemed to me most appropriate. It was received by a chap up in Schenectady, and all the old man said was 'Whizz--whizz--whizz, buzz--buzz--buzz, whizz--whizz--whizz!' Lots of people considered it drivel, but to me it was fraught with much sad significance." "Well, if you can translate it, it's more than I can," said the Bibliomaniac. "The idea that the greatest political thinker of the ages could stoop to unmeaning stuff of that sort is to me preposterous." "Not at all," said the Idiot. "You have not the understanding mind. Those monosyllabic explosions were merely an expression of the rapidity with which poor old Jefferson was turning over in his grave as he realized to what uses modern statesmen of all shades of political belief were putting his name. It must be a tough proposition for a simple old Democrat like Jefferson to find his memory harnessed up to every bit of entomological economic thought now issuing from the political asylums of his native land." "Pouf!" said the Bibliomaniac. "You are a reactionary, Sir." "Ubetcha," said the Idiot. "First principles first, say I. But to come back to clairvoyants. I am very anxious to get hold of a medium, Doctor, and the sooner the better. I'm going to give up Wall Street. I can't afford to stay there any longer unless I move out of this restful paradise of food and thought and take up my abode in a Mills Hotel, or charter a bench in the park from the city. The only business we had in our office last week was a game of poker between the firm and its employés, and the firm tided itself over the emergency by winning my salary for the next six weeks. Another week of such activity would prostrate me financially, and I am going to open a literary bureau to deal in posthumous literature." "Posthumous literature is the curse of letters," said the Bibliomaniac. "It generally means the publication of the rejected, or personally discarded, manuscripts of a dead author, which results in the serious impairment of the quality of his laurels. It ought to be made a misdemeanor to print the stuff." "I agree with you entirely as to that, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot. "This business of emptying the pigeonholes of deceased scribes, and printing every last scrap of scribbling to be found there, whether they intended it to be printed or not, is reprehensible, and I for one would gladly advocate a law requiring executors of a literary estate to burn all unpublished manuscripts found among the decedent's papers merely as a matter of protection to a great name. But it isn't that kind of posthumous production that I am going in for. It's the production posthumously produced that I am after, and I need a first-class medium as a side partner to get hold of the stuff for me." "Preposterous!" sniffed the Bibliomaniac. "Sounds that way, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot, "but, all the same, here's a lady over in England has recently published a book of short stories by the late Frank R. Stockton, which his genial spirit has transmitted to the world through her. Now, if this thing can be done by Stockton, I don't see why it can't be done by Milton, Shakespeare, Moses, and others, and if I can only get hold of a real Psyche I'm going to get up a posthumous literary trust that will stagger humanity." "I guess it will!" laughed the Doctor. "Yes, sir," said the Idiot enthusiastically. "The first thing I shall do will be to send the lady after Charles Dickens and good old Thackeray, and apply for the terrestrial rights to all their literary subsequences, and, as a publisher really ought to do, I shall not content myself with just taking what they write of their own accord, but I'll supply them with subject matter. My posthumous literary trust will have a definite policy. "Can't you gentlemen imagine, for instance, what those two men could do with little old New York as it is to-day? What glorious results would come from turning Dickens loose on the underworld, and setting Thackeray's pen to work on the hupper sukkles of polite s'ciety! If there ever was a time when the reading public were ripe for another 'Oliver Twist' or another 'Vanity Fair', that time is now, and I can hardly sleep nights for thinking about it." "I don't see it at all," said the Bibliomaniac. "'Oliver Twist' is quite perfect as it is." "No doubt," retorted the Idiot, "but it isn't up-to-date, Mr. Bib. For example, think of a scene described by Dickens in which Fagin, now become a sort of man higher up, or at least one of his agents, takes little Oliver out into a Bowery back yard and makes a proficient gunman out of the kid, compelling him to practice in the flickering glare of an electric light at shooting tailor's dummies on a rapidly moving platform, with a .42-caliber six-shooter, until the lad becomes so expert that he can hit nineteen out of twenty as they pass, missing the twentieth only by a hair's breadth because it represents a man Fagin wants to scare and not kill. "Or think of how Thackeray would take hold of this tango tangle and expose the cubic contents of that Cubist crowd, and handle the exquisite dullness of the smart set, not with the glib brilliance of the man on the outside, who novelizes what he reads in the papers, but with the sounder satire of the man who knows from personal observation what he is writing about! Great heavens--the idea makes my mouth water!" "That might be worth while," confessed the Bibliomaniac. "But how are you going to get the facts over to Dickens and Thackeray?" "I shall not need to," said the Idiot. "All they'll have to do will be to project themselves in spirit over here into the very midst of the scenes to be described. As spirits they will have the entrée into any old kind of society they wish to investigate, and in that respect they will have the advantage over us poor mortals who can't go anywhere without having to take our confounded old bodies along with us. Then after I had arranged matters with Dickens and Thackeray, I'd send my psychic representative after Alexander Dumas, and get him to write a sequel to 'The Three Musketeers', and 'Twenty Years After', which I should call 'Two Hundred and Ninety Years After, a Romance of 1916', in which D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should return to modern times and try their hands on trench work, introducing the aëroplane, the submarine, and all the other appurtenances of war, from the militant brick to the dynamite bomb. Why, a good, rip-staving old Dumas tale of adventure of to-day, with those old heroes of his mixed up with the Militant Suffragettes and the Crown Prince of Germany, would be what old Doctor Johnson would have called a cracker-jack, if he had had the slightest conception of the possibilities of the English language." "Wouldn't interest me in the least," said the Bibliomaniac coldly, "If there is anything under the canopy that I despise it is so-called romance. Now, if you could get hold of some of the solider things, such, for instance, as Macaulay might write, or"-- "Ah!" said the Idiot, triumphantly, "it is there that my scheme would work out most beneficently. My special articles on historic events by personal participators would thrill the world. "From Adam I would secure the first and only authentic account of the Fall, with possibly an expression of his opinion as to the validity of the Darwinian theory. From Noah, aided and abetted by Shem, Ham, and Japhet, would come a series of sea stories narrating in thrilling style the story of The Flood, or How We Landed the Zoo on Ararat. A line or two from Balaam's Ass on the subject of modern Socialism would fill the reading world with wonder. A series of papers specially prepared for a woman's magazine by Henry VIII. on 'Wild Wives I Have Wedded', edited, possibly, with copious footnotes by Brigham Young, would bring fortune to the pockets of the publishers. "And then the poets--ah, Mr. Bib, what treasures of poesy would this plan of mine not bring within our reach! Dante could write a new 'Inferno' introducing a new torture in the form of Satan compelling a Member of Congress to explain the Tariff bill. Homer could sing the sufferings and triumphs of arctic exploration in a new epic entitled 'The Chilliad', or possibly expend his genius upon the story of the rise and fall of Bryan in immortal periods under the title of 'The Billiad'"-- "Or describe your progressive idiocy under the title of 'The Silliad!'" put in the Bibliomaniac. "Ubetcha!" cried the Idiot. "Or tell the sad tale of your life under the title of 'The Seniliad.' And in addition to these wonders, who can estimate to what extent we should all profit were our more serious reviews to secure articles from Washington, Hamilton, Jefferson, and old Ben Franklin on the present state of the nation! Why, an article dictated off-hand by the shade of Lincoln on the thousands who are now flattering themselves that they occupy his shoes, illustrated with those apt anecdotes of which he was a master, and pointed with his gloriously dry humor, under the title of 'Later Links', would alone make the venture worth while, even if nothing else came of it." "Oh, well," said the Bibliomaniac, rising, "perhaps there is something in the idea after all, and I wish you success, Mr. Idiot--and, by the way, if the scheme works out as you expect it to, and you happen to come across old Æsculapius, ask him for me for an authoritative statement of the origin and proper treatment of idiocy, will you?" "Sure," said the Idiot, turning to his breakfast, "but it really isn't necessary to do that, Mr. Bib. Our good old friend, the Doctor here, is quite capable of curing you at any time you consent to put yourself unreservedly in his hands." VI ON MEDICAL CONSERVATION "I see by the paper this morning," said the Idiot, as he put three lumps of sugar into his pocket and absent-mindedly dropped his eyeglasses into his coffee, "that, thanks to the industry of our Medical Schools and Colleges, the world is richer by thirty thousand new doctors to-day than it was yesterday. How does the law of supply and demand work in cases of that kind, Doctor Squills?" "Badly--very badly, indeed," said the Doctor, with a gloomy shake of his head. "The profession is sadly overcrowded, and mighty few of us are making more than a bare living." "I was afraid that was the case," said the Idiot sympathetically. "I was talking with a prominent surgeon at the Club the other night, and he was terribly upset over the situation. He intimated that we have been ruthlessly squandering our natural internal resources almost as riotously and as blindly as our lumbermen have been destroying the natural physical resources of the country. He assured me that he himself had reached a point in his career where there was hardly a vermiform appendix left in sight, and where five years ago he was chopping down not less than four of these a day for six days of the week at a thousand dollars per, it was now a lucky time for him when he got his pruning knife off the hook once a month." "That vermiform appendix craze was all a fad anyhow," said the Bibliomaniac sourly. "Like the tango, and bridge, and golf, and slumming, and all the rest of those things that Society takes up, and then drops all of a sudden like a hot stick. It looked at one time as if nobody could hope to get into society who hadn't had his vermiform removed." "Well, social fad or not," said the Idiot, "whatever it was, there is no question about it that serious inroads have been made upon what we may call our vermiforests, and unless something is done to protect them, by George, in a few years we won't have any left except a few stuffed specimens down in the Smithsonian Institution. "I asked my friend Doctor Cuttem why he didn't call for a Vermiform Conservation Congress to see what can be done either to prevent this ruthless sacrifice of a product that if suitably safeguarded should supply ourselves, and our children, and our children's children to the uttermost posterity, with ample appendicular resources for the maintenance in good style of a reasonable number of surgeons; or to re-seed scientifically where the unscientific destruction of these resources is uncontrollable. How about that, Doctor? Suppose you remove a man's vermiform appendix--is there any system of medical, or surgical, fertilization and replanting that would cause two vermiforms to grow where only one grew before, so that sooner or later every human interior may become a sort of garden-close, where one can go and pluck a handful of vermiform appendices every morning, like so many hardy perennials in full bloom?" "I'm afraid not," smiled the Doctor. "Anybody but the Idiot would know that it couldn't be done," said the Bibliomaniac, "because if it could be done it would have been done long ago. When you find men successfully transplanting rabbits' tails on monkeys, and frogs' legs on canary birds, you can make up your mind that if it were within the range of human possibility they would by this time have vermiform appendices sprouting lushly in geranium pots for insertion into the systems of persons desiring luxuries of that sort." "You mustn't sneer at the achievements of modern surgery, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot. "There is no telling how soon any one of us may need to avail himself of its benefits. Who knows--maybe a surgeon will come along some day who will be able to implant a sense of humor in you, to gladden all your days." "Preposterous!" snapped the Bibliomaniac. "Well, it does seem unlikely," said the Idiot, "but I know of a young doctor who without any previous experience planted a little heart in a frigid Suffragette; and though I know the soil is not propitious, even you may sometime be blossoming luxuriantly within with buds of cheer and sweet optimism. But however this may be, it is the unquestioned and sad fact that a once profitable industry for our surgically-inclined brothers has slumped; and they tell me that even those surgeons who have adopted modern commercial methods, and give away a set of Rudyard Kipling's Works and a year's subscription to the _Commoner_ with every vermiform removed, are making less than a thousand dollars a week out of that branch of their work." "Mercy!" cried the Poet. "What couldn't I do if I had a thousand dollars a week!" "You could afford to write real poetry all the time, instead of only half the time, eh, old man?" said the Idiot affectionately. "But don't you mind. We're all in the same boat. I'd be an infinitely bigger idiot myself if I had half as much money as that." "Impossible!" said the Bibliomaniac, chuckling over his opportunity. "Green-eyed monster!" smiled the Idiot. "But speaking of this overcrowding of the profession, it is a surprise to me, Doctor, that so many young men are taking up medicine these days, when competent observers everywhere tell us that the world is getting better all the time. "If that is true, and the world really is getting better all the time, it is fair to assume that some day it will be entirely well, and then, let me ask you, what is to become of all the doctors? It will not be a good thing for Society ever to reach a point where it has such an army of unemployed on its hands, and especially that kind of an army, made up as it will be of highly intelligent but desperately hungry men, face to face with starvation, and yet licensed by the possession of a medical diploma to draw, and have filled, prescriptions involving the whole range of the materia medica, from Iceland moss and squills up to prussic acid and cyanide of potassium. "It makes me shudder to think of it!" said Mr. Brief, the lawyer, with a grin at the Doctor. "Shudder isn't the word!" said the Idiot. "The bare idea makes my flesh creep like a Philadelphia trolley car! Coxey's Army was bad enough, made up as it was of a poor, miserable lot of tramps and panhandlers, all so unused to labor as to be really jobshy; but in their most riotous moods the worst those poor chaps could do was to heave a few bricks or a dead cat through a millinery shop window, or perhaps bat a village magnate on the back of the head with a bed slat. There was nothing insidiously subtle about the warfare they waged upon Society. "But suppose that, laboring under a smarting sense of similar wrongs, there should come to be such a thing as old Doctor Pepsin's Army of Unemployed Physicians and Surgeons, marching through the country, headed for the White House in order to make an impressive public demonstration of their grievances! What a peril to the body politic that would be! Not only could the surgeons waylay the village magnates and amputate their legs, and seize hostile editors and cut off the finger with which they run their typewriting machines, and point with alarm with; but the more insidious means of upsetting the public weal by pouring calomel into our wells, putting castor oil in our reservoirs, leaving cholera germs and typhoid cultures under our door mats, or transferring a pair of jackass's legs to the hind-quarters of an old family horse, found grazing in the pasture, would transform a once smiling countryside into a scene of misery and desolation." "Poor, poor Dobbin!" murmured the Bibliomaniac. "Indeed, Mr. Bib, it will be poor, poor Dobbin!" said the Idiot. "I don't think that many people besides you and myself realize how desperately serious a menace it is that hangs over us; and I feel that one of the first acts of the Administration, after it has succeeded in putting grape juice into the Constitution as our national tipple, and constructed a solid Portland cement wall across the Vice President's thorax to insure that promised four years of silence, should be an effort to control this terrible situation." "You talk as if it could be done," said the Doctor doubtfully. "Of course it can be done," said the Idiot. "Doctors being engaged in Inter-State Commerce--" "Doctors? Interstate Commerce?" cried Mr. Brief. "That's a new one on me, Mr. Idiot. Everybody is apparently in Interstate Commerce in your opinion. Seems to me it was only the other day that you spoke of Clairvoyants being in it." "Sure," said the Idiot. "And it's the same way with the doctors. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, where a man passes from this state into the future state, you'll find a doctor mixed up in it somewhere, even if it's only as a coroner. This being so, it would be perfectly proper to refer the matter to the Interstate Commerce Commission for a solution. "Anyhow, something ought to be done to handle the situation while the menace is in its infancy. We need the ounce of prevention. Now, my suggestion would be that the law should step in and either place a limit to the number of doctors to be turned out annually, on a basis of so many doctors to so many hundreds of population--say three doctors to every hundred people--just as in certain communities the excise law allows only one saloon for every thousand registered voters; or else, since the State permits medical schools to operate under a charter, authorizing them to manufacture physicians and surgeons ad lib., and turn them loose on the public, the State should provide work for these doctors to do. "To this end we might have, for instance, a Bureau of Disease Dissemination, subject perhaps to the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Interior, under whose direction, acting in coöperation with the Department of Agriculture, every package of seeds sent out by a Congressman to his constituents would have a sprinkling of germs of one kind or another mixed in with the seeds, thus spreading little epidemics of comparatively harmless disorders like the mumps, the measles, or the pip, around in various over-healthy communities where the doctors were in danger of going over the hill to the poorhouse. Surely if we are justified in making special efforts to help the farmers we ought not to hesitate to do the doctors a good turn once in a while." "You think the public would stand for that, do you?" queried the Bibliomaniac scornfully. "Oh, the public is always inhospitable to new ideas at first," said the Idiot, "but after a while they get so attached to them that you have to start an entirely new political party to prove that they are reactionary. But, as the Poet says, "Into all lives some mumps must fall, "and the sooner we get 'em over with the better. If the public once wakes up to the fact that the measles and the mumps are as inevitable as a coal bill in winter, or an ice bill in summer, it will cheerfully indorse a Federal Statute which enables us to have these things promptly and be done with 'em. It's like any other disagreeable thing in life. As old Colonel Macbeth used to say to that dear old Suffragette wife of his, "If 'twere done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. "It's like taking a cold bath in the morning. You don't mind it at all if you jump in in a hurry and then jump out again. "But even if the public didn't take that sensible view of it, we have legislative methods by which the thing could be brought about without the public knowing anything about it. For instance, supposing somebody in Congress were to introduce an innocent little bill appropriating five hundred thousand dollars, for the erection of a residence for a United States Ambassador to the Commonwealth of California, for the avowed object of keeping somebody in San Francisco to see that Governor Johnson didn't declare war on Japan without due notice to the Navy Department, what could be simpler than the insertion in that bill of a little joker providing that from the date of the enactment of this statute the Department of Agriculture is authorized and required to expend the sum of twenty thousand dollars annually on the dissemination, through Congressional seed packages, of not less than one ounce per package of germs of assorted infantile and other comparatively harmless disorders, for the benefit of the medical profession? Taxidermists tell us that there are more ways than one to skin a cat, and the same is true of legislation. "There's only one other way that I can see to bring the desired condition about, and that is to permit physicians to operate under the same system of ethics as that to be found in the plumbing business. If a plumber is allowed, as he is allowed in the present state of public morality, to repair a leak in such a fashion to-day that new business immediately and automatically develops requiring his attention to-morrow, I see no reason why doctors should not be permitted to do the same thing. Called in to repair a mump, let him leave a measle behind. The measle cured, a few chicken-pox left carelessly about where they will do the most good will insure his speedy return; and so on. Every physician could in this way take care of himself, and by a skilful manipulation of the germs within his reach should have no difficulty not only in holding but in increasing his legitimate business as well." "Ugh!" shuddered Mrs. Pedagog. "You almost make me afraid to let the Doctor stay in this house a day longer." "Don't be afraid, Madame," said the Doctor amiably. "After all, I'm a doctor, you know, and not a plumber." "I'll guarantee his absolute harmlessness, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "We're perfectly safe here. It is no temptation to a doctor to sow the germs of disorder among people like ourselves who have reduced getting free medical advice to a system." "Well," said Mr. Brief, the lawyer, "your plan is all right for the doctors, but why the Dickens don't somebody suggest something for us lawyers once in awhile? There were seventy thousand new lawyers turned out yesterday, and you haven't even peeped." "No," said the Idiot, "it isn't necessary. You lawyers are well provided for. With one National Congress, and forty-eight separate State Legislatures working twenty-four hours a day, turning out fifty-seven new varieties of law every fifteen minutes, all so phrased that no human mind can translate them into simple English, there's enough trouble constantly on hand to keep twenty million lawyers busy for thirty million years, telling us not what we can't do, but what few things there are left under the canopy that a man of religious inclinations can do without danger of arrest!" VII THE U. S. TELEPHONIC AID SOCIETY "Well, Mr. Idiot," said the Doctor, as the Idiot with sundry comments on the top-loftical condition of the thermometer fanned his fevered brow with a tablespoon, "I suppose in view of the hot weather you will be taking a vacation very shortly." "Not only very shortly, but excessively shortly," returned the Idiot. "Its shortliness will be of so brief a nature that nobody'll notice any vacant chairs around where I am accustomed to sit. But let me tell you, Dr. Squills, it is too hot for sarcasm, so withhold your barbs as far as I am concerned, and believe me always very truly yours, Nicholas J. Doodlepate." "Sarcasm?" said the Doctor in a surprised tone. "Why, my dear fellow, I wasn't sarcastic, was I? I am sure I didn't mean to be." "To the listener's ear it seemed so," said the Idiot. "There seemed to me to be traces of the alkali of irony mixed in with the tincture of derision in that question of yours. When you ask a Wall Street man who declines to carry speculation accounts these days if he isn't going to take a vacation shortly, it is like asking a resident of the Desert of Sahara why he doesn't sprinkle a little sand around his place. "Life on Wall Street for my kind, my good sir, of late has been just one darned vacation after another. The only business I have done in three months was to lend one of our customers a nickel, taking a subway ticket and a baseball rain check as collateral security." The Idiot shook his head ruefully and heaved a heart-rending sigh. "What we cautious Wall Street fellows need," said he, "is not a VA-cation, but a VO-cation." "Oh, well, a man of your fertility of invention ought not to have any trouble about that," said Mr. Brief. "You should be able without killing yourself to think up some new kind of trade that will keep you busy until the snow-shoveling season begins anyhow." "Yes," said the Idiot. "Ordinary by the exercise of some ingenuity and the use of these two brazen cheeks with which nature has endowed me, I can always manage to pull something resembling a living out of a reluctant earth. If a man slips up on being a Captain of Industry he can lecture on a sight-seeing coach, or if that fails him under present conditions in this old town, by a little economy he can live on his tips." "And at the worst," said the Bibliomaniac, "you always have Mrs. Pedagog to fall back on." "Yes," said the Idiot. "The state of my bill at this very moment shows that I have credit enough with Mrs. Pedagog to start three national banks and a trust company. But, fortunately for me, I don't have to do either. I have found my opportunity lying before me in the daily newspapers, and I am about to start a new enterprise which is not only going to pull a large and elegant series of chestnuts out of the fire for me but for all my subscribers as well. If I can find a good lawyer somewhere to draw up the papers of incorporation for my United States Telephonic Aid Society, I'll start in business this very morning at the nearest pay station." "If you want a good lawyer, what's the matter with me?" asked Mr. Brief. "I never was any good at riddles," said the Idiot, "and that one is too subtle for me. If I want a good lawyer, what is the matter with you? Ha! Hum! Well, I give it up, but I'm willing to be what the ancients used to call the Goat. If I want a good lawyer, Brudder Bones, what IS the matter with you? I ask the question--what's the answer?" "I don't know," grinned the Lawyer. "Well, I guess that's it," said the Idiot. "If I want a good lawyer I want one who does know." "But what's this new society going to do?" interrupted the Poet. "I am particularly interested in any sort of a scheme that is going to make you rich without forgetting me. If there's any pipe-line to prosperity, hurry up and let me know before it is too late." "Why, it is simplicity itself," said the Idiot. "The U. S. Telephonic Aid Society is designed to carry First Aid to the Professionally Injured. You have doubtless read recently in the newspapers how Damon, a retired financier, desirous of helping his old friend Pythias, an equally retired attorney, back into his quondam practice--please excuse that word quondam, Mrs. Pedagog; it isn't half as profane as it sounds--went to the telephone and impersonating J. Mulligatawny Solon, Member of Congress from the Chillicothe District, rang up Midas, Croesus, and Dives, the eminent bankers, and recommended Pythias as the only man this side of the planet Mars who could stave off the ruthless destruction of their interests by an uncontrolled body of lawmakers." "Yes," said Mr. Brief. "I read all that, and it was almost as unreal as a page out of the Arabian Nights." "Wasn't it!" said the Idiot. "And yet how simple! Well, that's my scheme in a nutshell, only I am going to do the thing as a pure matter of business, and not merely to show the purity of my affection for any Pythian dependent. "To show just how the plan will work under my supervision let us take your case first, Mr. Poet. Here you are this morning with your board bill already passed to its third reading, with Mrs. Pedagog tacking amendments on to the end of it with every passing day. Unfortunately for you in your emergent hour, the editors either view your manuscripts with suspicion or, what is more likely, refuse to look at them at all. They care nothing for your aspirations or your inspirations. "Your immediate prospect holds nothing in sight save the weary parcel postman, with his bent form, delivering daily at your door eleven-pound packages of unappreciated sonnets. You do not dare think on the morrow, what ye shall eat, and wherewithal shall ye be clothed, because no man liveth who can purchase the necessities of life with rejection slips--those checks on the Banks of Ambition, payable in the editors' regrets." "By George," blurted the Poet feelingly, "you're dead right about that, old man. If editors' regrets were legal tender, I could pay off the national debt." "Precisely," said the Idiot. "And it is just here, my dear friend, that the U. S. Telephonic Aid Society rushes to your assistance. Your case is brought to the society's attention, and I, as President, Secretary, Treasurer, and General Manager of the institution, look into the matter at once. "I find your work meritorious. No editor has ever rejected it because it lacked literary merit. He even goes so far as to print a statement of that fact upon the slip he sends back with it on its homeward journey. Like most other poets you need a little food once in awhile. A roof to cover your head is essential to your health, and under the existing laws of society you simply must wear clothes when you appear in public, and it becomes the Society's worthy job to aid you in getting all these things. "So we close a contract providing that for ten dollars down and fifteen per cent. of the gross future receipts, I, or the Society, agree to secure the publication of your sonnets, rondeaux, limericks, and triolets in the Hyperion Magazine." "That would be bully if you could only pull it off," said the Poet, falling naturally into the terminology of Milton. "But I don't just see how you're going to turn the trick." "On the regular 'Damon and Pythias' principle, as set forth in the newspapers," said the Idiot. "Immediately the contract between us is signed, I rush to the nearest pay station and ring up the editor of the Hyperion Magazine, and when I get him on the line we converse as follows: "Me--Is this the editor of the Hyperion Magazine? "Editor--Ubetcha. Who are you? "Me--I'm President Wilson, down at the White House. "Editor--Glad to hear from you, Mr. President. Got any more of that new Freedom stuff on hand? We are thinking of running a Department of Humor in the Hyperion, and with a little editing I think we could use a couple of carloads of it. "Me--Why, yes, Mr. Bluepencil. I think I have a bale or two of remnants in cold storage down at Trenton. But really that isn't what I am after this morning. I wanted to say to you officially, but confidentially, of course, that my Ambassador to Great Britain has just cabled his resignation to the State Department. What with a little breakfast he gave last week to the President of France and his tips at his own presentation to the King, he has already spent four years' salary, and he does not feel that he can afford to stay over there much after the first of September. "Editor--I'm on. I getcha. "Me--Now, of course, I've got to fill his place right away, and it struck me that you were just the man for the job. In the first place you are tolerably familiar with the language they speak in and about the Court of St. James's. I am told by mutual friends that you eat peas with a fork, can use a knife without cutting your lip, and have an intuitive apprehension of the subtle distinctions between a finger-bowl and a sauterne glass. It has also been brought to my attention that your advertising pages have for years been consistent advocates, in season and out, of the use of grape juice as a refreshing beverage for nervous Ambassadors. "Editor--That's right, Mr. President. "Me--Well, of course, all of this makes you unquestionably _persona grata_ to us, and I think it should make you a novel and interesting feature of diplomatic life along Piccadilly. "Editor--It sounds good to me, Mr. President. "Me--Now to come to the difficulties in our way--and that is what I have rung you up to talk about. There seems to be but one serious objection to your appointment, Mr. Bluepencil. At a Cabinet meeting called yesterday to discuss the matter, Mr. McAdoo expressed the fear that if you go away for four years the quality of the poetry in the Hyperion Magazine will fall off. In this contention, Mr. McAdoo was supported by the Secretary of Agriculture, whose name escapes me at this moment, with the Postmaster General and the Secretary of War on the fence. Mr. Daniels was not present, having gone West to launch a battleship at Omaha. But in any event there is where the matter rests at this moment. "For my own part, however, after giving the matter prayerful consideration, I think I can see a way out. The whole Cabinet is very much interested in the poems of Willie Wimpleton Spondy, the boy Watson. McAdoo is constantly quoting from him. The Postmaster General has even gone so far as to advocate the extension of the franking privilege to him, and as for myself, I have made it a practice for the last five years to begin every day by reciting one of his limericks before my assembled family. "Editor--I never heard of the boob. "Me--Well, you hear of him now, and the whole thing comes down to this: Mr. Spondy will call at your office with a couple of bales of his stuff at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and you might have something besides a pink rejection slip dripping with regrets ready for him. I don't know what his rates are, but his stuff runs about ninety pounds to the bale, and what that comes to at fifty per you can figure out for yourself. "Editor--How does Champ Clark stand on this thing? "Me--He and Tommie Marshall are with us to the last tintinnabulation of the gong. "Editor--Then I am to understand just what, Mr. President? "Me--That you don't go to England on our account until we are absolutely assured beyond peradvanture that there will be no deterioration in the quality of Hyperion poetry during your absence. "Editor--All right. Send the guy around this afternoon. He can send the bale by slow freight. We always pay in advance anyhow." The Idiot paused to take breath. "Then what?" asked the Poet dubiously. "You go around and get what's coming to you," said the Idiot. "Or perhaps it would be better to send a messenger boy for it. The more impersonal we make this business the better." "I see," said the Poet dejectedly. "But even at that, Mr. Idiot, when the Hyperion man doesn't get the Ambassadorship, won't he sue me to recover?" "Oh, well," said the Idiot wearily, "you've got to assume some of the burdens of the business yourself. We can't do it all, you know. But suppose they do sue you? You never heard of a magazine recovering anything from a poet, did you? You'd get a heap of free advertising out of such a lawsuit, and if you were canny enough to put out a book of your verses while the newspapers were full of it, they'd go off like hot cakes, and you could retire with a cool million." "And where do I come in?" asked the Doctor. "Don't I get any of these plums of prosperity your Telephonic Aid Society is to place within the reach of all?" "On payment of the fee of ten dollars, and signing the regular contract," said the Idiot. "I'll do my best for you. In your case I should impersonate our good old friend Andrew Rockernegie. Acting in that capacity I would ring up Mr. John D. Reddymun, and you'd hear something like this: "Me--Hello, Reddy--is this you? "Reddymun--Yes. Who's this? "Me--This is Uncle Andy. How's the leg this morning? "Reddymun--Oh, so so. "Me--Everybody pulling it, I suppose? "Reddymun--About the same as usual. It's curious, Andrew, how many people are attached to my limb, and how few are attached to me. "Me--Yes, it's a cold and cruel world, John. But I'm through. I've found the way out. They'll never pull my leg again. "Reddymun--By George, old man, I wish I could say as much. "Me--Well, you can if you'll only do what I did. "Reddymun--What's that? "Me--Had it cut off. "Reddymun--No! "Me--Yep! "Reddymun--When? "Me--Just now. "Reddymun--Hurt? "Me--Never knew what was happening. "Reddymun--Who did it? "Me--Old Doctor Squills. He charged me ten thousand dollars for the job, but I figure it out that it has saved me six hundred and thirty three million dollars. "Reddymun--Send him around, will you? "Me--Ubetcha!" "And then?" said the Doctor. "And then?" echoed the Idiot. "Well, if you don't know what you would do if you were offered ten thousand dollars to cut a man's leg off I can't teach you, but I have one piece of advice to give you. When you get the order don't go around there with a case full of teaspoons and soup-ladles, when all you need is a good sharp carving knife to land you in the lap of luxury!" "And do you men think for one single moment," cried the Landlady, "that all this would be honest business?" "Well, in the very nature of the case it would be a trifle 'phoney'," said the Idiot, "but what can a man do these days, with his bills getting bigger and bigger every day?" "I'd leave 'em unpaid first!" sniffed the Landlady contemptuously. "Oh, very well," smiled the Idiot. "With your permission, ma'am, we will. You don't know what a load you have taken off my mind." VIII FOR TIRED BUSINESS MEN "Poor old Binks!" said the Idiot sympathetically, as he put down a letter just received from his friend and turned his attention to the waffles. "He's spending the good old Summer time in a sanitarium, just because he thinks he's got nervous prostration, and the Lord knows when he'll be back in harness again." "Who's Binks?" asked the Lawyer. "You talk as if the name of Binks were a household word." "Well, it is, in a way," said the Idiot. "Binks is one of those tired business men that we hear so much of these days. The kind they write comic operas and popular novels for, with all the thought taken out so that he may not have to burden his mind with anything worth thinking about. He's one of these billionaire slaves who's lost his thumb cutting off coupons and employs seventeen clerks with rubber stamps to sign his checks for him. He's succumbed to the strain of it all at last, and now the gobelins have got him. Do you approve of these sanitariums, Doctor?" "I most certainly do," said the Doctor. "Sanitariums are the greatest blessings of modern life, and, for my part, I'd like to see a law passed requiring everybody to spend a month in one of them every year of his life, where he could be under constant scientific supervision. It would add ten years to the lives of every one of us." "Well, I hope you are right, but I don't know," said the Idiot dubiously. "Seems to me there's too much coddling going on at those places, and mighty few people get well on coddling. I've given the matter some thought, and I've known a lot of men who had nothing but a pain in their toe who got so much sympathy over it that they became hopeless invalids inside of a year. There's more truth than humor in that joke about the little Irish boy who was asked how his mother was and replied that she was enjoying poor health this year." "O, that's all tommyrot," said the Doctor. "Perfect nonsense--" "I hope so," said the Idiot, "but after all nobody can deny that there are a great many people in this world who really do enjoy bad health who wouldn't if it weren't for the perquisites." "Perquisites?" frowned the Bibliomaniac. "Great Heavens, Mr. Idiot, you don't mean to insinuate that there is graft in ill health, just as there is in everything else, do you?" "I sure do," replied the Idiot. "Take me, for instance--" "I for one must decline to take you until I know whether you are a chronic disorder, or merely a temporary epidemic," grinned Mr. Brief. "Idiocy is pretty contagious," smiled the Idiot, in reply, "but in this case I wish to be taken as a patient. Let us say, for instance, that I am off in the country at a popular hotel, and all of a sudden some fine morning I come down with a headache--" "That's a debatable hypothesis," said the Lawyer. "Is it possible for the Idiot to have a headache, Doctor?" "I have known similar cases," said the Doctor. "I knew an old soldier once who lost his leg at Gettysburg, and years afterward could still feel the twinges of rheumatism in one of his lost toes." "Thanks for the vindication, Doctor," said the Idiot. "Nevertheless, just to please our learned brother here, I will modify the hypothesis. "Let us suppose that I am off in the country at a popular summer hotel, and all of a sudden some fine morning I come down with a violent pain in that anatomical void where my head would be if, like Mr. Brief, I always suffered from one. I am not sick enough to stay in bed, but just badly enough off to be able to loll around the hotel piazzas all morning and look forlorn. "Everybody in the place, of course, is immediately sympathetic. All are sorry for me, and it is such an unusual thing for one of my volatile, not to say fluffy, nature to suffer that a vast amount of commiseration is manifested by my fellow guests, especially by the ladies. "They turn me at once into a suffering hero. As I lie listlessly in my steamer-chair they pass me by on tip-toe, or pause and inquire into the progress of my aches and show a great deal more interest in my condition than they do in bridge or votes for women. One fetching young creation in polka-dotted dimity, aged twenty-three, offers to stay home from a picnic and read Robert W. Chambers aloud to me. Another goes to her room and brings me down a little jar of mint jelly, which she feeds to me on the end of a macaroon or a lady finger, while still a third, a pretty little widow of twenty-seven summers, now and then leaves her embroidery to put a cool little hand on my forehead to see if I have any fever--" "A most alluring picture," said the Doctor. "It almost makes my head ache to think of it!" said the Idiot. "But to continue, this goes on all morning, and then when afternoon comes they hang a nice little hammock for me, filled with dainty sofa cushions, out under the trees, and as they gently swing me to and fro a charming creature from Wellesley or Vassar sits alongside of me and fans my fevered brow, driving away dull care, flies, and mosquitoes until twilight, when, after feeding me on more macaroons, washed down with copious libations of sparkling lemonade, a bevy of elfin maids sit around in a circle and sing 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean', while the aforesaid little widow comes now and then to brush my scalp-lock back from my brow with the aforesaid pink paddy." "Oh, well, what of it?" interrupted the Doctor. "I've known many a stronger man than you made a fool of--" "What of it?" demanded the Idiot. "What of it? There's a lot of it. Do you suppose for one minute that I am going to get well under those circumstances?" "I wouldn't," said the Lawyer. "Not on your faith in the Materia Medica!" cried the Idiot. "That headache would become immortal. As undying as a poet's fame. Life would become for me one blissful eternity of cerebellian suffering under those conditions. Rather that lose my job as the cynosure of all that lovely solicitude I'd hire a bellboy to come to my room in the morning with a croquet mallet and hammer my head until it split, if I couldn't get one in any more legitimate fashion. "The quiet joy of lying off there with all those ministering angels about me, secretly enjoying the discomfiture of all the other men about the place--they nursing their wrath; their sisters, cousins, aunts, rich grandmothers, and best girls nursing me--get well? me? never, Doctor! "But if, on the other hand, nobody came near me all day long save a horse marine of a landlady armed with a bottle of squills, with the request that I go to bed until I felt better, why then I'd be a well man in just seven and a half minutes, dancing the tango, and challenging all the rheumaticky old beaux about the place to a hundred yards' dash for the fifteenth turkey trot with the little widow at the Saturday night hop." "Yes, I admit that there is such a thing as too much coddling," said the Doctor. "There are people who are inclined to hug their troubles, and for whom too much sympathy is a positive deterrent in the process of recuperation, but after all, my dear fellow, until we find something better the sanitarium must serve its purpose, and a great many people are unquestionably helped along by its beneficent operations." "I haven't a doubt of that," said the Idiot, "and here's to them! Long may they wave! I quaff this pony of maple syrup to the health of the sanitariums of the land--but just the same, for the tired business man, and his name is not only Smith, but Legion, there should be some other kind of an institution where this coddling process is frowned upon." "Why not devote that massive brain of yours to the working out of the idea?" suggested the Bibliomaniac. "The great trouble with you, Mr. Idiot, is that you are prolific in thinking out things that ought to be done, but there you stop. How to do them you never tell us. Why don't you give us a constructive notion once in awhile?" "Thank you, Mr. Bib," said the Idiot, with a grateful smile. "I've been fishing for that particular nibble for the past eighteen minutes, and I was beginning to fear the shad were shy this morning. You have saved the day, Sir. Speaking of Mr. Bib's idea that we ought to have something to take the place of the sanitarium for the tired business man, Doctor, how do you think an irritarium would pay?" "A what?" cried the Doctor, holding his waffle like Mohammed's coffin, suspended in midair. "An irritarium," repeated the Idiot. "An institution of aggravation, where, instead of being coddled into permanent invalidism, we should be constantly irritated, provoked, exacerbated, or, as my old friend Colonel Thesaurus says in his Essay on Excitation, exasperated into a cantankerously contentious pugnacity!" "And for what purpose, pray?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "As an anti-coddling resource for the restoration of our pristine powers," said the Idiot. "Just take our old friend, the tired business man, for example. He has been working forty-eight hours a day all winter long, and with the coming of spring he is first cousin to the frazzle, and in the matter of spine twin brother to the jellyfish. His middle name is Flabby, and his nerve has succumbed to the superior numbers of nerves. "He is headed straight for the Down-and-Out Club. His lip quivers when he talks, and his hand is the center of a seismic disturbance that turns his autograph into a cross between a dress pattern and a futurist conception of a straight line in the cold gray dawn of the morning after. He has prolonged fits of weeping, and when it comes to making up his mind on any definite course of action he vacillates between two possibilities until it is too late, and then decides wrong. "Now, under present conditions they railroad this poor wreck off to a sanitarium, where the very atmosphere that he breathes is the dread thing that has haunted his sleepless hours all winter long--that of retirement. He is made to believe that he is a vurry, vurry sick man, and the only real pleasure that is left to him is bragging about his symptoms to some other unfortunate incarcerated with him; and after each period of boastful exposure of these symptoms in the exchange provided for the swapping of these things in the sanitariums of the day, he goes back to his room more than ever convinced that his case is hopeless; and, confronted by the bogey of everlasting ill health, he lets go of himself altogether and a long, long, tedious period of rehabilitation begins which may or may not get him into shape again in time for the fall season." "It's the only way," said the Doctor. "Don't fight your doctor. Just let go of yourself, and let him do the rest." "Well, I'd like to see my system tried for a while," said the Idiot. "I'll guarantee that any tired business man who will go to my irritarium will get his spine and his spunk, his nerve and his dander, back in a jiffy. "The first morning, after giving him a first-class breakfast that fills his weary soul with peace, I'd turn him loose in a picture gallery on the walls of which are hung soft, dreamy reproductions of pastoral scenes calculated to lull his soul into an unsuspecting sense of calm, and while he is looking placidly at these lovely things I'd have a husky attendant wearing sneakers creep quietly up behind him and give him such a kick as should for a moment make him feel that the earth itself had blown up. It wouldn't be a pleasant, sympathetic little love tap calculated to make him feel that he never even wanted to get well, but a violent, exacerbating assault; utterly uncalled for and unexpected; a bit of sheer, brutal provocation. "Do you suppose for an instant that the party of the second part would throw himself down forthwith upon a convenient divan and give way to a fit of weeping? Not he, my dear Doctor. The tire of that tired business man would blow out with a report like a crash of distant thunder. All the latent business manhood in him would be aroused into instant action. Nerves would fly, and nerve would return. Spinelessness and uncertainty would give way to spunk, and a promptitude of truculent reprisal worthy of the palmiest days of his commercial pre-eminence would ensue. Worn and weary as he was when he entered the irritarium, he would be so outraged by the rank discourtesy and utter injustice of that kick that he would beat up that attendant as if he were a world's champion battling with a bowlful of cold consommé for a ten-thousand-dollar purse." "Tush!" said the Doctor. "What do you suppose the attendant would be doing all this time? You seem to think your tired business man would find beating him up as easy as mashing potatoes with a pile driver." "It would be part of my system," said the Idiot, "that the attendant should allow himself to be thrashed, so that the tired business man, irritated into a show of spirit and deceived into thinking that he was still some fighter, would leave the place next day, his courage renewed and his confidence in himself completely restored. Instead of inoculating him with Nut chops and hot water for a weary period of six months, I'd pin the red badge of courage on him at the very start; and I miss my guess if he wouldn't go back to business the next morning as fit as a fiddle, and spend most of his time for the next two years telling everybody who would listen how he walloped the life out of one of the huskiest attendants he could find in a month of Sundays." "And you really think such brutal methods would work, do you?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "I have eight dollars that are willing to state it is a fact to any two-dollar certificate ever printed by Uncle Sam," returned the Idiot. "Why, Mr. Bib, I had a very dear friend once who was paralyzed. So completely paralyzed was he that he couldn't move without help, and, what was worse, couldn't even talk. "He went to a sanitarium, and for seven long and weary months he was dipped in a warm bath every morning by two attendants, an Irishman and a Dutchman. One held him by the shoulders and the other by the ankles, and day after day for nearly a year they dipped, and dipped, and dipped him. He showed no signs of improvement whatsoever until one bitterly cold winter's morning, the two attendants, having been off on a spree the night before, forgot to turn on the hot-water faucet and dipped him into a tub of ice water! "The effect was electrical. The patient was so mad that he impulsively broke the dam of silence that had afflicted him for so long and let loose a flow of language on those attendants that made the wrath to come seem like the twittering of a bird; and before they had recovered from their astonishment he had leaped from the tub, pinked the Irishman on the eye with a cake of soap, and, after chasing the Dutchman downstairs into the parlor, spanked him into a state of coma with a long-handled bath brush he had picked up off the floor." "And I suppose he is giving lessons in the tango to-day!" interjected the Lawyer, with a laugh. "Nothing so mild," said the Idiot. "The last time I saw him he was starting off with old man Weston on his walk to Chicago. He told me he was going as far as Albany with Weston." "Well," said the Doctor, "it might work, but I doubt it. I should have to see the scheme in operation before I recommended it to any of my patients." "All right," said the Idiot. "Send 'em along, Doctor. Mr. Bib and I can take care of them right here." "Leave me out," snapped the Bibliomaniac. "I don't care to be a partner in any of your idiotic nonsense." "No, Mr. Bib," smiled the Idiot, genially. "I wasn't going to use you as a partner, but as a shining example of the effectiveness of my theory. I've been irritating you constantly for the past twenty years, and you are still able to eat your thirty-seven and a half flapjacks daily without turning a hair, and that's some testimonial." 
2425	----	Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk. Proofing by Andy McLauchan and David Stapleton. A BUNDLE OF LETTERS by Henry James CHAPTER I FROM MISS MIRANDA MOPE, IN PARIS, TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. MOPE, AT BANGOR, MAINE. September 5th, 1879. My dear mother--I have kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, I will begin another before my news accumulates too much. I am glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I am doing, and I can't write to every one, though I try to answer all reasonable expectations. But there are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know--not yours, dear mother, for I am bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see you are reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else. There is one thing, I hope--that you don't show any of my letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters, he knows the right way to go to work. I wouldn't have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one for himself, he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first, and then I will see about answering him. You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, I will never write to you again. I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing the Channel, and my first impressions of Paris. I have thought a great deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic scenes I visited; but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a country in which I should care to reside. The position of woman does not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is a point, you know, on which I feel very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a very faded-out part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied, which made me want to give them a good shaking. There are a great many people--and a great many things, too--over here that I should like to perform that operation upon. I should like to shake the starch out of some of them, and the dust out of the others. I know fifty girls in Bangor that come much more up to my notion of the stand a truly noble woman should take, than those young ladies in England. But they had a most lovely way of speaking (in England), and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (You can show this to William Platt, if you like.) I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up to my expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate is remarkably cheerful and sunny. I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the American standard. The manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that I am indeed in _foreign parts_. It is, however, a truly elegant city (very superior to New York), and I have spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and palaces. I won't give you an account of all my wanderings, though I have been most indefatigable; for I am keeping, as I told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which I will allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to Bangor. I am getting on remarkably well, and I must say I am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. It only shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish. I have discovered none of these objections to a young lady travelling in Europe by herself of which we heard so much before I left, and I don't expect I ever shall, for I certainly don't mean to look for them. I know what I want, and I always manage to get it. I have received a great deal of politeness--some of it really most pressing, and I have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I have made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks. I have collected a great deal of information, for which I refer you to my journal. I assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing. I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right; and at any rate, I don't care if I don't. I didn't come to Europe to lead a merely conventional life; I could do that at Bangor. You know I never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn't likely I am going to make myself miserable over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire, and make my money hold out, I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather lonely, especially in the evening; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. In the evening I usually read up about the objects of interest I have visited during the day, or I post up my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre; or else I play the piano in the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn't much; but the piano is better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House. Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books--a French lady, who is remarkably polite. She is very pretty, and always wears a black dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me a great deal of information about the position of woman in France, and much of it is very encouraging. But she has told me at the same time some things that I should not like to write to you (I am hesitating even about putting them into my journal), especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. I assure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, or even of thinking about. She seems to think she can tell me everything, because I told her I was travelling for general culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that I think I don't want to know. But, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don't mean only everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I feel really as if I should gain all I desire. I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here. The people over here--especially the gentlemen--are much more what I should call _attentive_. I don't know whether Americans are more _sincere_; I haven't yet made up my mind about that. The only drawback I experience is when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be travelling round alone; so you see it doesn't come from Europeans. I always have my answer ready; "For general culture, to acquire the languages, and to see Europe for myself;" and that generally seems to satisfy them. Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it _is_ real interesting. CHAPTER II FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. September 16th. Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family. It's a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it's not like an American hoarding-house, nor like an American school either. There are four or five people here that have come to learn the language--not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation. I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with the French. It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language. I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor. In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor, from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel. The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn't bear to let her know I didn't like it. The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken. I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don't buy anything--I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture--I don't have that advantage. I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs. I was a good deal troubled, for I felt as if I didn't want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of French conversation. The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my last, I go a good deal to places of amusement. I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter everywhere. I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I. But at the theatre every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it is unnecessary to learn. But it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put me on the track. The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the principal theatres in Paris. It is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance attached only to _first-class_ objects of interest. But after I had been there half an hour I found I couldn't understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions. I felt a good deal disappointed and troubled--I was afraid I shouldn't gain all I had come for. But while I was thinking it over--thinking what I _should_ do--I heard two gentlemen talking behind me. It was between the acts, and I couldn't help listening to what they said. They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans. "Well," said one of them, "it all depends on what you are after. I'm French; that's what I'm after." "Well," said the other, "I'm after Art." "Well," said the first, "I'm after Art too; but I'm after French most." Then, dear mother, I am sorry to say the second one swore a little. He said, "Oh, damn French!" "No, I won't damn French," said his friend. "I'll acquire it--that's what I'll do with it. I'll go right into a family." "What family'll you go into?" "Into some French family. That's the only way to do--to go to some place where you can talk. If you're after Art, you want to stick to the galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room; you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But, if you want to acquire French, the thing is to look out for a family. There are lots of French families here that take you to board and teach you. My second cousin--that young lady I told you about--she got in with a crowd like that, and they booked her right up in three months. They just took her right in and they talked to her. That's what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk _at_ you. You've got to understand them; you can't help yourself. That family my cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with them. They were very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin corresponded with them in French. But I mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!" I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the family that she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away; so I sat still. The other gentleman, however, didn't seem to be affected in the same way as I was. "Well," he said, "you may follow up that if you like; I mean to follow up the pictures. I don't believe there is ever going to be any considerable demand in the United States for French; but I can promise you that in about ten years there'll be a big demand for Art! And it won't be temporary either." That remark may be very true, but I don't care anything about the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. I don't want to think I have been all this while without having gained an insight . . . The very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation. She instantly threw up her hands, with several little shrill cries (in their French way, you know), and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she had not spoken of it herself, because she didn't wish to injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away. She told me this was a charming family, who had often received American ladies (and others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I should be delighted with them. So she gave me their address, and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry that I went off by myself; and I had no trouble in finding these good people. They were delighted to receive me, and I was very much pleased with what I saw of them. They seemed to have plenty of conversation, and there will be no trouble about that. I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I have seen a great deal of them. The price of board struck me as rather high; but I must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown in. I have a very pretty little room--without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains. I was rather disappointed after I arrived to find that there are several other Americans here for the same purpose as myself. At least there are three Americans and two English people; and also a German gentleman. I am afraid, therefore, our conversation will be rather mixed, but I have not yet time to judge. I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can (she is the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters). They are all most elegant, interesting women, and I am sure we shall become intimate friends. I will write you more about them in my next. Tell William Platt I don't care what he does. CHAPTER III FROM MISS VIOLET RAY, IN PARIS, TO MISS AGNES RICH, IN NEW YORK. September 21st. We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would have to come right back to New York. It was for something about his business--I don't know exactly what; you know I never understand those things, never want to. We had just got settled at the hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine, were greatly annoyed. Father is extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back with him. He declared he would never leave us in Paris alone, and that we must return and come out again. I don't know what he thought would happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. It's father's theory that we are always running up bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ FOR MONTHS. But father has no observation; he has nothing but theories. Mother and I, however, have, fortunately, a great deal of _practice_, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn't budge from Paris, and that we would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. So, at last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months. But, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at the hotel, and insisted that we should go into a _family_. I don't know what put such an idea into his head, unless it was some advertisement that he saw in one of the American papers that are published here. There are families here who receive American and English people to live with them, under the pretence of teaching them French. You may imagine what people they are--I mean the families themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence. He worries and fusses; he "nags," as we used to say at school; and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured. Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, I have to succumb. You should have heard the way father went on about this "family" plan; he talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker's and talk to the people there--the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that I should perfect my French; that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. They were none of them good, but that made no difference. It's all humbug, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made. We have been economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it. As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be. (I assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when I get a little more practice in the genders and the idioms, I shall do very well in this respect.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his point, as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and, after holding out alone for three days, I told them to do with me what they pleased! Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he is like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith's "Deserted Village"--"e'en though vanquished, he would argue still." He and mother went to look at some seventeen families (they had got the addresses somewhere), while I retired to my sofa, and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements, and I was transported to the establishment from which I now write you. I write you from the bosom of a Parisian menage--from the depths of a second-rate boarding-house. Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably settled here, and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge (the mistress of the establishment--the head of the "family") that he wished my French pronunciation especially attended to. The pronunciation, as it happens, is just what I am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in Europe. He will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected, in this place, where we have been for about a week. I was sure, before we came, that it would prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but I must say that, in this respect, I am agreeably disappointed. The French are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind. Of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don't know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here. Our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is remarkably good. Mamma thinks the whole thing--the place and the people, the manners and customs--very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused. As for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone, and not to have people's society forced upon me. I have never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties, I don't suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place is very well managed, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you know, is my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a great deal of tact--much more than poor father. She is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style. She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a _dame de comptoir_. I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us. She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her. Some day she will poison the soup or the _vin rouge_; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her. She has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself. The "family," for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots, and of still more beloved Englanders. There is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. He is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate. There is a very pleasant little Frenchman--when they are nice they are charming--and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me. One of them is a young man from Boston,--an aesthetic young man, who talks about its being "a real Corot day," etc., and a young woman--a girl, a female, I don't know what to call her--from Vermont, or Minnesota, or some such place. This young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible. I have been three times to Clementine about your underskirt, etc. CHAPTER IV FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN PARIS, TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN BOSTON. September 25th. My dear Harvard--I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before. It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. There is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World, and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track. I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover. But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about--the things that happen to people in novels and biographies. And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for experiences, for sensations--I might almost say for adventures. The great thing is to _live_, you know--to feel, to be conscious of one's possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, like a letter through the post-office. There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything--capable _de tout_, as they say here--of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. Oh, to be able to say that one has lived--_qu'on a vecu_, as they say here--that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people believe you! And, then, I don't want any second-hand, spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace--that leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it! But I am afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you. If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself; you will know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of _real French life_. You are acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into the French way of looking at life. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic. I don't think that in Boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can't _live--on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I don't mean one can't reside--for a great many people manage that; but one can't live aesthetically--I may almost venture to say, sensuously. This is why I have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so aesthetic, so sensuous. I am so sorry that Theophile Gautier has passed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not aesthetic, and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. If I had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go clandestinely--_en cachette_, as they say here; and that is not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _naivement, au grand jour_. That is the great thing--to be free, to be frank, to be _naif_. Doesn't Matthew Arnold say that somewhere--or is it Swinburne, or Pater? When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial; and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong. They were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and what is life but an art? Pater has said that so well, somewhere. With the Johnsons I am afraid I lost many opportunities; the tone was gray and cottony, I might almost say woolly. But now, as I tell you, I have determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European life, and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices. I have taken up my residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house. You see I have the courage of my opinions; I don't shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to _live_. You know I have always been intensely interested in Balzac, who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost _lurid_ pictures of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. I am only sorry that my new friends--my French family--do not live in the old city--_au coeur du vieux Paris_, as they say here. They live only in the Boulevard Haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this they have a great deal of the Balzac tone. Madame de Maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France; but she has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who have the sense of local colour--she explains it herself; she expresses it so well--in short, to open a sort of boarding-house. I don't see why I should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the correlative of the term _pension bourgeoise_, employed by Balzac in the _Pere Goriot_. Do you remember the _pension bourgeoise_ of Madame Vauquer _nee_ de Conflans? But this establishment is not at all like that: and indeed it is not at all _bourgeois_; there is something distinguished, something aristocratic, about it. The Pension Vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, _graisseuse_; but this is in quite a different tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines. Madame de Maisonrouge reminds me of Madame Hulot--do you remember "la belle Madame Hulot?"--in _Les Barents Pauvres_. She has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little suggestion of hidden things in her life; but I have always been sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity. I am rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it is not so local, so characteristic, as I could have desired. Indeed, to tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that. We are French, we are English, we are American, we are German; and, I believe, there are some Russians and Hungarians expected. I am much interested in the study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, the point of view of each. It is interesting to shift one's point of view--to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking at life. The American types here are not, I am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself; are exclusively feminine. We are _thin_, my dear Harvard; we are pale, we are sharp. There is something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness. We lack temperament; we don't know how to live; _nous ne savons pas vivre_, as they say here. The American temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and I often think that my temperament is not at all American) by a young girl and her mother, and another young girl without her mother--without her mother or any attendant or appendage whatever. These young girls are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don't go far; they don't keep all they promise; they don't satisfy the imagination. They are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows (that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother) that are abundant. They are very different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of high fashion, from New York; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed, straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England. And yet they are very much alike too--more alike than they would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold, mistrustful, deprecating looks. They are both specimens of the emancipated young American girl--practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. And yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk with them, to study them. The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me--if every one is as "intellectual" as your poor correspondent. She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can't get rid of Boston. The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race. Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone--"to see it," she says, "for herself." For herself! What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions! She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless! It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking. By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet! She has a sweet Gainsborough head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a sage-green robe, "mystic, wonderful," all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons. The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream--to _donnor a rever_, as they say here? I think that a great aesthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in England, for all the world to see. There are spirits there that I should like to commune with; I think they would understand me. This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediaeval and Gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn't it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque. She is much a woman--elle _est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls I spoke of just now. Not much talk--a great, sweet silence. Then the violet eye--the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment! As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type. She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young Englishman. He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic. CHAPTER V FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. September 26th. You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present and, if I don't write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour. The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family. It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn't expect to find it in a place like this. I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I have a lesson every day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in. Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible. I have _extra private lessons_ from him, and I often go out to walk with him. Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera. We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together. Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him. He is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite--paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid, are not always _sincere_. When I return to Bangor I will tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful _in their way_. The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn't understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much. I sometimes think that at Bangor they don't express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you _can_ say, before you try. At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don't make any effort. (I don't say this in the least for William Platt, _in particular_.) I am sure I don't know what they will think of me when I get back. It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? I have become very good friends with every one in the house--that is (you see, I _am_ sincere), with _almost_ every one. It is the most interesting circle I ever was in. There's a girl here, an American, that I don't like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won't let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn't seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant--in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here. But it seems as if she didn't want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call "haughty" in books. I have never seen any one like that before--any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day, "haughty, haughty," and I wished she would keep on so. But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt. I couldn't think what I have done, and I can't think yet. It's as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something. If some girls should behave like that I shouldn't make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I am bound to find out what her reason is--for of course she has got some reason; I am right down curious to know. I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room--they tell me she has got a lovely room--and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same. She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have to ask everybody in the house. I _am_ right down curious. I wonder if she doesn't think me refined--or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can't think it is that. Don't you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention she received? And you know Clara _is_ Bangor, to the soles of her shoes. Ask William Platt--so long as he isn't a native--if he doesn't consider Clara Barnard refined. Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another American in the house--a gentleman from Boston--who is just crowded with it. His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name, I think), and he is about thirty years old. He is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him--he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions. It's in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier--not so complimentary, but more intellectual. He is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never have gained without him; I shouldn't have known where to look for such ideas. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don't make near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here; but I couldn't help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don't think we do. If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them back, to hang up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good--not the pictures, but the Bangor folks. He thinks everything of the French, too, and says we don't make nearly enough of _them_. I couldn't help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves. But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for. I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong--a stolen pleasure. I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off. But it seems as if I couldn't help taking a peep now and then, in advance--with a Bostonian. I don't know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain not to want when I carry out my dream. He is just as full of culture as he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are. There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn't seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn French, and just try to learn to speak our own tongue as these English speak it. It isn't the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice. It seems as if they must _try_ a good deal to talk like that; but these English that are here don't seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They are a young lady and her brother. I believe they belong to some noble family. I have had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I have felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans--on account of the language. It seems as if in talking with them I was almost learning a new one. I never supposed, when I left Bangor, that I was coming to Europe to learn _English_! If I do learn it, I don't think you will understand me when I get back, and I don't think you'll like it much. I should be a good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor. However, I verily believe Bangor is the most critical place on earth; I have seen nothing like it over here. Tell them all I have come to the conclusion that they are _a great deal too fastidious_. But I was speaking about this English young lady and her brother. I wish I could put them before you. She is lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring. In spite of this, however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as I couldn't help noticing when one day I went out to walk with her. She was ever so much looked at; but she didn't seem to notice it, until at last I couldn't help calling attention to it. Mr. Leverett thinks everything of it; he calls it the "costume of the future." I should call it rather the costume of the past--you know the English have such an attachment to the past. I said this the other day to Madame do Maisonrouge--that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past. _De l'an passe, vous voulez dire_? said Madame, with her little French laugh (you can get William Platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew so much French). You know I told you, in writing some time ago, that I had tried to get some insight into the position of woman in England, and, being here with Miss Vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to get a little more. I have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn't seem able to give me much information. The first time I asked her she told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband, etc. She told me her own position was very good, because her father was some relation--I forget what--to a lord. She thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it were, it wouldn't depend upon that of your relations, even your nearest. I don't know much about lords, and it does try my patience (though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course that I should. I feel as if it were right to ask her as often as I can if she doesn't consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn't, and she confesses that she doesn't think she is equal to "Lady Something-or-other," who is the wife of that relation of her father. I try and persuade her all I can that she is; but it seems as if she didn't want to be persuaded; and when I ask her if Lady So-and-so is of the same opinion (that Miss Vane isn't her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes, and says, "Of course she is!" When I tell her that this is right down bad for Lady So-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn't believe me, and the only answer she will make is that Lady So-and-so is "extremely nice." I don't believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn't have such ideas as that. I tell Miss Vane that at Bangor we think such ideas vulgar; but then she looks as though she had never heard of Bangor. I often want to shake her, though she _is_ so sweet. If she isn't angry with the people who make her feel that way, I am angry for her. I am angry with her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject. She thinks everything of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him, not only physically (for this _is_ natural, as he is enormously tall and strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually. She seems unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise what I have often heard--that if you are timid nothing will reason you out of it. Mr. Vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when I tell him, as I often think it right to do, that his sister is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and, perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in Bangor, were to treat me as he treates this poor young girl, who has not spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an indignation, meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage to the sanctity of womanhood--when I tell him all this, at breakfast or dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table. But at such a time as this there is always one person who seems interested in what I say--a German gentleman, a professor, who sits next to me at dinner, and whom I must tell you more about another time. He is very learned, and has a great desire for information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about them. I have to think a little, sometimes, to know what I did say, or what I do think. He takes you right up where you left off; and he is almost as fond of discussing things as William Platt is. He is splendidly educated, in the German style, and he told me the other day that he was an "intellectual broom." Well, if he is, he sweeps clean; I told him that. After he has been talking to me I feel as if I hadn't got a speck of dust left in my mind anywhere. It's a most delightful feeling. He says he's an observer; and I am sure there is plenty over here to observe. But I have told you enough for to-day. I don't know how much longer I shall stay here; I am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if I shouldn't need all the time I have laid out. I suppose your cold weather has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you. The fall weather here is very dull and damp, and I feel very much as if I should like to be braced up. CHAPTER VI FROM MISS EVELYN VANE, IN PARIS, TO THE LADY AUGUSTA FLEMING, AT BRIGHTON. Paris, September 30th. Dear Lady Augusta--I am afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg. I am so very, very sorry; it is a great disappointment to me. But I have just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to Hyeres, where Georgina has been ordered for her lungs. She has not been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and saw some three or four doctors. They all of them ordered the south of France, but they didn't agree about the place; so that mamma herself decided for Hyeres, because it is the most economical. I believe it is very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I am afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; I am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa's positive orders to make her stop in-doors. She is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn't seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to--talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc. She expected to begin to hunt in December, and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyeres. Fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds when her lungs are so bad! But I daresay that when she gets there she will he glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense. It may cure Georgina, but I am sure it will make the rest of us very ill. Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at Kingscote until February (about the 3d), when they will go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has turned out such a very nice person. She is going to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger children, to Hyeres, and I believe some of the Kingscote servants. She has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it is only a pity she has such an odd name. Mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might object. Lady Battledown makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives 5 pounds more a year for the purpose. I forget what it is she calls them; I think it's Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady's maid). Governesses shouldn't have too pretty a name; they shouldn't have a nicer name than the family. I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I did not go back to England with them. When it began to be talked about that Georgina should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in Paris for a month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to Hyeres. It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and gives me the opportunity to "finish" a little in French. You know Harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his French for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon. He came to live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it's a kind of coaching place, only kept by women. Mamma had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated me like an angel. He is getting on beautifully with his French; for though I don't think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. I am afraid I learn much less, but, fortunately, I have not to pass an examination--except if mamma takes it into her head to examine me. But she will have so much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won't occur to her. If it does, I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk. This is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and the Desmonds thought it _exceedingly odd_ that mamma should wish me to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it is because she is so very unconventional. But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good- natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the caravan (that's what he calls mamma and the children). The person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and _exceedingly foreign_; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything. The servants are not at all like English servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. Then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come. All this is very uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyeres. There, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people. There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter. One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. I don't believe he ever saw the sky except through the window--pane. The other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject. Harold says he is mad. It is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn't know. I mean that one doesn't know as one knows them in England. The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma wouldn't like the mother, who is rather vulgar. The other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone. I think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems. She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions--wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc. I don't see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful--except for papa dying. But Harold says she is mad. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can't answer him, though she is rather clever too. There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I am so very sorry about giving up my visit. I am afraid you will never ask me again. CHAPTER VII FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE. September 28th. My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and _je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper_, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. _Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences_--in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure _poindre a l'horizon_ was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less. Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity? You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee. But I needn't remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. But don't let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; _ces demoiselles_ have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. Excuse me--I comprehend your impatience. I will tell you of whom _ces demoiselles_ consist. You have heard me speak of my _cousine_ de Maisonrouge, that grande _belle femme_, who, after having married, _en secondes_ noces--there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask me how she managed it, I can't tell you; it's no business of mine, and, _a fortiori_ none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen). Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of _pension_ for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire--or of Zola. The idea _lui a porte bonheur_; the shop does a very good business. Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt. My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her _pensionnaires_. I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips. The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me. Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. My cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying. She has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face--by which I mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane. Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se laisser aller_! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than with the others. _Que voulez-vous_? The English are heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement, however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the pottage simmer. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well occupied with her _concurrentes_. _Celles-ci_ don't keep me waiting, _par exemple_! These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the national character to move fast. "All right--go ahead!" (I am learning a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.) They go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up. One of them is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really _une file prodigieuse_. _Ah, par exemple, elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la_! She threw herself into my arms the very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place. Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d'Apollon, at the Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account. _Non, c'est une file qui me depasse_. The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account _elle y met plus de facons_. She doesn't knock about Paris with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the _petit salon_, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o'clock, when every one is _a la promenade_. She is admirable, this little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to her. She takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely--oh, completely! However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the _petit salon_, but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are not, my good Prosper; we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity. My _cousine_ is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. Miss Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn't the adorable _rougeurs_ of the little Anglaise. But she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the _tour du monde_ entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose of seeing for herself _a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les choses--on les hommes_ particularly. _Dis donc_, Prosper, it must be a _drole de pays_ over there, where young persons animated by this ardent curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables, some day, thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that we should go and find them _chez elles_, as that they should come out here after us. _Dis donc, mon gras Prosper_ . . . CHAPTER VIII FROM DR. RUDOLF STAUB, IN PARIS, TO DR. JULIUS HIRSCH, AT GOTTINGEN. My dear brother in Science--I resume my hasty notes, of which I sent you the first instalment some weeks ago. I mentioned then that I intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and national. It was kept by a Pomeranian, and the waiters, without exception, were from the Fatherland. I fancied myself at Berlin, Unter den Linden, and I reflected that, having taken the serious step of visiting the head-quarters of the Gallic genius, I should try and project myself; as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity. It seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the country. I accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure French extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the Parisian system of sense- gratification, by providing food and lodging for a limited number of distinguished strangers. I should have preferred to have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery, of very good appearance, which I speedily discovered in the same street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself; was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman with a mathematical head), and I have consoled myself for the extra expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners of my companions, and of observing the French nature at a peculiarly physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the _taste_, which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of exhalation, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable by a properly adjusted instrument. I have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (I mean the one I carry in my good square German head), and I am not afraid of losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon the plate of my observation. A prepared surface is what I need, and I have prepared my surface. Unfortunately here, also, I find the individual native in the minority. There are only four French persons in the house--the individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women, and one a man. This preponderance of the feminine element is, however, in itself characteristic, as I need not remind you what an abnormally--developed part this sex has played in French history. The remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but I hesitate to classify him so superficially. He appears to me less human than simian, and whenever I hear him talk I seem to myself to have paused in the street to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols of a hairy _homunculus_ form an accompaniment. I mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage, in consequence of my German nationality, had proved completely unfounded. No one seems to know or to care what my nationality is, and I am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too narrowly. This, I confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and I have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the anomaly. My determination to take up my abode in a French interior was largely dictated by the supposition that I should be substantially disagreeable to its inmates. I wished to observe the different forms taken by the irritation that I should naturally produce; for it is under the influence of irritation that the French character most completely expresses itself. My presence, however, does not appear to operate as a stimulus, and in this respect I am materially disappointed. They treat me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated differently, I was resigned in advance to be treated worse. I have not, as I say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is the explanation to which I tend. The French are so exclusively occupied with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the German personality presented to them by the war of 1870, they have at present no distinct apprehension of its existence. They are not very sure that there are any Germans; they have already forgotten the convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years ago. A German was something disagreeable, which they determined to keep out of their conception of things. I therefore think that we are wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the _revanche_; the French nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom in it. The English-speaking specimens, too, I have not been willing to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these I have paid special attention to the American varieties, of which I find here several singular examples. The two most remarkable are a young man who presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence; reminding me strongly of some diminutive Hellenised Roman of the third century. He is an illustration of the period of culture in which the faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog. I learn from him that there is an immense number of Americans exactly resembling him, and that the city of Boston, indeed, is almost exclusively composed of them. (He communicated this fact very proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.) What strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of my knowledge--and you know what my knowledge is--unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and ornamental) ripeness. With the Americans, indeed, the crudity and the rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which is the other; they are inextricably mingled. I prefer the talk of the French _homunculus_; it is at least more amusing. It is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful Anglo-Saxon family. I find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young woman from the State of Maine, in the province of New England, with whom I have had a good deal of conversation. She differs somewhat from the young man I just mentioned, in that the faculty of production, of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation. But unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits are similarly those of a Roman lady of the lower Empire. She makes no secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of licentious behaviour. As the opportunities she finds in her own country do not satisfy her, she has come to Europe "to try," as she says, "for herself." It is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the judgment of a society. Another observation which pushes me to the same induction--that of the premature vitiation of the American population--is the attitude of the Americans whom I have before me with regard to each other. There is another young lady here, who is less abnormally developed than the one I have just described, but who yet bears the stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness. These three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me, secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical American. A type that has lost itself before it has been fixed--what can you look for from this? Add to this that there are two young Englanders in the house, who hate all the Americans in a lump, making between them none of the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon, and you will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that, between precipitate decay and internecine enmities, the English-speaking family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the prospect of general pervasiveness, to which I alluded above, will brighten for the deep-lunged children of the Fatherland! CHAPTER IX MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER. October 22d Dear Mother--I am off in a day or two to visit some new country; I haven't yet decided which. I have satisfied myself with regard to France, and obtained a good knowledge of the language. I have enjoyed my visit to Madame de Maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if I were leaving a circle of real friends. Everything has gone on beautifully up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if I were their own sister, especially Mr. Verdier, the French gentleman, from whom I have gained more than I ever expected (in six weeks), and with whom I have promised to correspond. So you can imagine me dashing off the most correct French letters; and, if you don't believe it, I will keep the rough draft to show you when I go back. The German gentleman is also more interesting, the more you know him; it seems sometimes as if I could fairly drink in his ideas. I have found out why the young lady from New York doesn't like me! It is because I said one day at dinner that I admired to go to the Louvre. Well, when I first came, it seemed as if I _did_ admire everything! Tell William Platt his letter has come. I knew he would have to write, and I was bound I would make him! I haven't decided what country I will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose from. But I shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty of fresh experiences. Dearest mother, my money holds out, and it _is_ most interesting! 
39599	----	[Illustration: THE DUCK HUNT (_See page 168_)] The Little Colonel in Arizona By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON Author of "The Little Colonel Series," "Big Brother," "Ole Mammy's Torment," "Joel: A Boy of Galilee," "Asa Holmes," etc. Illustrated by ETHELDRED B. BARRY [Illustration] BOSTON * L. C. PAGE & COMPANY * PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1904_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ Published September, 1904 _Ninth Impression, March, 1908_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. MARY TELLS ALL SHE KNOWS 1 II. A ROBINSON CRUSOE OF THE DESERT 19 III. A DAY AT SCHOOL 38 IV. WARE'S WIGWAM 56 V. WHAT A LETTER BROUGHT ABOUT 78 VI. WASH-DAY AND WASHINGTON 94 VII. A SURPRISE 116 VIII. IN THE DESERT OF WAITING 137 IX. LLOYD'S DUCK HUNT 162 X. THE SCHOOL OF THE BEES 179 XI. THE NEW BOARDER AT LEE'S RANCH 193 XII. PHIL HAS A FINGER IN THE PIE 212 XIII. A CHANGE OF FORTUNE 231 XIV. THE LOST TURQUOISES 253 XV. LOST ON THE DESERT 272 XVI. BACK TO DIXIE 293 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE THE DUCK HUNT (_See page 168_) _Frontispiece_ "SHE PROCEEDED WITH A JOYFUL HEART TO PAINT THE AFRICAN LION" 51 "'WE ALLEE SAMEE LAK CHINAMEN,' HE SAID" 94 "'I THOUGHT WE'D NEVAH, NEVAH GET HEAH!'" 128 "ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT OF THE SUNNY AFTERNOON" 162 "SHE LEANED OVER TO OFFER HIM THE LITTLE BASKET" 209 "HE WAS HOLDING OUT BOTH FOREFINGERS" 244 "CLATTERING DOWN THE ROAD AS FAST AS HIS FEET COULD CARRY HIM" 279 THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA CHAPTER I. MARY TELLS ALL SHE KNOWS "JOYCE," said Jack Ware, stopping beside his sister's seat in the long, Western-bound train, "I wish you'd go back into the observation-car, and make Mary stop talking. She's telling all she knows to a couple of strangers." "Why don't you do it?" asked Joyce, looking up from her magazine with a teasing smile. "That dignified scowl of yours ought to frighten anything into silence." "I did try it," confessed Jack. "I frowned and shook my head at her as I passed, but all the good it did was to start her to talking about _me_. 'That's my brother Jack,' I heard her say, and her voice went through the car like a fine-pointed needle. 'Isn't he big for fourteen? He's been wearing long trousers for nearly a year.' They both turned to look at me, and everybody smiled, and I was so embarrassed that I fell all over myself getting out of sight. And it was a girl she said it to," he continued, wrathfully. "A real pretty girl, about my age. The fellow with her is her brother, I reckon. They look enough alike. He's a cadet from some military school. You can tell by his uniform. They laugh at everything that Mary says, and that makes her go on all the worse. So if you don't want them to know all our family history, past, present, and to come, you'd better go back and shut up that chatterbox. You know what Mary's like when she gets started." "Yes, I know," sighed Joyce, "but I don't dare move now. Norman has just fallen asleep, and he's been so restless all day that I don't want him to waken until mamma has had her nap." She glanced down at the little six-year-old brother stretched out on the seat beside her with his head in her lap, and then across the aisle at her mother, lying with her white face hidden among the shawls and pillows. "If I send for Mary to come back here, she'll flop around until she wakes them both. Can't you get her out on to the rear platform for awhile? I should think she would enjoy riding out there on one of those little camp-stools. Slip one of those oranges into your pocket, and whisper to her to follow you out and guess what you have for her." "Well, I'll try," said Jack, dubiously, "but I'm almost sure she won't budge. It isn't every day she gets an audience like that. It flatters her to have them laugh at everything she says, and as sure as I stop and speak to her she'll say something that I don't want to hear." "Oh, never mind, then," said Joyce. "They are strangers, and probably we'll never see them again, so it won't make any difference. Sit down here and forget about them. You can have this magazine in a minute, just as soon as I finish reading this half-page." But Jack did mind. He could not forget the amused glances that the pretty girl had exchanged with her big brother, and after standing irresolutely in the aisle a moment, he strolled back to the observation-car. Slipping into a wicker chair near the door, he sat waiting for Mary to look in his direction, so that he could beckon her to come to him. Half the passengers had gone to sleep and forgotten that they were being whirled across the great American Desert as fast as the limited express-train could carry them. Some were reading, and some gazing out of the windows at the monotonous wastes of sand. The only ones who really seemed to be enjoying the journey were his small sister and her audience of two. She sat on a footstool in the aisle, just in front of them, a box of candy in her lap, and a look of supreme satisfaction on her face. Two little braids of blond hair, tied with big bows of blue ribbon, bobbed over her shoulders as she talked. Jack was too far away to hear what she said, but his scowl deepened whenever the girl exchanged amused glances with her brother. "This candy is almost as good as the fudge we used to make at home every Saturday afternoon," said Mary, putting a chocolate-covered marshmallow in her mouth, and gravely running her tongue around her lips. "But we'll never again make any more fudge in that house." "Why not, dear?" asked the girl, with encouraging interest. This child was the most diverting thing she had found on the long journey. "Oh, everything has come to an end now. Joyce says you can never go back when you've burned your bridges behind you. It was certainly burning our bridges when we sold the little brown house, for of course we could never go back with strangers living in it. It was almost like a funeral when we started to the train, and looked back for the last time. I cried, because there was the Christmas-tree standing on the porch, with the strings of popcorn and cranberries on it. We put it out for the birds, you know, when we were done with it. When I saw how lonesome it looked, standing out in the snow, and remembered that it was the last Christmas-tree we'd ever have there, and that we didn't have a home any more, why I guess _anybody_ would have cried." "Why did you sell the little home if you loved it so?" asked the girl. It was not from any desire to pry into a stranger's affairs that she asked, but merely to keep the child talking. "Oh, mamma was so ill. She had pneumonia, and there are so many blizzards in Kansas, you know, that the doctor said she'd never get rid of her cough if she stayed in Plainsville, and that maybe if we didn't go to a warm place she wouldn't live till spring. So Mr. Link bought the house the very next day, so that we could have enough money to go. He's a lawyer. It used to be Link and Ware on the office door before papa died. He's always been good to us because he was papa's partner, and he gave Jack a perfectly grand gun when he found we were coming out among the Indians. "Then the neighbours came in and helped us pack, and we left in a hurry. To-morrow we'll be to the place where we are going, and we'll begin to live in tents on New Year's Day. You'd never think this was the last day of the old year, would you, it's so warm. I 'spose we'll be mixed up all the time now about the calendar, coming to such a different climate." There was a pause while another marshmallow disappeared, then she prattled on again. "It's to Lee's Ranch we are going, out in Arizona. It's a sort of boarding-camp for sick people. Mrs. Lee keeps it. She's our minister's sister, and he wrote to her, and she's going to take us cheaper than she does most people, because there's so many of us. Joyce and Jack and Holland and Norman and mamma and me makes an even half-dozen. But we're going to keep house as soon as our things come and we can get a place, and then I'll be glad that Jack has his gun. He can't shoot very well yet, unless it's at something big like a stable door, but you always feel safer, when there's Indians around, if you've got something to bang at them." Here she lowered her voice confidentially. "Holland scared Norman and me most to death one night. We were sitting on the rug in front of the fire, before the lamp was lighted, saying what would we do s'posen an Indian should come to the camp sometime, and try to scalp us, and just when we were so scared we didn't dare look around behind us, he rolled out from under the bed where he'd been hiding, and grabbed us by the hair, with the awfullest whoop, that made us feel as if we'd been dipped in ice-water. Why, we didn't stop yelling for half an hour. Norman had the nightmare that night. We never did find out how Joyce punished Holland, but what she did to him was plenty, for he hasn't scared us since, not yet, though you never know when he's going to. "Joyce isn't afraid of anything on earth. You ought to hear about the way she played ghost once, when she was in France. And she just talked right up to the old monsieur who owned the Gate of the Giant Scissors, and told him what she thought of him." "How old is this Joyce?" asked the tall young fellow whom his sister called Phil. "She sounds interesting, don't you think, Elsie?" he said, leaning over to help himself to a handful of candy. Elsie nodded with a smile, and Mary hastened to give the desired information. "Oh, she's fifteen, going on sixteen, and she _is_ interesting. She can paint the loveliest pictures you ever saw. She was going to be an artist until all this happened, and she had to leave school. Nobody but me knows how bad it made her feel to do that. I found her crying in the stable-loft when I went up to say good-bye to the black kitten, and she made me cross my heart and body I'd never tell, so mamma thinks that she doesn't mind it at all. "Things have gone wrong at our house ever since I had the mumps," she began again, when she had slowly crunched two burnt almonds. "Holland sprained his wrist and mamma nearly died with pneumonia and Norman upset the clothes-horse on the stove and burnt up a whole week's ironing. And after that Jack had both ears frosted in a blizzard, and Bob, our darling little fox-terrier that Joyce brought from Kentucky, was poisoned." "That _was_ a list of misfortunes," exclaimed Phil, sympathetically, "enough to discourage anybody." "Oh, at our house we never get discouraged to _stay_," answered Mary. "Of course we feel that way at first, but Joyce always says 'Remember the Vicar,' and then we stiffen." "The vicar," echoed Phil, much puzzled. "Yes, the Vicar of Wakefield, you know. Don't you remember what bad luck they all had, about the green spectacles and everything, and he said, '_Let us be inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favour!_'" "Was there ever anything funnier!" exclaimed Phil, in an aside, as this bit of wisdom was rolled out with such a dramatic toss of the head, that the big blue bows on the little blond braids bobbed wildly. "The idea of a child like that reading the 'Vicar of Wakefield.'" "Oh, I didn't read him myself," answered Mary, eager to be entirely truthful. "Joyce read it aloud to all the family last winter, and since then we've all tried to do as the Vicar did, be inflexible when troubles come. Even Norman knows that if you'll swallow your sobs and _stiffen_ when you bump your head, or anything, that it doesn't hurt half so bad as when you just let loose and howl." Jack started to his feet when he heard the laugh that followed, sure that Mary was saying something that ought to be left unsaid. He reached her just in time to hear her remark, "We're going to eat in the dining-car to-night. Our lunch has all given out, and I'm glad of it, for I never did eat in a dining-car, and I've always wanted to. We're going to have ice-cream, if it doesn't cost too much." Jack's face was crimson as he bent down and whispered in Mary's ear, and it grew several shades redder as she calmly answered aloud, "No, I don't want to go out on the platform. It's blowing so hard, I'll get my eyes full of sand." He bent again to whisper, this time savagely, and then turned back toward the other car, not waiting for her answer. But it followed him shrilly in an indignant tone: "It's no such a thing, Jack Ware! I'm not telling all I know." A few minutes later a freckle-faced boy of twelve appeared in the door, looking up and down the car with keen gray eyes. The moment his glance fell on Mary, he started down the aisle toward her with such an air of determination that she started up in dismay. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "There's Holland beckoning for me. Now I've got to go." "Why should you go for him rather than Jack?" asked Phil. "He isn't nearly so big." "You don't know Holland," said Mary, taking a step forward. "He doesn't mind making a scene anywhere we happen to be. If he was told to bring me, he'd do it, if he had to drag me down the aisle by my hair. Good-bye. I've had a mighty nice time, and I'm much obliged for the candy." The Ware family were already seated in the dining-room when Phil and Elsie went in to dinner a little later. Mary, over her soup, was giving an enthusiastic account of her new acquaintances. "They're going to their grandfather's in California," she said. "It's the most beautiful place you ever heard of, with goldfish in the fountain, and Gold of Ophir roses in the garden, and Dago, their old pet monkey, is there. They had to send him away from home because he got into so much mischief. And Miss Elsie Tremont, that's her name, is all in black because her Great-Aunt Patricia is dead. Her Aunt Patricia kept house for them, but now they live at their grandfather's. Mr. Phil is only seventeen, but he's six feet tall, and looks so old that I thought maybe he was thirty." "Gracious, Mary, how did you find out so much?" asked Joyce, with a warning shake of the head at Norman, who was crumbling his bread into his soup. "Oh, I asked him if he was married, and he laughed, and said he was only seventeen, just a schoolboy, a cadet in a military academy out in California. There they are now!" she added, excitedly, as the waiter pulled out two chairs at the little table across the aisle. Both the newcomers smiled at Mary, who beamed broadly in response. Then they gave a quick side-glance at the rest of the family. "What a sweet-looking woman the little mother is," said Elsie, in a low tone, "and Joyce _is_ interesting, but I wouldn't say she is exactly pretty, would you?" "Um, I don't know," answered Phil, after another politely careless glance in her direction. "She has a face you like to keep looking at. It's so bright and pleasant, and her eyes are lovely. She'd be jolly good company, I imagine, a sort of a surprise-party, always doing and saying unusual things." In the same casual way, Joyce was taking note of them. She felt strongly drawn toward the pretty girl in black, and wished that they were going to the same place, so that she might make her acquaintance. Once when they were all laughing at something Norman said, she looked up and caught her eye, and they both smiled. Then Phil looked across with such an understanding gleam of humour in his eyes that she almost smiled at him, but checked herself, and looked down in her plate, remembering that the handsome cadet was a stranger. The train stopped at a junction just as Mary finished her ice-cream, which she had been eating as slowly as possible, in order to prolong the pleasure. Finding that there would be a wait of nearly half an hour, Joyce persuaded her mother to go back to the rear platform of the observation-car, and sit out awhile, in the fresh air. Although the sun was down, it was so warm that Mrs. Ware scarcely needed the shawl Joyce drew around her shoulders. "I can't believe that this is the last day of December," she said to Mary, as Joyce hurried into the station to make some inquiry of the ticket-agent. "The last day of the old year," she added. "These electric-lights and the band playing over there in the park, and all the passengers promenading up and down in front of the station, bareheaded, make it seem like a summer resort." Mary peered after the promenading passengers wistfully. The boys had disappeared to watch the engine take water, and there was no one for her to walk with. Just then, Phil and Elsie Tremont, sauntering along, caught sight of her wistful little face. "Don't you want to come too?" asked Elsie, pausing. "You'll sleep better for a little exercise." "Oh, yes!" was the delighted reply. "May I, mamma? It's Miss Elsie Tremont, that I told you about, that ran away with a monkey and a music-box when she was a little bit of a girl." "I'm afraid that with such an introduction you'll think I'm not a proper person to trust your daughter with, Mrs. Ware," said Elsie, laughing, "but I assure you I'll never run away again. That experience quite cured me." "Probably Mary has given you just as alarming an impression of us," answered Mrs. Ware. "She has never learned to regard any one as a stranger, and all the world is her friend to confide in." "Wouldn't you like to walk a little while, too?" asked Elsie, stirred by some faint memory of a delicate white face like this one, that years ago used to smile out at her from a hammock in the Gold of Ophir rose garden. She was only five years old the last time she saw her mother, but the dim memory was a very sweet one. "Yes, come! It will do you good," urged Phil, cordially, influenced partly by the same memory, and partly by the thought that here was a chance to make the acquaintance of Joyce as well. According to her little sister she was an unusually interesting girl, and the glimpse he had had of her himself confirmed that opinion. So it happened to Joyce's great astonishment, as she hurried back to the train, she met her mother walking slowly along beside Elsie. Phil, with Mary chattering to him like an amusing little magpie, was just behind them. Almost before she knew how it came about, she was walking with them, listening first to Elsie, then to Phil, as they told of the boarding-school she was going back to in California, and the Military Academy in which he was a cadet. They had been back home to spend the Christmas vacation with their father, whom they did not expect to see again for a long time. He was a physician, and now on his way to Berlin, where he expected to spend a year or two in scientific research. At the warning call of all aboard, they hurried back to the car just as the boys came scrambling up the steps. Acquaintances grow almost as rapidly on these long overland journeys across the continent as they do on shipboard. The girls regretted the fact that they had not found each other earlier, but Jack and Phil soon made up for lost time. Phil, who had hunted wild goats among the rocks of Catalina Island, and Jack, who expected unlimited shooting of quail and ducks at Lee's Ranch, were not long in exchanging invitations for future hunting together, if either should happen to stray into the other's vicinity. "I feel as if I had known you always," said Elsie to Joyce, as they separated, regretfully, at bedtime, wondering if they ever would meet again. "I wish you were going to the boarding-school with me." "I wish you were going to stop in Arizona," answered Joyce. "Maybe you can come out to the ranch sometime, when you are on your way back East." "I think that we ought to all sit up together to see the old year out and the new year in," protested Mary, indignant at being hurried off to bed at half-past seven. "You'll see the change all right," remarked Jack, "and you'll have a chance to make a night of it. We have to get off at Maricopa a little after midnight, and there's no telling when that train for Phoenix will come along. They say it's always behind time." Late that night, Elsie, wakened by the stopping of the train, looked at her watch. The new year had just dawned. A brakeman went through the car with a lantern. There were strange voices outside, a confusion of calls, and the curtains of her berth swayed and shook as a number of people hurried down the aisle, laden with baggage. Somebody tripped over a pair of shoes, left too far out in the aisle, and somebody muttered a complaint about always being wakened at Maricopa by people who had no more consideration for the travelling public than to make their changes in the dead of night. "Maricopa," she thought, starting up on her elbow. "That is where the Wares are to get off." Raising the window-shade, she peered out into the night. Yes, there they were, just going into the station. Jack and Holland weighted down with baggage, Joyce helping the sweet-faced little mother with one hand, and dragging the drowsy Norman after her with the other, Mary sleepily bringing up the rear with her hat tipped over one eye, and her shoe-strings tripping her at every step. "Bless her little soul, she's the funniest, fattest little chatterbox of a girl I ever saw," thought Elsie, as she watched her stumble into the station. "Good-bye, little vicar," she whispered, waving her hand. "May you always keep inflexible. I wonder if I'll ever see any of them again. I wish I were in a big family like that. They do have such good times together." As the train pulled slowly out and went thundering on into the darkness, she tried to go to sleep again, but for a long time, whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the little house in Kansas that Mary had described so vividly. There it stood, empty and deserted in the snow, with the pathetic little Christmas-tree, left for the birds. And far away, the family who loved it so dearly were facing blithely and bravely the untried New Year, in which they were to make for themselves another home, somewhere out on the lonely desert. "Oh, I do hope they'll keep 'inflexible,'" was Elsie's last waking thought. "I do hope they'll have a happy New Year." CHAPTER II. A ROBINSON CRUSOE OF THE DESERT JOYCE stood in the door of the little adobe house, and looked out across the desert with tears in her eyes. If _this_ was to be their home through all the dreary years that stretched ahead of them, it hardly seemed worth while to go on living. Jack, in the bare unfurnished room behind her, was noisily wielding a hatchet, opening the boxes and barrels of household goods which had followed them by freight. He did not know which one held his gun, but he was determined to find it before the sun went down. For nearly three weeks they had been at Lee's Ranch, half a mile farther down the road, waiting for the goods to come, and to find a place where they could set up a home of their own. Boarding for a family of six was far too expensive to be afforded long. Now the boxes had arrived, and they had found a place, the only one for rent anywhere near the ranch. Joyce felt sick at heart as she looked around her. "Here it is at last," called Jack, triumphantly, dropping the hatchet and throwing pillows and bedding out of the box in reckless haste to reach his most cherished possession, the fine hammerless shotgun which Mr. Link had given him Christmas. He had intended to carry it with him on the journey, in its carved leather case, but in the confusion of the hurried packing, some well-meaning neighbour had nailed it up in one of the boxes while he was absent, and there had been no time to rescue it. He had worried about it ever since. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hand along the polished stock as he drew it from the case. Sitting on the floor tailor-fashion, he began whistling cheerfully as he fitted the parts together. "Joyce," he called, peering down the barrels to see if any speck of rust had gathered in them, "do you suppose we brought any machine-oil with us? I'll uncrate the sewing-machine if you think that the can is likely to be in one of the drawers." "I don't know," answered Joyce, in such a hopeless tone that Jack lowered his gun-barrels and stared at her in astonishment. Her back was toward him, but her voice certainly sounded choked with tears. It was so unusual for Joyce to cry that he felt that something very serious must be the cause. "What's the matter, sister?" he inquired. "You aren't sick, are you?" "Yes!" she exclaimed, with a sob, turning and throwing herself down on the pile of pillows he had just unpacked. "I'm sick of everything in this awful country! I'm sick of the desert, and of seeing nothing but invalids and sand and cactus and jack-rabbits wherever I go. And I'm sick of the prospect of living in this little hole of a mud-house, and working like a squaw, and never doing anything or being anything worth while. If I thought I had to go on all my life this way, I'd want to die right now!" Jack viewed her uneasily. "Goodness, Joyce! I never knew you to go all to pieces this way before. You've always been the one to preach to us when things went wrong, that if we'd be inflexible that fortune would at last change in our favour." "Inflexible fiddlesticks!" stormed Joyce from the depths of a bolster, where she had hidden her face, "I've been holding out against fate so long that I can't do it any more, and I'm going to give up, right here and now!" "Then I don't know what will become of the rest of us," answered Jack, raising his empty gun to aim at a butcher-bird in the fig-tree outside the door. "It's you that has always kept things cheerful when we were down in the mouth." Joyce sat up and wiped her eyes. "I think that it must be that old camel-back mountain out there that makes me feel so hopeless. It is so depressing to see it kneeling there in the sand, day after day, like a poor old broken-down beast of burden, unable to move another step. It is just like us. Fate is too much for it." Jack's glance followed hers through the open door. Straight and level, the desert stretched away toward the horizon, where a circle of mountains seemed to rise abruptly from the sands, and shut them in. There was Squaw's Peak on the left, cold and steely blue, and over on the right the bare buttes, like mounds of red ore, and just in front was the mountain they must face every time they looked from the door. Some strange freak of nature had given it the form of a giant camel, five miles long. There it knelt in the sand, with patient outstretched neck, and such an appearance of hopeless resignation to its lot, that Joyce was not the only one who found it depressing. More than one invalid, sent to the surrounding ranches for the life-giving atmosphere of Arizona, had turned his back on it with a shiver of premonition, saying, "It's just like me! Broken-down, and left to die on the desert. Neither of us will ever get away." It made no difference to Jack what shape the mountains took. He could not understand Joyce's sensitiveness to her surroundings. But it made him uncomfortable to see her so despondent. He sat hugging his gun in silence a moment, not knowing how to answer her, and then began idly aiming it first in one direction, then another. Presently his glance happened to rest upon a battered book that had fallen from one of the boxes. He drew it toward him with his foot. It was open at a familiar picture, and on the opposite page was a paragraph which he had read so many times, that he could almost repeat it from memory. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "Here's an old friend who was in as bad a fix as we are, Joyce, and he lived through it." Leaning over, without picking up the book from the floor, he began reading from the page, printed in the large type of a child's picture-book: "'September 30, 1609. I, poor, miserable Robinson Crusoe, being shipwrecked during a dreadful storm in the offing, came on shore this dismal, unfortunate island, which I called the Island of Despair, all the rest of the ship's company being drowned, and myself almost dead. All the rest of the day I spent in afflicting myself at the dismal circumstances I was brought to, viz., I had neither house, clothes, weapons, nor place to fly to, and in despair of any relief saw nothing but death before me, either that I should be devoured by wild beasts, murdered by savages, or starved to death for want of food.'" A long pause followed. Then Joyce sat up, looking teased, and held out her hand for the book. "I don't mind old Crusoe's preaching me a sermon," she said, as she turned the tattered leaves. "Now he's done it, I'll quit 'afflicting myself at the dismal circumstances I was brought to.' I've wished a thousand times, when I was smaller, that I could have been in his place, and had all his interesting adventures. And to think, here we are at last, in almost as bad a plight as he was. Only we have a weapon," she added, with a mischievous glance at the gun Jack was holding. "And that means food, too," he answered, proudly, "for I expect to kill many a quail and duck with this." "Oh, we're better off than Crusoe in a thousand ways, I suppose, if we'd only stop to count our blessings," she answered, now ready to take a more cheerful view of life since she had had her little outburst of rebellion. "He didn't have a Chinaman driving by with fresh vegetables twice a week, as we will have, and we have clothes, and a house, such as it is, and a place to fly to, for Lee's Ranch will always be open to us if we need a refuge." "So we can start at the place where Crusoe was when he really began to enjoy his Island of Despair," said Jack. "Shall I go on unpacking these things? I stopped when you announced that you were going to give up and die, for I thought there wouldn't be any use trying to do anything, with you in the dumps like that." Joyce looked around the dingy room. "It's not worth while to unpack till the place has been scrubbed from top to bottom. If we're going to make a home of it, we'll have to begin right. The landlord won't do anything, and we could hardly expect him to, considering the small amount of rent we pay, but I don't see how we can live in it without fresh paper and paint." "I wish we'd find a ship cast up on the sands of the desert to-morrow," said Jack, "that would have all sorts of supplies and tools in it. The shipwrecks helped old Robinson out amazingly. I'd make a bookcase if we did, and put up shelves and all sorts of things. This would be a fine place to show what I learned in the manual training-school. We need benches and rustic seats out under those umbrella-trees." "We'll have to buy some tools," said Joyce. "Let's make out a list of things we need, and go to town early in the morning. Mrs. Lee said we could borrow Bogus and the surrey to-morrow." "All right," assented Jack, ready for anything that promised change. "And _Jack_!" she exclaimed, after a long slow survey of the room, "let's paint and paper this place ourselves! I'm sure we can do it. There's a tape measure in one of the machine drawers. Suppose you get it out and measure the room, so we'll know how much paper to buy." Joyce was her old brave, cheery self again now, giving orders like a major-general, and throwing herself into the work at hand with contagious enthusiasm. With the stub of a pencil Jack found in his pocket, she began making a memorandum on the fly-leaf of Robinson Crusoe. "Paint, turpentine, brushes, screws, nails, saw, mop, broom, scrubbing-brush, soap," she wrote rapidly. "And a hatchet," added Jack. "This one belongs to the Mexican at the ranch. And, oh, yes, an axe. He says that Holland and I can get all the wood we need right here on the desert, without its costing us a cent, if we're willing to chop it; mesquite roots, you know, and greasewood." "It's fortunate we can get something without paying for it," commented Joyce, as she added an axe to the list. Then she sat studying the possibilities of the room, while Jack knocked the crate from the machine, found the tape measure, and did a sum in arithmetic to find the amount of paper it would take to cover the walls. "I can see just how it is going to look when we are all through," she said, presently. "When this old dark woodwork is painted white, and these dismal walls are covered with fresh light paper, and there are clean, airy curtains at the windows, it won't seem like the same place. Mamma mustn't see it till it is all in order." Exhausted by the journey, Mrs. Ware had been too weak to worry over their future, or even to wonder what would become of them, and had handed over the little bank-book to Joyce. "Make it go just as far as it will, dear," she said. "You are too young to have such a load laid on your shoulders, but I see no other way now." Joyce had taken up the burden of responsibility so bravely that no one but Jack knew of her moments of discouragement, and he was forgetting her recent tears in her present enthusiasm. "Oh, I wish it was to-morrow," she exclaimed, "and we had all our supplies bought so that we could begin." "So do I," answered Jack. "But it's nearly sundown now, and the supper-bell will be ringing before we get back to the ranch, if we don't start soon." "Well, lock the doors, and we'll go," said Joyce, beginning to pin on her hat. "Oh, what's the use of being so particular! Mrs. Lee says everybody is honest out in this country. They never turn a key on the ranch, and they've never had anything taken either by Mexicans or Indians in all the years they've lived here. It isn't half as wild as I hoped it would be. I wish I could have been a pioneer, and had some of the exciting times they had." Nevertheless, Jack barred the back door and locked the front one, before following Joyce across the yard, and over the little bridge spanning the irrigating canal, into the public road. They stood there a moment, looking back at the house, just one big square adobe room, with a shed-kitchen in the rear. Around three sides of it ran a rough sort of porch or shack, built of cottonwood posts, supporting a thatch of bamboo-stalks and palm-leaves. While it would afford a fine shelter from the sun in the tropical summer awaiting them, it was a homely, primitive-looking affair, almost as rough in its appearance as if Robinson Crusoe himself had built it. "It's hopeless, isn't it!" said Joyce, with a despairing shake of the head. "No matter how homelike we may make it inside, it will always be the picture of desolation outside." "Not when the leaves come out on that row of umbrella-trees," answered Jack. "Mrs. Lee says they will be so green and bushy that they will almost hide the house, and the blossoms on them in the spring are as purple and sweet as lilacs. Then this row of fig-trees along the road, and the clump of cottonwoods back of the house, and those two big pepper-trees by the gate will make it cool and shady here, no matter how scorching hot the desert may be. We'll have to give them lots of water. Oh, that reminds me, I'll have to have a pair of rubber boots, if I am to do the irrigating. The water will be in again day after to-morrow." Joyce groaned as she opened the book she was carrying, and added boots to the long list on the fly-leaf. "What a lot it's going to take to get us started. Crusoe certainly had reason to be thankful for the shipwrecked stores he found." "But it'll cost less to get the boots than to hire a Mexican every eight days to do the irrigating," said Jack. Following the road beside the canal, they walked along in the last rays of the sunset, toward the ranch. Birds twittered now and then in the fig-trees on their right, or a string of cows went lowing homeward through the green alfalfa pastures, to the milking. The road and canal seemed to run between two worlds, for on the left it was all a dreary desert, the barren sands stretching away toward the red buttes and old Camelback Mountain, as wild and cheerless as when the Indians held possession. Some day it too would "rejoice and blossom like the rose," but not until a network of waterways dug across it brought it new life. Once as they walked along, a jack-rabbit crossed their path and went bounding away in a fright. A covey of quail rose with a loud whirr of wings from a clump of bushes beside the road, but they met no human being until Holland and Mary, just from school, came racing out from the ranch to meet them with eager questions about the new home. Chris, the Mexican, had made the round of the tents, building a little fire of mesquite wood in each tiny drum stove, for in February the air of the desert grows icy as soon as the sun disappears. Mrs. Ware was sitting in a rocking-chair between the stove and table, on which stood a lamp with a yellow shade, sending a cheerful glow all over the tent. Joyce took the remaining chair, Jack sat on the wood-box, and Mary, Norman and Holland piled upon the bed, to take part in the family conclave. The canvas curtain had been dropped over the screen-door, and the bright Indian rugs on the floor gave a touch of warmth and cosiness to the tent that made it seem wonderfully bright and homelike. "I don't see," said Mary, when she had listened to a description of the place, "how we are all going to eat and sleep and live in one room and a kitchen. It takes three tents to hold us all here, besides having the ranch dining-room to eat in. What if Eugenia Forbes should come from the Waldorf-Astoria to visit us, or the Little Colonel, or some of the other girls from Kentucky, that you knew at the house-party, Joyce? Where would they sleep?" "Yes," chimed in Holland, teasingly, "or the Queen of Sheba? Suppose _she_ should come with all her train. It's about as likely. We would have to play 'Pussy wants a corner' all night, Mary, and whoever happened to be 'it' would have to sit up until he happened to find somebody out of his corner." "Goosey!" exclaimed Mary, sticking out her tongue at him and making the worst face she could screw up. "Honestly, what would we do, Joyce?" "We're not going to try to live in just one room," explained Joyce. "The doctor said mamma ought to sleep in a tent, so we'll get a big double one like this, wainscoted up high, with floor and screen-door, just like this. Mamma and you and I can use that, and the boys will have just an ordinary camping-tent, without door or floor. They have been so wild to be pioneers that they will be glad to come as near to it as possible, and that means living without extra comforts and conveniences. In the house one corner of the room will be the library, where we'll put papa's desk, and one corner will be the sewing-room, where we'll have the machine, and one will be a cosy corner, with the big lounge and lots of pillows. If the Queen of Sheba or the Little Colonel should do such an improbable thing as to stray out here, we'll have a place for them." "There goes the supper-bell," cried Norman, scrambling down from the bed in hot haste to beat Mary to the table. Joyce waited to turn down the lamp, close the stove draughts, and bring her mother's shawl, before following them. "How bright the camp looks with a light in every tent," she said, as they stepped out under the stars. "They look like the transparencies in the torchlight processions, that we used to have back in Plainsville." Mrs. Ware's tent was in the front row, so it was only a step to the door of the dining-room in the ranch house. The long table was nearly filled when they took their seats. Gathered around it were people who had drifted there from all parts of the world in search of lost health. A Boston law-student, a Wyoming cowboy, a Canadian minister, a Scotchman from Inverness, and a jolly Irish lad from Belfast were among the number. The most interesting one to Joyce was an old Norwegian who sat opposite her, by the name of Jan Ellestad. Not old in years, for his hair was still untouched by gray, and his dark eyes flashed at times with the spirit of the old vikings, when he told the folk-lore of his fatherland. But he was old in sad experiences, and broken health, and broken hopes. The faint trace of a foreign accent that clung to his speech made everything he said seem interesting to Joyce, and after Mrs. Lee had told her something of his history, she looked upon him as a hero. This was the third winter he had come back to the ranch. He knew he could not live through another year, and he had stopped making plans for himself, but he listened with unfailing cheerfulness to other people's. Now he looked up expectantly as Joyce took her seat. "I can see by your face, Miss Joyce," he said, in his slow, hesitating way, as if groping for the right words, "that you are about to plunge this ranch into another wild excitement. What is it now, please?" "Guess!" said Joyce, glancing around the table. "Everybody can have one guess." During the three weeks that the Wares had been on the ranch they had made many friends among the boarders. Most of them could do little but sit in the sun and wait for the winter to creep by, so they welcomed anything that relieved the monotony of the long idle days. Mary's unexpected remarks gave fresh zest to the conversation. The boys, bubbling over with energy and high spirits, were a constant source of entertainment, and Joyce's enthusiasms were contagious. She was constantly coming in from the desert with some strange discovery to arouse the interest of the listless little company. Now, as her challenge passed around the table, any one hearing her laugh at the amusing replies would not have dreamed that only a few hours before she was sobbing to Jack that she was sick of seeing nothing but invalids and sand and cactus. "We haven't any name for our new home," she announced, "and I'm thinking of having a name contest. Any one can offer an unlimited number, and the best shall receive a prize." "Then I'll win," responded the Scotchman, promptly. "There's nae mair appropriate name for a wee bit lodging-place like that, than _Bide-a-wee_." "That is pretty," said Joyce, repeating it thoughtfully. "I love the old song by that name, but I'm afraid that it isn't exactly appropriate. You see, we may have to bide there for years and years instead of just a wee." "Give it a Spanish name," said the minister. "Alamo means cottonwood, and you have a group of cottonwoods there. That would be just as good as naming it The Pines, or The Oaks, or The Beeches." "No, call it something Indian," said the cowboy. "Something that means little-mud-house-in-the-desert, yet has a high-sounding swing to the syllables." "Wait till we get through fixing it," interrupted Jack. "It'll look so fine that you won't dare call it little-mud-house-in-the-desert. We're going to paint and paper it ourselves." "Not you two children," exclaimed the Norwegian, in surprise. "With our own lily fingers," answered Joyce. "Then you'll have an interested audience," he answered. "You'll find all of us who are able to walk perching in the fig-trees outside your door every morning, waiting for the performance to begin." "Whoever perches there will have to descend and help, won't they, Jack?" said Joyce, saucily. "Oh, mamma," whispered Mary, "is Mr. Ellestad really going to climb up in the fig-tree and watch them? _Please_ let me stay home from school and help. I know I can't study if I go, for I'll be thinking of all the fun I'm missing." CHAPTER III. A DAY AT SCHOOL. IT was with a most unwilling mind and an unhappy heart that Mary began her third week at school. In the first place she could not bear to tear herself away from all that was going on at the new house. She wanted to have a hand in the dear delights of home-making. She wanted to poke the camp-fire, and dabble in the paste, and watch the walls grow fresh and clean as the paper spread over the old patches. The smell of the fresh paint drew her, and gave her a feeling that there were all sorts of delightful possibilities in this region, yet unexplored. In the second place, life in the new school was a grievous burden, because the boys, seeing how easily she was teased, found their chief pleasure in annoying her. She was a trusting little soul, ready to nibble the bait that any trap offered. "Never mind! You'll get used to it after awhile," her mother said, consolingly, each evening when she came home with a list of fresh woes. "You're tired now from that long walk home. Things will seem better after supper." And Joyce would add, "Don't look so doleful, Mother Bunch; just remember the vicar, and keep inflexible. Fortune is bound to change in your favour after awhile." But the third Friday found her as unhappy as the third Monday. There were two rooms in the school building, one containing all the primary classes, the other the grammar grades, where Holland found a place. Mary had one of the back seats in the primary department, and one of the highest hooks in the cloak-room, on which to hang her belongings. But this Friday morning she did not leave her lunch-basket in either place. She and Patty Ritter, the little girl who sat across the aisle from her, had had an indignation-meeting the day before, and agreed to hide their baskets in a hedgerow, so that there could be no possibility of Wig Smith's finding them. Salt on one's jelly cake and pepper in one's apple-pie two days in succession is a little too much to be borne calmly. Wig Smith's fondness for seasoning other people's lunches was only one of his many obnoxious traits. "There," said Mary, scanning the horizon anxiously, to see that no prowling boy was in sight. "Nobody would think of looking behind that prickly cactus for a lunch-basket! We're sure of not going hungry to-day!" With their arms around each other, they strolled back to the schoolhouse, taking a roundabout way, with great cunning, to throw Wig Smith off the track, in case he should be watching. But their precautions were needless this time. Wig had set up a dentist's establishment on the steps of the stile, his stock in trade being a pocket-knife and a hat full of raw turnips. Nothing could have been friendlier than the way he greeted Mary and Patty, insisting that they each needed a set of false teeth. Half a dozen of his friends had already been fitted out, and stood around, grinning, in order to show the big white turnip teeth he had fitted over the set provided by Nature. As the teeth were cut in irregular shapes, wide square-tipped ones alternating with long pointed fangs, and the upper lip had to be drawn tightly to hold them in place, the effect was so comical that they could hardly hold the new sets in position for laughing at each other. In payment for his work, Wig accepted almost anything that his customers had to offer: marbles, when he could get them, pencils, apples, fish-hooks, even a roll of tin-foil, saved from many chewing-gum packages, which was all one girl had to trade. A search through Mary's orderly pencil-box failed to show anything that he wanted of hers, but the neatly prepared home lesson which fluttered out of her arithmetic caught his eye. He agreed to make her the teeth for a copy of six problems which he could not solve. Mary had much the hardest part of the bargain, for, sitting on the stile, she patiently copied long-division sums until the second bell rang, while he turned off the teeth with a few masterful strokes of his knife. "Let's all put them in as soon as we're done singing, and wear them till we recite spelling," he suggested. "It's mighty hard to keep from chawin' on 'em after they've been in your mouth awhile. Let's see who can keep them in longest. Every five minutes by the clock, if the teacher isn't lookin', we'll all grin at onct to show that they're still in." Needless to say, the usual Friday morning studiousness did not prevail in the primary room that morning. Too many eyes were watching the clock for the moment of display to arrive, and when it did arrive, the coughing and choking that was set up to hide the titters, plainly told the teacher that some mischief was afoot. If she could have turned in time to see the distorted faces, she must have laughed too, it was such a comical sight, but she was trying to explain to a row of stupid little mathematicians the mysteries of borrowing in subtraction, and always looked up a moment too late. Mary Ware, having written every word of her spelling lesson from memory, and compared it with her book to be sure that she knew it, now had a quarter of an hour of leisure. This she devoted to putting her desk in order. The books were dusted and piled in neat rows. Everything in her pencil-box was examined, and laid back with care, the slate-rag folded and tucked under the moist sponge. There was another box in her desk. It had bunches of violets on it and strips of lace-paper lining the sides. It smelled faintly of the violet soap it had once held. She kept several conveniences in this, pins, and an extra hair-ribbon in case of loss, a comb, and a little round mirror with a celluloid back, on which was printed the advertisement of a Plainsville druggist. As she polished the little mirror, the temptation to use it was too great to resist. Holding it under the desk, she stretched her lips back as far as possible in a grotesque grin, to show her set of turnip teeth. They looked so funny that she tried it again with variations, rolling her eyes and wrinkling her nose. So absorbed was she that she did not realize that a silence had fallen in the room, that the recitation had stopped and all eyes were turned upon her. Then her own name, spoken in a stern tone, startled her so that she bounced in her seat and dropped the mirror. "Why, _Mary Ware_! I'm _astonished_! Come here!" Blushing and embarrassed at being called into public notice, Mary stumbled up to the platform, and submitted to an examination of her mouth. Then, following orders, she went to the door, and with much sputtering spat the teeth out into the yard. "I'll see you about this after school," remarked the teacher, sternly, as she stumbled back to her seat, overcome by mortification. If the teacher had not been so busy watching Mary obey orders, she would have noticed a rapid moving of many jaws along the back row of seats, and a mighty gulping and swallowing, as the other sets of teeth disappeared down the throats of their owners. "So this has been the cause of so much disturbance this morning," she remarked, crossly. "I'm astonished that one of the quietest pupils in the school should have behaved in such a manner." Then as a precaution she added, "Is there any one else in the room who has any of these turnip teeth? Raise your hands if you have." Not a hand went up, and every face met Mary's indignant accusing gaze with such an innocent stare that she cried out: "Oh, what a story!" "Open your mouths," commanded the teacher. "Turn your pockets wrong side out." To Mary's amazement, nobody had so much as a taste of turnip to show, and she stood accused of being the only offender, the only one with judgment awaiting her after school. With her head on her desk, and her face hidden on her arms, she cried softly all through the spelling recitation. "It wasn't fair," she sobbed to herself. Patty comforted her at recess with half her stick of licorice, and several of the other girls crowded around her, begging her to come and play Bird, and not to mind what the boys said, and not to look around when Wig Smith mimicked the teacher's manner, and called after her in a tantalizing tone, "Why, Mary Ware! I'm _astonished_!" Gradually they won her away from her tears, and before recess was over she was shrieking with the gayest of them as they raced around the schoolhouse to escape the girl who, being "It," personated the "bad man." As they dropped into their seats at the close of recess, hot and panting, a boy from the grammar room came in and spoke to the teacher. It was Paul Archer, a boy from New York, whose father had recently bought a ranch near by. He held up a string of amber beads, as the teacher asked, "Does this belong to any one in this room?" They were beautiful beads. Mary caught her breath as she looked at them. "Like drops of rain strung on a sunbeam," she thought, watching them sparkle as he turned and twisted the string. Paul was a big boy, very clean and very good-looking, and as little Blanche Ellert came up to claim her necklace, blushing and shaking back her curls, he held it out with such a polite, dancing-school bow that Mary's romantic little soul was greatly impressed. She wished that the beautiful beads had been hers, and that she had lost them, and could have claimed them before the whole school, and had them surrendered to her in that princely way. She would like to lose a ring, she thought, that is, if she had one, or a locket, and have Paul find it, and give it to her before the whole school. Then she remembered that she had worn her best jacket to school that morning, and in the pocket was a handkerchief that had been hung on the Sunday-school Christmas-tree for her in Plainsville. It was a little white silk one, embroidered in the corners with sprays of forget-me-nots, blue, with tiny pink buds. What if she should lose that and Paul should find it, and hold up the pretty thing in sight of all the school for her to claim? As the morning wore on, the thought pleased her more and more. The primary grades were dismissed first at noon, so she had time to slip the handkerchief from her jacket-pocket, tiptoe guiltily into the other cloak-room, and drop it under a certain wide-brimmed felt hat, which hung on its peg with a jauntier grace than the other caps and sombreros could boast. It seemed to stare at her in surprise. Half-frightened by her own daring, she tiptoed out again, and ran after Patty, who was hunting for her outside. "There won't be any salt in our cake and pepper in our pie to-day," Patty said, confidently, as they strolled off together with their arms around each other. "Let's get our baskets, and go away off out of sight to eat our dinners. I know the nicest place down by the lateral under some cottonwood-trees. The water is running to-day." "It'll be like having a picnic beside a babbling brook," assented Mary. "I love to hear the water gurgle through the water-gate." Seated on a freshly hewn log, after a careful survey had convinced them that no lizards, Gila monsters, or horned toads lurked underneath, the little girls opened their baskets, and shook out their napkins. The next instant a wail rose from them in unison: "Ants! Nasty little black ants! They're over everything!" "Just look at my chicken sandwiches," mourned Mary, "and all that lovely gingerbread. They're walking all over it and through it and into it and around it. There isn't a spot that they haven't touched!" "And my mince turnovers," cried Patty. "I brought one for you to-day, too, and a devilled egg. But there isn't a thing in my basket that's fit to eat." "Nor mine, either," said Mary, "except the apples. We might wash them in the lateral." "And I'm nearly starved, I'm so hungry," grumbled Patty. "An apple's better than nothing, but it doesn't go very far." "It's no use to go and ask Holland for any of his lunch," said Mary. "By this time he's gobbled up even the scraps, and busted the bag. He always brings his in a paper bag, so's there'll be no basket to carry home." Cautiously leaning over the bank of the lateral, Mary began dabbling her apple back and forth in the water, and Patty, kneeling beside her, followed her example. Suddenly Patty's apple slipped out of her hand, and she clutched frantically at Mary's arm in her effort to save it, and at the same time keep her balance. Both swayed and fell sideways. Mary's arm plunged into the water, wetting her sleeve nearly to her shoulder, but, clawing at the earth and long grass with the other hand, she managed, after much scrambling, to regain her position. Patty, with a scream, rolled over into the water. The ditch was shallow, not more than waist-deep, but as she had fallen full length, she came up soaking wet. Even her hair dripped muddy little rivers down over her face. There was no more school for Patty that day. As soon as her old yellow horse could be saddled, she started off on a lope toward dry clothes and a hot dinner. Mary looked after her longingly, as she sat with her sleeve held out in the sun to dry, and slowly munched her one cold apple. She was so hungry and miserable that she wanted to cry, yet this child of nine was a philosopher in her small way. "I'm not having half as bad a time as the old vicar had," she said to herself, "so I won't be a baby. Seems to me, though, that it's about time fortune was changing in my favour. Maybe the turn will be when Paul finds my forget-me-not handkerchief." With that time in view, she carefully smoothed the wrinkles out of her sleeve as it dried, and pulled the lace edging into shape around the cuff. Then she combed the front of her hair, and retied the big bows. She was not equal to the task of braiding it herself, but a glance into the little celluloid mirror satisfied her that she looked neat enough to march up before the school when the time should come for her to claim her handkerchief. Every time the door opened before the afternoon recess she looked up expectantly, her cheeks growing red and her heart beating fast. But no Paul appeared, or anybody else who had found anything to be restored to its owner. She began to feel anxious, and to wonder if she would ever see her beloved forget-me-not handkerchief again. At recess she dodged back into the hall after every one had passed out, and stole a quick glance into the other cloak-room. The handkerchief was gone. Somebody had picked it up. Maybe the finder had been too busy to search for the owner. It would be brought in before school closed; just before dismissal probably. The prospect took part of the sting out of the recollection that she was to be kept after school that evening, for the first time in her life. During the last period in the afternoon, the A Geography class always studied its lesson for next day. Mary specially liked this study, and with her little primary geography propped up in front of her, carefully learned every word of description, both large print and small, on the page devoted to Africa. "Your hair is coming undone," whispered the girl behind her. "Let me plait it for you. I love to fool with anybody's hair." Mary nodded her consent without turning around, and sat up straight in her seat, so that Jennie could reach it with greater ease. She never took her eyes from the page. The teacher, who was putting home lessons on the board for the D Arithmetic to copy, was too busy to notice Jennie's new occupation. [Illustration: "SHE PROCEEDED WITH A JOYFUL HEART TO PAINT THE AFRICAN LION"] Mary enjoyed the soft touch of Jennie's fingers on her hair. It felt so good to have it pulled into place with smooth, deft pats here and there. After the bows were tied on, Jennie still continued to play with it, braiding the ends below the ribbon into plaits that grew thinner and thinner, until they ended in points as fine and soft as a camel's-hair paint-brush. Evidently they suggested brushes to Jennie, for presently she dived into her desk for something quite foreign to school work. It was a little palette-shaped card on which were arranged seven cakes of cheap water-colour paint. The brush attached to the palette had been lost on Christmas Day, before she had had more than one trial of her skill as an artist. The water-bottle, which held the soap-suds devoted to slate-cleaning, stood behind the pile of books in her desk. She drew that out, and, having uncorked it, carefully dipped the end of one of Mary's braids into it. Then rubbing it across the cake of red paint, she proceeded with a joyful heart to paint the African lion in her geography the most brilliant red that can be imagined. Mary, still enjoying the gentle pull, little guessed what a bloody tip swung behind her right shoulder. Then the caressing touch was transferred to the left braid, and the greenest of green Bedouins, mounted on the most purple of camels, appeared on the picture of the Sahara. The signal for dismissal, sounding from the principal's room across the hall, surprised both the girls. The time had passed so rapidly. Mary, putting her hand back to feel if her bows were properly tied, suddenly jerked her right braid forward in alarm. The end was wet, and--was it _blood_ that made it so red? With a horrified expression she clutched the other one, and finding that wet and green, turned squarely around in her seat. She was just in time to see the geography closing on the red lion and green Bedouin, and realized in a flash how Jennie had been "fooling" with her hair. Before she could sputter out her indignation, the teacher rapped sharply on the table for attention. "Will you _please_ come to order, Mary Ware?" she said, sternly. "Remember, you are to remain after the others are dismissed." To have been publicly reprimanded twice in one day, to have been kept after school, to have had one's lunch spoiled by ants, and to have been left miserably hungry all afternoon, to have had the shock of a plunge almost to the shoulder in icy water, and the discomfort of having a wet sleeve dried on one's arm, to have had one's hair used as paint-brushes, so that stains were left on the back of the new gingham dress, was too much. Mary could keep inflexible no longer. Then she remembered that no one had brought back the forget-me-not handkerchief, and with that to cap her woes, she laid her head down on the desk and sobbed while the others filed out and left her. Usually, Holland found her waiting for him by the stile when the grammar grades were dismissed, but not seeing her there, he forgot all about her, and dashed on after the boy who tagged him. Then he and George Lee hurried on home to set a new gopher-trap they had invented, without giving her a thought. The faithful Patty, who always walked with her as far as the turn, had not come back to school after her plunge into the lateral. So it came about that when Mary finally put on her hat and jacket in the empty cloak-room, the playground was deserted. As far as her tear-swollen eyes could see up and down the road, not a child was in sight. With a sob, she stood a moment on the top step of the stile, then slowly swinging her lunch-basket, in which there were no scraps as usual to appease her after-school hunger, she started on the long, two-mile walk home. It looked later than it really was, for the sun was not shining. She had gone on a long way, when a sound of hoofs far down the road made her look back. What she saw made her give another startled glance over her shoulder, and quicken her pace. Half-running, she looked back again. The sound was coming nearer. So was the rider. Another glance made her stand still, her knees shaking under her; for on the pony was an Indian, a big, stolid buck, with black hair hanging in straight locks over his shoulders. She looked wildly around. Nobody else was in sight, no house anywhere. The biggest man-eating tiger in the jungles could not have terrified her like the sight of that lone Indian. All the tales that Jack and Holland had told for their mutual frightening, all that she had read herself of tortures and cruelties came into her mind. Their name was legion, and they were startlingly fresh in her memory, for only the evening before she had finished a book called "On the Borders with Crook," and the capture of the Oatman girls had been repeated in her dreams. Sure that the Indian intended to tomahawk her the instant he reached her, she gave one stifled gasp of terror, and started down the road as fast as her fat little legs could carry her. A few rods farther on her hat flew off, but she was running for her life, and even the handsome steel buckle that had once been Cousin Kate's could not be rescued at such a risk. She felt that she was running in a treadmill. Her legs were going up and down, up and down, faster than they had ever moved before, but she seemed to be making no progress; she was unable to get past that one spot in the road. And the Indian was coming on nearer and nearer, with deadly certainty, gaining on her at every breath. She felt that she had been running for a week, that she could not possibly take another step. But with one more frantic glance backward, she gave another scream, and dashed on harder than before. CHAPTER IV. WARE'S WIGWAM PHIL TREMONT, driving out from Phoenix in a high, red-wheeled cart, paused at the cross-roads, uncertain whether to turn there or keep on to the next section-line. According to part of the directions given him, this was the turning-place. Still, he had not yet come in sight of Camelback Mountain, which was to serve as a guide-post. Not a house was near at which he might inquire, and not a living thing in sight except a jack-rabbit, which started up from the roadside, and bounded away at his approach. Then he caught sight of the little whirl of dust surrounding Mary in her terrified flight, and touched his horse with the whip. In a moment he was alongside of the breathless, bareheaded child. "Little girl," he called, "can you tell me if this is the road to Lee's ranch?" Then, as she turned a dirty, tear-stained face, he exclaimed, in amazement, "Of all people under the sun! The little vicar! Well, you _are_ a sprinter! What are you racing with?" Mary sank down on the road, so exhausted by her long run that she breathed in quick, gasping sobs. Her relief at seeing a white face instead of a red one was so great that she had no room for surprise in her little brain that the face should be Phil Tremont's, who was supposed to be far away in California. She recognized him instantly, although he no longer wore his uniform, and the broad-brimmed hat he wore suggested the cowboy of the plains rather than the cadet of the military school. "What are you racing with?" he repeated, laughingly. "That jack-rabbit that passed me down yonder?" "A--a--a _Indian_!" she managed to gasp. "He chased me--all the way--from the schoolhouse!" "An Indian!" repeated Phil, standing up in the cart to look back down the road. "Oh, it must have been that old fellow I passed half a mile back. He was an ugly-looking specimen, but he couldn't have chased you; his pony was so stiff and old it couldn't go out of a walk." "He _was_ a-chasing me!" insisted Mary, the tears beginning to roll down her face again. She looked so little and forlorn, sitting there in a heap beside the road, that Phil sprang from the cart, and picked her up in his strong arms. "There," said he, lifting her into the cart. "'Weep no more, my lady, weep no more to-day!' Fortune has at last changed in your favour. You are snatched from the bloody scalper of the plains, and shall be driven home in style by your brave rescuer, if you'll only tell me which way to go." The tear-stained little face was one broad smile as Mary leaned back in the seat. She pointed up the road to a clump of umbrella-trees. "That's where we turn," she said. "When you come to the trees you'll see there's a little house behind them. It's the White Bachelor's. We call him that because his horse and dog and cows and cats and chickens are all white. That's how I first remembered where to turn on my way home, by the place where there's so awful many white chickens. I was hoping to get to his place before I died of running, when you came along. You saved my life, didn't you? I never had my life saved before. Wasn't it strange the way you happened by at exactly the right moment? It's just as if we were in a book. I thought you were away off in California at school. How _did_ it happen anyway?" she asked, peering up at him under his broad-brimmed hat. A dull red flushed his face an instant, then he answered, lightly, "Oh, I thought I'd take a vacation. I got tired of school, and I've started out to see the world. I remembered what your brother said about the quail-shooting out here, and the ducks, so I thought I'd try it a few weeks, and then go on somewhere else. I've always wanted a taste of ranch life and camping." "I'm tired of school, too," said Mary, "specially after all the terrible unpleasant things that have happened to-day. But my family won't let me stop, not if I begged all night and all day. How did you get yours to?" "Didn't ask 'em," said Phil, grimly. "Just chucked it, and came away." "But didn't your father say anything at all? Didn't he care?" The red came up again in the boy's face. "He doesn't know anything about it--yet; he's in Europe, you know." They had reached the White Bachelor's now, and turning, took the road that ran like a narrow ribbon between the irrigated country and the desert. On one side were the wastes of sand between the red buttes and old Camelback Mountain, on the other were the green ranches with their rows of figs and willows and palms, bordering all the waterways. "Now we're just half a mile from Lee's ranch," said Mary. "We'll be there in no time." "Do you suppose they'll have room for me?" inquired Phil. "That's what I've come out for, to engage board." "Oh, I'm sure they will, anyhow, after to-morrow, for we're going to move then, and that'll leave three empty tents. We've rented a place half a mile farther up the road, and Jack and Joyce are having more fun fixing it up. That's one reason I want to stop school. I'm missing all the good times." "Hello! This seems to be quite a good-sized camp!" exclaimed Phil, as they came in sight of an adobe house, around which clustered a group of twenty or more tents, like a brood of white chickens around a motherly old brown hen. "There comes Mrs. Lee now," cried Mary, as a tall, black-haired woman came out of the house, and started across to one of the tents with a tray in her hands. Her pink dress fluttered behind her as she moved forward, with a firm, light tread, suggestive of buoyant spirits and unbounded cheerfulness. "She's doing something for somebody all the time," remarked Mary. "If you were sick she'd nurse you as if she was your mother, but as long as you're not sick, maybe she won't let you come. Oh, I never thought about that. This is a camp for invalids, you know, and she is so interested in helping sick people get well, that maybe she won't take any interest in you. Have you got a letter from anybody? Oh, I do hope you have!" "A letter," repeated Phil. "What kind?" "A letter to say that you're all right, you know, from somebody that knows you. I heard her tell Doctor Adams last week that she wouldn't take anybody else unless she had a letter of--of something or other, I can't remember, because one man went off without paying his board. _We_ had a letter from her brother." "No, I haven't any letter of recommendation or introduction, if that's what you mean," said Phil, "but maybe I can fix it up all right with her. Can't you say a good word for me?" "Of course," answered Mary, taking his question in all seriousness. "And I'll run and get mamma, too. She'll make it all right." Springing out, Phil lifted her over the wheel, and then stood flicking the dry Bermuda grass with his whip, as he waited for Mary to announce his coming. He could hear her shrill little voice in the tent, whither she had followed Mrs. Lee to tell her of his arrival. "It's the Mr. Phil Tremont we met on the train," he heard her say. "Don't you know, the one I told you about running away with his little sister and the monkey and the music-box one time. He isn't sick, but he wants to stay here awhile, and I told him you'd be good to him, anyhow." Then she hurried away to her mother's tent, and Mrs. Lee came out laughing. There was something so genial and friendly in the humourous twinkle of her eyes, something so frank and breezy in her hospitable Western welcome, that Phil met her with the same outspoken frankness. "I heard what Mary said," he began, "and I do hope you'll take me in, for I've run away again, Mrs. Lee." Then his handsome face sobered, and he said, in his straightforward, boyish way that Mrs. Lee found very attractive, "I got into a scrape at the military school. It wasn't anything wicked, but four of us were fired. The other fellows' fathers got them taken back, but mine is in Europe, and it's so unsatisfactory making explanations at that long range, and I thought they hadn't been altogether fair in the matter, so I--well, I just skipped out. Mary said I'd have to have references. I can't give you any now, but I can pay in advance for a month's board, if you'll take me that way." He pulled out such a large roll of bills as he spoke, that Mrs. Lee looked at him keenly. All sorts of people had drifted to her ranch, but never before a schoolboy of seventeen with so much money in his pocket. He caught the glance, and something in the motherly concern that seemed to cross her face made him say, hastily, "Father left an emergency fund for my sister and me when he went away, besides our monthly allowance, and I drew on mine before I came out here." While they were discussing prices, Mrs. Ware came out with a cordial greeting. Mary's excited tale of her rescue had almost led her to believe that Phil had snatched her little daughter from an Indian's tomahawk. She was heartily glad to see him, for the few hours' acquaintance on the train had given her a strong interest in the motherless boy and girl, and she had thought of them many times since then. Phil felt that in coming back to the Wares he was coming back to old friends. After it was settled that he might send his trunk out next day, when a tent would be vacant, he sat for a long time talking to Mrs. Ware and Mary, in the rustic arbour covered with bamboo and palm leaves. Chris was calling the cows to the milking when he finally rose to go, and only rapid driving would take him back to Phoenix before nightfall. As the red wheels disappeared down the road, Mary exclaimed, "This has certainly been the most exciting day of my life! It has been so full of unexpected things. Isn't it grand to think that Mr. Phil is coming to the ranch? Fortune certainly changed in my favour when he happened along just in time to save my life. Oh, dear, there come Joyce and Jack! They've just missed him!" * * * * * Saturday afternoon found the new home all ready for its occupants. Even the trunks had been brought up from the ranch and stowed away in the tents. Although it was only two o'clock, the table was already set for tea in one corner of the clean, fresh kitchen, behind a tall screen. Joyce, with her blue calico sleeves tucked up above her white elbows, whistled softly as she tied on a clean apron before beginning her baking. She had not been as happy in months. The hard week's work had turned the bare adobe house into a comfortable little home, and she could hardly wait for her mother to see it. Mrs. Lee was to bring her and Norman over in the surrey. Any moment they might come driving up the road. Jack had offered to stay if his services were needed further, but she had sent him away to take his well-earned holiday. As he tramped off with his gun over his shoulder, her voice followed him pleasantly: "Good luck to you, Jack. You deserve it, for you've stuck by me like a man this week." Since dinner Mary and Holland had swept the yard, brought wood for the camp-fire, filled the boiler and the pitchers in the tents, and then gone off, as Joyce supposed, to rest under the cottonwood-trees. Presently she heard Mary tiptoeing into the sitting-room, and peeped in to find her standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands clasped behind her. "Isn't it sweet and homey!" Mary exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see the old furniture again I could just hug it! I came in to get the book about Hiawatha, sister. Holland keeps teasing me 'cause I said I wished I was named Minnehaha, and says I am Mary-ha-ha. And I want to find a name for him, a real ugly one!" "Call him Pau-Puk-Keewis,--mischief-maker," suggested Joyce. "There's the book on the second shelf of the bookcase." She stepped into the room to slip the soft silk curtain farther down the brass rod. "I'm prouder of this bookcase than almost anything else we have," she said. "Nobody would guess that it was made of the packing-boxes that the goods came in, and that this lovely Persian silk curtain was once the lining of one of Cousin Kate's party dresses." "I'm glad that everything looks so nice," said Mary, "for Mr. Phil said he was coming up to see us this evening. I'm going to put on a clean dress and my best hair-ribbons before then." "Very well," assented Joyce, going back to the kitchen. "I'll change my dress, too," she thought, as she went on with her work. "And I'll light both lamps. The Indian rugs and blankets make the room look so bright and cosy by lamplight." It had been so long since she had seen any one but the family and the invalids at the ranch, that the thought of talking to the jolly young cadet added another pleasure to her happy day. "Oh, Joyce," called Holland, from behind the tents, "may we have the paint that is left in the cans? There's only a little in each one." "I don't care," she called back. That had been an hour ago, and now, as she broke the eggs for a cake into a big platter, and began beating them with a fork, she wondered what they were doing that kept them so quiet. As the fork clacked noisily back and forth in the dish and the white foam rose high and stiff, her whistling grew louder. It seemed to fill all the sunny afternoon silence with its trills, for Joyce's whistle was as clear and strong as any boy's or any bird's. But suddenly, as it reached its highest notes, it stopped short. Joyce looked up as a shadow fell across the floor, to see Jack coming in the back door with Phil Tremont. She had not heard the sound of their coming, for the noise of her egg-beating and her whistling. Joyce blushed to the roots of her hair, at being taken thus unawares, whistling like a boy over her cake-baking. For an instant she wanted to shake Jack for bringing this stranger to the kitchen door. "We just stopped by for a drink," Jack explained. "Tremont was coming out of the ranch with his gun when I passed with mine, so we've been hunting together. Come in, Phil, I'll get a cup." There was such a mischievous twinkle in Phil's eyes as he greeted her, that Joyce blushed again. This was a very different meeting from the one she had anticipated. Instead of him finding her, appearing to her best advantage in a pretty white dress, sitting in the lamplight with a book in her hands, perhaps, he had caught her in her old blue calico, her sleeves rolled up, and a streak of flour across her bare arm. She rubbed it hastily across her apron, and gathered up the egg-shells in embarrassed silence. "Did you tell those kids that they might paint up the premises the way they are doing?" demanded Jack. "What way?" asked Joyce, in surprise. "Haven't you seen what they've done to the front of the house? They haven't waited for your name contest, but have fixed up things to suit themselves. You just ought to come out and look!" Phil followed as they hurried around to the front of the house, then stood smiling at the look of blank amazement which slowly spread over Joyce's face. Down one of the rough cottonwood posts, which supported the palm and bamboo thatch of their Robinson Crusoe porch, was painted in big, straggling, bloody letters: "W-A-R-E-S W-I-G-W-A-M." Joyce groaned. She had made such an attempt to convert the rude shade into an attractive spot, spreading a Navajo blanket over her mother's camp-chair, and putting cushions on the rustic bench to make a restful place, where one could read or watch the shadows grow long across the desert. She had even brought out a little wicker tea-table this afternoon, with a vase of flowers on it, and leaned her mother's old guitar against it to give a final civilizing touch to the picture. But the effect was sadly marred by the freshly painted name, glaring at her from the post. "Oh, the little savages!" she exclaimed. "How could they do it? Ware's Wigwam, indeed!" Then her gaze followed Jack's finger pointing to the tents pitched under the cottonwood-trees. The one which she was to share with Mary and her mother stood white and clean, the screen-door open, showing the white beds within, the rug on the floor, the flowers on the table; but the large, circular one, which the boys were to occupy, was a sight to make any one pause, open-mouthed. Perched beside it on a scaffolding of boxes and barrels stood Holland, with a paint-can in one hand and a brush in the other, putting the finishing touches to some startling decorations. Mary, on the other side, was brandishing another brush, and both were so intent on their work that neither looked up. Joyce gave a gasp. Never had she seen such amazing hieroglyphics as those which chased each other in zigzag green lines around the fly of the tent. They bore a general resemblance to those seen on Indian baskets and blankets and pottery, but nothing so grotesque had ever flaunted across her sight before. "Now, get the book," called Holland to Mary, "and see if we've left anything out." Only Mary's back was visible to the amused spectators. She took up the copy of "Hiawatha" from the barrel where it lay, careful to keep the hem of her apron between it and her paint-bedaubed thumbs. "I think we've painted every single figure he wrote about," said Mary. "Now, I'll read, and you walk around and see if we've left anything out: "Very spacious was the wigwam With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on the curtains." "No, skip that," ordered Holland. "It's farther down." Mary's paint-smeared fingers travelled slowly down the page, then she began again: "Sun and moon and stars he painted, Man and beast and fish and reptile. "Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver. "Owl and Eagle, Crane and Hen-hawk, And the Cormorant, bird of magic. "Figures mystical and awful, Figures strange and brightly coloured." "They're all here," announced Holland, "specially the figures mystical and awful. I'll have to label mine, or somebody will take my turtle for a grizzly." "Oh, the little savages!" exclaimed Joyce again. "How could they make such a spectacle of the place! We'll be the laughing-stock of the whole country." "I don't suppose that'll ever come off the tent, but we can paint the name off the post," said Jack. "Oh, that's a fine name," said Phil, laughing, "leave it on. It's so much more original than most people have." Before Joyce could answer, the rattle of wheels announced the coming of the surrey, and Mrs. Lee drove into the yard with Mrs. Ware and Norman, and her own little daughter, Hazel. Then Joyce's anger, which had burned to give Holland and Mary a good shaking, vanished completely at sight of her mother's amusement. Mrs. Ware had not laughed so heartily in months as she did at the ridiculous figures grinning from the tent. It seemed so good to see her like her old cheerful self again that, when she laughingly declared that the name straggling down the post exactly suited the place, and was far more appropriate than Bide-a-wee or Alamo, Joyce's frown entirely disappeared. Mrs. Lee caught up the old guitar, and began a rattling parody of "John Brown had a little Indian," changing the words to a ridiculous rhyme about "_The_ Wares had a little Wigwam." Mrs. Ware sat down to try the new rustic seat, and then jumped up like a girl again to look at the view of the mountains from the camp-chair, and then led the way, laughing and talking, to investigate the new home. She was as pleased as a child, and her pleasure made a festive occasion of the home-coming, which Joyce had feared at first would be a sorry one. Phil shouldered his gun ready to start off again, feeling that he ought not to intrude, but Jack had worked too hard to miss the reward of hearing his mother's pleased exclamations and seeing her face light up over every little surprise they had prepared for her comfort. "Come and see, too," he urged so cordially that Phil fell into line, poking into all the corners, inspecting all the little shelves and cupboards, and admiring all the little makeshifts as heartily as Mrs. Lee or Mrs. Ware. They went through the tents first, then the kitchen, and last into the living-room, of which Joyce was justly proud. There was only the old furniture they had had in Plainsville, with the books and pictures, but it was restful and homelike and really artistic, Phil acknowledged to himself, looking around in surprise. "Here's the Little Colonel's corner," said Mary, leading him to a group of large photographs framed in passe-partout. "You know mamma used to live in Kentucky, and once Joyce went back there to a house-party. Here's the place, Locust. That's where the Little Colonel lives. Her right name is Lloyd Sherman. And there she is on her pony, Tar Baby, and there's her grandfather at the gate." Phil stooped for a closer view of the photograph, and then straightened up, with a look of dawning recognition in his face. "Why, I've seen her," he said, slowly. "I've been past that place. Once, several years ago, I was going from Cincinnati to Louisville with father, and something happened that we stopped on a switch in front of a place that looked just like that. And the brakeman said it was called Locust. I was out on the rear platform. I believe we were waiting for an express train to pass us, or something of the sort. At any rate, I saw that same old gentleman,--he had only one arm and was all dressed in white. Everybody was saying what a picture he made. The locusts were in bloom, you know. And while he stood there, the prettiest little girl came riding up on a black pony, with a magnificent St. Bernard dog following. She was all in white, too, with a spray of locust blossoms stuck in the cockade of the little black velvet Napoleon cap she wore, exactly as it is in that picture; and she held up a letter and called out: 'White pigeon wing fo' you, grandfathah deah.' I never forgot how sweet it sounded." "Oh, that was Lloyd! That was Lloyd!" called Mary and Joyce in the same breath, and Joyce added: "She always used to call out that when she had a letter for the old Colonel, and it must have been Hero that you saw, the Red Cross war-dog that was given to her in Switzerland. How strange it seems that you should come across her picture away out here in the desert!" Mary's eyes grew rounder and rounder as she listened. She delighted in romantic situations, and this seemed to her one of the most romantic she had ever known in real life, quite as interesting as anything she had ever read about. "Doesn't it seem queer to think that he's seen Lloyd and Locust?" she exclaimed. "It makes him seem almost like home folks, doesn't it, mamma?" Mrs. Ware smiled. "It certainly does, dear, and we must try to make him feel at home with us in our wild wigwam." She had seen the wistful expression of his eyes a few moments before when, catching Joyce and Jack by the arms, she had cried, proudly: "Nobody in the world has such children as mine, Mrs. Lee! Don't you think I have cause to be proud of my five little Indians, who fixed up this house so beautifully all by themselves?" "Come back and take supper with us, won't you?" she asked, as he and Jack started on their interrupted hunt. "We'll make a sort of house-warming of our first meal together in the new wigwam, and I'll be glad to count you among my little Indians." "Thank you, Mrs. Ware," he said, in his gentlemanly way and with the frank smile which she found so winning; "you don't know how much that means to a fellow who has been away from a real home as long as I have. I'll be the gladdest 'little Indian' in the bunch to be counted in that way." "Then I'll get back to my cake-making," said Joyce, "if we're to have company for supper. I won't promise that it'll be a success, though, for while it bakes I'm going to write to Lloyd. I've thought for days that I ought to write, for I've owed her a letter ever since Christmas. She doesn't even know that we've left Plainsville. And I'm going to tell her about your having seen her, and recognized her picture away out here on the desert. I wish she'd come out and make us a visit." "Here," said Phil, playfully, taking a sprig of orange blossoms from his buttonhole, and putting it in the vase on the wicker table. "When you get your letter written, put that in, as a sample of what grows out here. I picked it as we passed Clayson's ranch. If it reaches her on a cold, snowy day, it will make her want to come out to this land of sunshine. You needn't tell her I sent it." "I'll dare you to tell," said Jack, as they started off. Joyce's only answer was a laugh, as she went back to her egg-beating. Almost by the time the boys were out of sight, she had whisked the cake dough into a pan, and the pan into the oven, and, while Mrs. Ware and Mrs. Lee talked in the other room, she spread her paper out on the kitchen table, and began her letter to the Little Colonel. CHAPTER V. WHAT A LETTER BROUGHT ABOUT LLOYDSBORO VALLEY would have seemed a strange place to Joyce, could she have followed her letter back to Kentucky. She had known it only in midsummer, when the great trees at Locust arched their leafy branches above the avenue, to make a giant arbour of green. Now these same trees stood bleak and bare in the February twilight, almost knee-deep in drifts of snow. Instead of a green lacework of vines, icicles hung between the tall white pillars of the porch, gleaming like silver where the light from the front windows streamed out upon them, and lay in far-reaching paths across the snow. In the long drawing-room, softly lighted by many candles and the glow of a great wood fire, the Little Colonel sat on the arm of her father's chair. He had just driven up from the station, and she held his cold ears in her warm little hands, giving them a pull now and then to emphasize what she was saying. "The first sleigh-ride of the season, Papa Jack. Think of that! We've had enough snow this wintah for any amount of coasting and sleighing if it had only lasted. That's the trouble with Kentucky snow; it melts too fast to be any fun. But to-night everything is just right, moon and all, and the sleighs are to call for us at half-past seven, and we're going for a glorious, gorgeous, grandiferous old sleigh-ride. At nine o'clock we'll stop at The Beeches for refreshments." "Yes," chimed in Betty from the hearth-rug, where she sat leaning against her godmother's knee. "Mrs. Walton says we shall have music wherever we go, like little Jenny that 'rode a cock-horse to Banbury Cross.' She has a whole pile of horns and bells ready for us. It's lovely of her to entertain both the clubs. She's asked the _Mu Chi Sigma_ from the Seminary as well as our Order of Hildegarde." "Oh, that reminds me," exclaimed Mr. Sherman, "although I don't know why it should--I brought a letter up from the post-office for you, Lloyd." Feeling in several pockets, he at last found the big square envelope he was searching for. "What a big fat one it is," said Lloyd, glancing at the postmark. "Phoenix, Arizona! I don't know anybody out there." "Arizona is where our mines are located," said Mr. Sherman, watching her as she tore open the envelope. "Oh, it's from Joyce Ware!" she cried. "See all the funny little illustrations on the edge of the papah! And heah is a note inside for you, mothah, from Mrs. Ware, and oh, what's this? How sweet!" A cluster of orange blossoms fell out into her lap, brown and bruised from the long journey, but so fragrant, that Betty, across the room, raised her head with a long indrawn breath of pleasure. "Listen! I'll read it aloud:" "'WARE'S WIGWAM, ARIZONA. "'DEAREST LLOYD:--Mamma's note to your mother will explain how we happened to stray away out here, next door to nowhere, and why we are camping on the edge of the desert instead of enjoying the conveniences of civilization in Kansas. "'The sketch at the top of the page will give you an idea of the outside of our little adobe house and the tents, so without stopping for description I'll begin right here in the kitchen, where I am sitting, waiting for a cake to bake. It's the cleanest, cosiest kitchen you ever saw, for Jack and I have been cleaning and scrubbing for days and days. It has all sorts of little shelves and cupboards and cuddy holes that we made ourselves, and the new tins shine like silver. A tall screen in the middle of the room shuts off one end for a dining-room, and the table is set for supper. To-night we are to have our first meal in the wigwam. Holland and Mary named it that, and painted the name on the porch post in big bloody letters a little while ago. "'Through the open door I can look into the other room, which is library, studio, parlour, and living-room all in one. Everything is so spick and span that nobody would ever guess what a dreadful time we had putting on the paper and painting all the woodwork. I spilled a whole panful of cold, sticky paste on Jack's head one day. We had made a scaffolding of boxes and barrels. One end slipped and let me down. You never saw such a sight as he was. I had to scrape his hair and face with a spoon. Then so much of the paper wrinkled and would stick on crooked, but now that the pictures are hung and the furniture in place, none of the mistakes show. "'Jack has gone hunting with Phil Tremont, a boy staying at Lee's ranch. I am learning to shoot, too. I practised all one afternoon, and the gun kicked so bad that my shoulder is still black and blue. Phil said the loads were too heavy, and he is going to loan me his little rifle to practise with. He is such a nice boy, and, oh, Lloyd! it's the strangest thing!--he has seen _you_. I have those pictures of Locust hanging over my easel, and, when he saw the photograph of you on Tar Baby, he recognized it right away. He was on the train and saw you ride in at the gate with a letter for your grandfather, and Hero following you. * * * * * "'I didn't get any farther than this in my letter (because I spent so much time making the illustrations) before Phil and Jack came back with some quail they had shot. They were the proudest boys you ever saw, and nothing would do but they must have those quail cooked for supper. They couldn't wait till next day. Mamma had invited Phil to take supper with us, and help make a sort of house-warming of our first meal in the new home. "'We had the jolliest kind of a time, and afterward he helped wipe the dishes. I told him that I was writing to you, and he took this little piece of orange blossom out of his buttonhole, and asked me if I didn't want to send it to you as a sample of what we are enjoying in this land of perpetual sunshine. "'It isn't a sample of everything, however. The place has lots of drawbacks. Oh, Lloyd, you can't imagine how lonesome I get sometimes. I have been here a month, and haven't met a single girl my age. If there was just one to be chums with I wouldn't mind the rest so much,--the leaving school and all that. I don't mind the work, even the washing and ironing and scrubbing,--it's just the lonesomeness, and the missing the good times we used to have at the high school. "'Save up your pennies, or else get a railroad pass, you and Betty, for some of these days I'm going to give a wigwam-party. It will be a far different affair from your house-party (could there ever be another such heavenly time?), but there are lots of interesting things to see out here: an ostrich farm, an Indian school and reservation, and queer old ruins to visit. There are scissors-birds and Gila monsters--I can't begin to name the things that would keep you staring. Mrs. Lee has a Japanese chef, and a Mexican to do her irrigating, and a Chinaman to bring her vegetables, and she always buys her wood of the Indians, so it seems very foreign and queer at first. There is no lack of variety, so I ought to be satisfied, and I am usually, except when I think of little old Plainsville, and the boys and girls going up and down the dear old streets to high school, and meeting in the library, and sitting on the steps singing in the moonlight, and all the jolly, sociable village life and the friends I have left behind for ever. Then it seems to me that I can hardly stand it here. I wish you and Betty were with me this very minute. _Please_ write soon. With love to you both and everybody else in the family and the dear old valley, "'Your homesick "'JOYCE.'" Mrs. Ware's letter was cheerful and uncomplaining, but there were tears in Mrs. Sherman's eyes when she finished reading it aloud. "Poor Emily," she said. "She was always such a brave little body. I don't see how she can write such a hopeful letter under the circumstances,--an invalid sent out into the wilderness to die, maybe, with all those children. She has so much ambition to make something of them, and no way to do it. Jack, if you go out to the mines this month, as you talked of doing, I want you to arrange your trip so that you can stop and see her." Lloyd looked up in surprise. "When are you going, Papa Jack? Isn't it queah how things happen!" "The latter part of this month, probably. Mr. Robeson has invited me to go out with a party in his private car. He is interested in the same mines." "I wonder--" began Mrs. Sherman, then stopped as Mom Beck came to announce dinner. "I'll talk to you about it after awhile, Jack." Somehow both Betty and Lloyd felt that it was not the summons to dinner which interrupted her, but that she had started to speak of something which she did not care to discuss in their presence. "Arizona has always seemed such a dreadful place to me," said Lloyd, hanging on her father's arm, as they went out to the dining-room. "I remembah when you came back from the mines. It was yeahs ago, befo' I could talk plainly. Mothah and Fritz and I went to the station to meet you. Fritz had roses stuck in his collah, and kept barking all the time as if he knew something was going to happen. You fainted when we got to the house, and were so ill that you neahly died. I heard you talk about a fiah at the mines, and evah since I've thought of Arizona as looking like the Sodom and Gomorrah in my old pictuah book--smoke and fiah sweeping across a great plain, and people running to get away from it." "To me it's just a yellow square on a map," said Betty. "Of course, I've read about the wonderful petrified forests of agate, and the great cañon of the Colorado, but it's always seemed the last place in the world I'd ever want to visit. It's terrible for Joyce to give up everything and go out there to live." "The Waltons were out there several years," said Mrs. Sherman. "They were at Fort Huachuca, and learned to love it dearly. Ask them about it to-night. They will tell you that Joyce is a very fortunate girl to have the opportunity of living in such a lovely and interesting country, and does not need any one's pity." Little else was discussed all during dinner. Afterward they sat around the fire in the drawing-room, still talking of the Wares and the strange country to which they had moved, until a tooting of horns and a jingling of bells announced the coming of the sleighing party. Both the girls were into their wraps before the first sleigh reached the gate. They stood waiting by the hall window, looking out on the stretches of moon-lighted snow. What a cold, white, glistening world it was! One could hardly imagine that it had ever been warm and green. Lloyd put her nose into the end of her muff for a whiff of the orange blossoms. She was taking Joyce's letter to show to the girls. Betty, her eyes fixed on the stars, twinkling above the bare branches of the locust-trees, caught the fragrance also, and it fired her romantic little soul with a sudden thought. "Lloyd," she exclaimed, "what if that orange blossom was an omen! What if Phil were the one written for you in the stars!" "Oh, Betty! The idea!" laughed Lloyd. "You're always imagining things the way they are in books." "But this happened just that way," persisted Betty. "His passing Locust on the train and seeing you when you were a little girl, and then finding your picture away out on the desert several years after, and sending you a token of his remembrance by a friend, and orange blossoms at that! If ever I finish that story of Gladys and Eugene, I'm going to put something like that in it." "Heah they come," interrupted Lloyd, as the sleighs dashed up to the door. "Come on, Papa Jack and everybody. Give us a good send-off." She looked back after her father had helped them into the sleigh, to wave good-bye to the group on the porch. How interested they all were in her good times, she thought. Even her grandfather had come to the door, despite his rheumatism, to wish them a pleasant ride. Life was so sweet and full. How beautiful it was to be dashing down the snowy road in the moonlight! Was she too happy? Everybody else had troubles. Would something dreadful have to happen by and by, to make up for all the unclouded happiness of the present? She was not cold, but a sudden shiver passed over her. Then she took up the song with the others, a parody one of the Seminary girls had made for the occasion: "Oh, the snow falls white on my old Kentucky home. 'Tis winter, the Valley is gay. The moon shines bright and our hearts are all atune, To the joy-bells jingling on our sleigh." Down the avenue they went, past Tanglewood and Oaklea, through the little village of Rollington, on and on through the night. Songs and laughter, the jingling of bells and the sound of girlish voices floated through all the valley. It was not every winter that gave them such sport, and they enjoyed it all the more because it was rare. It was nine o'clock when the horses swung around through the wide gate at The Beeches, and stopped in front of the great porch, where hospitable lights streamed out at every window across the snow. There was such a gabble over the steaming cups of hot chocolate and the little plates of oyster patés that Lloyd could not have read the letter if she had tried. For there were Allison and Kitty and Elise passing the bonbons around again and again, with hospitable insistence, and saying funny things and making everybody feel that "The Beeches" was the most charming place in the Valley for an entertainment of that kind. Everybody was in a gale of merriment. Miss Allison was helping to keep them so, and some of the teachers were there from the college, and two or three darkies, with banjoes and mandolins, out in the back hall, added to the general festivities by a jingling succession of old plantation melodies. However, Lloyd managed to tell Mrs. Walton about the letter, saying: "It almost spoils my fun to-night to think of poah Joyce being away out in that dreadful lonesome country." "Why, my dear child," cried Mrs. Walton, "some of the happiest years of my life were spent in that dreadful country, as you call it. It is a charming place. Just look around and see how I have filled my home with souvenirs of it, because I loved it so." Lloyd's glance followed hers to the long-handled peace-pipe over the fireplace, the tomahawks that, set in mortars captured during a battle in Luzon, guarded the hearth instead of ordinary andirons, the baskets, the rugs, and the Navajo portières, and the Indian spears and pottery arranged on the walls of the stairway. "Even that string of loco berries over Geronimo's portrait has a history," said Mrs. Walton. "Come down some day, and I'll tell you so many interesting things about Arizona that you'll want to start straight off to see it." Her duties as hostess called her away just then, but her enthusiasm stayed with Lloyd all the rest of the evening, until she reached home and found her father and mother before the fire, still talking about the Wares and their wigwam. "Your mother wants me to take you with me when I go to Arizona," said Mr. Sherman, drawing her to his knee. "Mr. Robeson had invited her to go, but, as long as that is out of the question, she wants to arrange for you to go in her place." "And leave school?" gasped Lloyd. "Yes, with Betty's help, you could easily make up lost lessons during the summer vacation. You'd help her, wouldn't you, dear?" "Yes, indeed!" cried Betty. "I'd get them for her while she was gone, if I could." "Oh, it's so sudden, it takes my breath away," said Lloyd, after a moment's pause. "Pinch me, Betty! Shake me! And then say it all ovah again, Papa Jack, to be suah that I'm awake!" "Do you think you could get your clothes ready in ten days?" he asked, when he had playfully given her the shaking and pinching she had asked for. "Oh, I don't need any new clothes," she cried. "But, Papa Jack, I'll tell you what I do want, and that's a small rifle. _Please_ get me one. I used to practise with Rob's air-gun till I could shoot as straight as he could, and I got so that I could put a hole through a leaf at even longer range than he could. Christmas, when Ranald Walton was home, we all practised with his gun. It's lots of fun. Joyce is learning to shoot, you know. _Please_ let me have one, Papa Jack. I'd rather have it than a dozen new dresses." Mr. Sherman looked at her in astonishment. "And _this_ is my dainty Princess Winsome," he said at last. "I thought you were going for a nice, tame little visit. I'll be afraid now to take you. You'll want to come back on a bucking broncho, and dash through the Valley, shooting holes through the crown of people's hats, and lassoing carriage horses when you can't find any wild ones to rope. No, I can't take you now. I'm afraid of consequences." "No, honestly, Papa Jack," laughed Lloyd, "I'll be just as civilized as anybody when I come back, if you'll only get me the rifle. I'll try to be extra civilized, just to please you." "We'll see," was the only answer he would give, but Lloyd, who had never known him to refuse her anything, knew what that meant, and danced off to bed perfectly satisfied. She was too excited to sleep. To see Joyce again, to share the wigwam life, and make the acquaintance of Jack and Holland and Mary, who had been such interesting personages in Joyce's tales of them, to have that long trip with Papa Jack in Mr. Robeson's private car, and a month's delightful holiday, seemed too much happiness for one small person. All sorts of exciting adventures might lie ahead of her in that month. The stars, peeping through her curtains, twinkled in friendly fashion at her, as if they were glad of her good fortune. Suddenly they made her think of Betty's words: "What if Phil should be the one written for you in the stars?" It _was_ strange, his having seen her so long ago, and finding her picture in such an unexpected way. She wondered what he was like, and if they would be good friends, and if she could ever think as much of him as she did of her old playmates, Rob and Malcolm. Then she fell asleep, wishing that it was morning, so that she could send a letter to Joyce on the first mail-train, telling her that she was coming,--that in less than two weeks she would be with her at Ware's Wigwam. CHAPTER VI. WASH-DAY AND WASHINGTON IT was wash-day at Ware's Wigwam; the first that Joyce and Jack had personally conducted, as it was the first Monday after moving from Lee's ranch. [Illustration: "'WE ALLEE SAMEE LAK CHINAMEN,' HE SAID"] Out in the back yard a big tin wash-boiler sat propped up on stones, above a glowing camp-fire. From time to time Jack stooped to poke another stick of mesquite into the blaze, or give the clothes in the boiler a stir with an old broom-handle. Then tucking up his shirt-sleeves more firmly above his elbows, he went back to the tub by the kitchen door, and, plunging his arms into the suds, began the monotonous swash and rub-a-dub of clothes and knuckles on the wash-board. "We allee samee lak Chinamen," he said to Joyce, who was bending over another tub, rinsing and wringing. "Blimeby, when we do heap more washee, a cue will glow on my head. You'll be no mo' Clistian lady. You'll be lil'l heathen gel." "I believe you're right," laughed Joyce. "I certainly felt like a heathen by the time I had finished rubbing the first basket full of clothes through the suds. The skin was off two knuckles, and my back was so tired I could scarcely straighten up again. But it won't be so bad next week. Mamma says that we may draw enough out of bank to buy a washing-machine and a wringer, and that will make the work lots easier." A long, shrill whistle out in the road made them both stop to listen. "It's Phil," said Jack. "He said he would ride past this morning to show us the new horse he is going to buy. My! It's a beauty bright!" he exclaimed, peering around the corner of the kitchen, "Come out and look at it." Hastily wiping the suds from his arms, and giving a hitch to the suspenders of his old overalls, he disappeared around the house. Joyce started after him, then drew back, remembering her old shoes and wet, faded gingham, as she caught sight of Phil, sitting erect as a cavalryman on the spirited black horse. From the wide brim of his soft, gray hat to the spurs on his riding-boots, he was faultlessly dressed. A new lariat hung on the horn of his saddle, the Mexican quirt he carried had mountings of silver on the handle, and the holster that held his rifle was of handsomely carved leather. While he talked to Jack, the horse stepped and pranced and tossed its head, impatient to be off. "Come on out, Joyce, and look at it," called Phil. "I can't," she answered, peeping around the corner of the kitchen. "I'm running a Chinese laundry back here. Jack says I'm no longer a 'Clistian lady.'" "Do you want any help?" he called, but there was no answer. She had disappeared. Phil was disappointed. It was for her admiration more than Jack's that he had ridden by on the new horse. He was conscious that he made a good appearance in the saddle, and he had expected her to show some interest in his purchase. Usually she was so enthusiastic over everything new. The work might have waited a few minutes, he thought. But it was not the urgency of the work that sent Joyce back to the tubs in such a hurry. It was the rebellious feeling that swept over her at the sight of his holiday appearance. She was tired and hot and bedraggled, having splashed water all over herself, and the contrast between them irritated her. "If I have to be a Polly-put-the-kettle-on all the days of my life, I'll just _be_ one," she said, in a half-whisper, giving the towel she was wringing a vicious twist. "I'm not going out there to have him feel sorry for me. He's used to seeing girls who are always dainty and fresh, like his sister Elsie, and I'm not going to let him see me looking like a poor, bedraggled Cinderella. It isn't fair that some people should have all the good things in life, and others nothing but the drudgery. "Jack doesn't seem to mind it. There he stands out in the road in his old faded, paint-smeared overalls, and his sleeves rolled up, never caring how awkward and lanky he looks. He's taking as eager an interest in that horse's good points as if he were to have the pleasure of riding it. But then Jack hasn't the artistic temperament. He likes this wild country out here, and he never can understand what a daily sacrifice it is for me to live in such a place. My whole life is just a sacrifice to mamma and the children." By the time the basket was full of clothes, ready to be hung on the line, Joyce had worked herself up to such a pitch of self-pity that she felt like a martyr going to the stake. She carried the basket to the sunny space behind the tents, where the line had been stretched. Here, with her sunbonnet pulled over her eyes, she could see without being seen. Phil was just riding away whistling. She watched him out of sight. The desert seemed lonelier than ever when the sound of hoof-beats and the cheery tune had passed. Her gaze wandered back to old Camelback Mountain. "We'll never get away, you and I," she whispered. "All the bright, pleasant things in life will ride by and leave us. Only the work and the waiting and the loneliness will stay." When she went back to the house with her empty basket, Jack was rubbing away with a vigour that was putting holes in one of Holland's shirts. "Why didn't you come out and see Phil's new horse?" he cried, enthusiastically. "He let me try him, and he goes like a bird. And say, Joyce, he knows where I could get the best kind of an Indian pony for almost nothing, at a camp near Scottsdale. It is good size, and it's broke either to the saddle or buggy, and the people will sell it for only ten dollars. Just think of that. It's almost giving it away. The man who had it died, and his wife couldn't take it back East with her, and she told them to sell it for anything they could get. Don't you think we could manage in some way to get it, Joyce?" "Why, Jack Ware! What can you be thinking of!" she cried. "For us to spend ten dollars on a horse that we don't need would be just as great an extravagance as for some people to spend ten hundred. Don't you know that we can only buy things that we absolutely have to eat or to wear? You've surely heard it dinned into your ears long enough to get some such idea into your head." "We don't absolutely have to have a washing-machine and wringer," he declared, nettled by Joyce's unusual tone. "A horse would be lots more use. We could have it to bring wood up with from the desert when we've burned all that's close by. And we can't go on all year borrowing a horse from Mrs. Lee every time we want to go to town, or have to have a new supply of groceries." "But you know well enough that mamma's teaching Hazel, after awhile when she gets well enough, will more than make up for the borrowing we will do," answered Joyce. "Besides it would only be the beginning of a lot of expense. There'd be feed and a saddle to start with." "No, there wouldn't! There's all that alfalfa pasture going to waste behind the house, and Mrs. Lee has a saddle hanging up in her attic that somebody left on a board bill. She said I might use it as often as I pleased." "Well, we can't afford to spend ten dollars on any such foolishness," said Joyce, shortly. "So that is the end of it." "No, it isn't the end of it," was the spirited answer. "I've set my heart on having that pony, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take the place of the washing-machine and wringer. You give me the five dollars they would cost, and I'll do every bit of the rubbing and wringing every Monday morning. I'll borrow the other five dollars, and give a mortgage on the pony. I'll find some way to earn enough to pay it off before the summer is over." Joyce shook her head. "No, a mortgage makes a slave of anybody foolish enough to chain himself up with one, Grandpa Ware always used to say. I'm running the finances now, and I won't give my consent. I think it is best to get the machine, and I don't intend to change my mind. You may get a position next fall, and then I'd be left to do the work without any machine to help. Besides, you sha'n't run in debt to get something that nobody really needs." "I do need it," insisted Jack, "and I don't see why, when you are only a year older than I am, that you should have the say-so about the way all the money is to be spent." "Because mamma wishes me to. Don't you see that the very fact of your wanting to be extravagant in this case, and go in debt and load yourself down with a mortgage shows that I have better judgment than you?" "Oh, you've got a great head for business!" sneered Jack. "Don't you see that it wouldn't be the same as buying something to eat up or wear out? It's an investment. You put the money into the pony instead of the bank, and any time you want to get it out, you just sell the beast. I might be able to get twice as much for him next fall when the tourists begin to come into Phoenix for the winter." "Yes, you might, but it would be more like Ware luck for it to cut itself all to pieces on the barb-wire fences before then, or break its legs stumbling into a gopher hole, or founder itself by getting into a neighbour's oat-bin. Something would be sure to happen. The money is safe where it is, and I believe in letting well enough alone." "Banks bust sometimes, too," said Jack, moodily, "and _I_ believe that 'nothing venture, nothing have.'" It was the first quarrel they had had in months. Each, feeling firmly convinced of being in the right, grew indignant with the other, and they passed from teasing banter to angry words, and then to an angrier silence. "It won't be any harder for him to give up what he had set his heart on than it is for me," thought Joyce, as she hung up the last garment. "I have to do without things I want all the time. And I'm not going to let him think that I'll give in if he teases long enough. I wouldn't have any authority at all over the children if I wasn't firm with them." As Jack emptied the last tubful of water, and stood the wash-board up to dry, he broke the angry silence that had lasted fully ten minutes. "Holland has a dollar in his savings-bank, and Mary has seventy-five cents. We could all chip in with what we have, and then go without butter or something for awhile till we'd saved enough." Joyce only gave an impatient shrug as she replied: "Much comfort we'd get out of a horse that everybody had a share in. If Holland felt that he'd sunk a dollar and several pounds of butter in that pony, he'd feel privileged to ride it any hour of the day or night, no matter who wanted it, and he'd do it, too. You might as well give it up, Jack. It is selfish of you to insist on spending so much on just your own pleasure." "Selfish!" blazed Jack. "It's _you_ that's selfish, wanting to be so bossy and have everything just your way. I haven't asked _you_ to do without anything, have I, or to put in any of _your_ money? And if I do the work of the washing-machine and wringer, I don't see why I shouldn't have what they would cost, to do what I please with. _You're_ the selfish one!" He banged the tub up against the tree and walked off toward his tent, buttoning his shirt-sleeves, and muttering to himself as he went. "Now, he'll go and tell mamma, I suppose, and worry her," thought Joyce, as she went into the kitchen. "But I'm too tired to care. If I hadn't been so tired, I probably wouldn't have snapped him off so short, but it just goes to prove that we can't do without a machine. The washing is too hard for me without one. I can't afford to get so worn out every week. It is all right for him to offer to take the place of one. He might keep it up for weeks, and even months, but next fall, if he should get a position in Phoenix, the money would be spent and I'd be left with the bag to hold. I don't think that, under the circumstances, he has any right to call me selfish. I'm _not_!" The word stuck in her memory, and hurt, as she dragged herself wearily into the sitting-room, and lay down on the couch. After she had pulled the afghan over her shoulders and buried her face in one of the pillows, a few hot tears trickled down through her closed eyelids, and made them smart. The kitchen clock struck eleven. "Oh, dear!" she said to herself, "I must get up in a few minutes and see about dinner." But the next thing she knew, Norman was ringing the dinner-bell in her ears, shouting that it was one o'clock, and that Jack had dinner ready, and to come before it got cold. "Oh, Jack, why didn't you call me?" she cried. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I only stretched out to rest for a few minutes." He made no answer, busying himself in carrying a hot dish of poached eggs and toast to the table, and bringing his mother's tea. He was carrying on a lively conversation with her. "Still mad, I suppose," thought Joyce, when he ignored her repeated question. "But evidently he hasn't said anything to mamma about it." The meal seemed an unusually cheerful one, for although Jack and Joyce had nothing to say to each other, they kept up such a chatter with their mother, that she ate her dinner serenely unconscious of their coolness toward each other. Afterward she insisted upon washing the dishes, so that Joyce could take a well-earned rest, and Jack go down to the ranch to see Mr. Ellestad's new microscope, which had just come. Joyce would not listen to her appeal that she was perfectly able to do that much work, and that she needed the exercise, but finally consented to her helping wipe the dishes, while she cleared the table and washed them. But Jack, after a little urging, started down the road toward the ranch, to spend a long, interesting afternoon there. As he went whistling out of sight Mrs. Ware looked after him fondly. "I know he's the best boy in the world," she said. "I wish I could afford to give him some of the pleasures that other boys have." "Seems to me he has about as much as the rest of us," said Joyce, rattling the cups and saucers in the dish-pan. But a picture rose in her mind as she spoke, that made her wish that she had not been so cross and so positive. It was Phil Tremont, on his horse, as he had looked that morning, handsome, fun-loving, and free to do as he pleased, and then in sharp contrast, Jack, standing in the road beside him, in his old outgrown, paint-smeared overalls, his fingers red and wrinkled from the suds, called from his work to see a pleasure in which he could not share. Now that she was rested and refreshed by her dinner, matters looked different. She could even see the force of Jack's argument about the pony being an investment, and she wished again that she had not been so positive in her refusal. But having once said no, Joyce felt that it would not be dignified to yield. If she changed her mind this time, Jack would think that she was inconsistent; and such is the unyielding policy of fifteen, that she felt that she would rather be called selfish than to admit that she was in the wrong or had been mistaken. It was a long afternoon. The fact that she and Jack had quarrelled kept recurring to her constantly, and made her uncomfortable and unhappy. He came back from the ranch at supper-time as if nothing had happened, however, and when she asked him some question about the new microscope, he answered with a full description that made her feel he had forgotten their morning disagreement. "I don't believe that he cares so much about that pony after all," she thought. After supper, when Holland and Mary had disposed of the dishes, she drew out the kitchen-table, and began sprinkling clothes ready for the next day's ironing. The boys had gone to their tent. The door was open between the kitchen and the sitting-room so that the heat might pass in to where Mrs. Ware sat knitting by the lamp. Mary was there also, and her voice came out to Joyce shrilly, as if she were in the room with her. "It seems a waste of time for me to be learning new pieces to say at school when I know at least a dozen old ones that I recited in Plainsville that would be new out here. But teacher picked this out for me. She's going to keep us in at recess if we don't know our pieces Friday. This has forty-eight lines in it, and I've only four nights to learn it in." "That is not bad," said Mrs. Ware, consolingly. "Only twelve lines an evening. Read it all to me, then I'll help you with the first quarter." Joyce stopped her humming as Mary began dramatically: "'A Boy of Seventy-six.' That's the name of it." She read unusually well for a child of her age, and the verses were new to Joyce: "You have heard the story, time and again, Of those brave old heroes, the 'Minute Men,' Who left their homes to fight or fall, As soon as they heard their country's call. Let me tell you of one, unnamed, unknown, A brave boy-hero, who fought alone. When the breathless messenger drew rein He had started whistling, down the lane With his rod and line, to the brook for trout, But he paused as he heard the warning shout, And his father called to him, 'Ben, my son, I must be off to Lexington! There is little time for fishing now, You must take father's place behind the plough.' One quick good-bye! The boy stood still, Watching him climb the homeward hill-- In and out of the house again, With his musket, to join the 'Minute Men.' Then he turned the furrows, straight and true, Just as he'd seen his father do. He dropped the corn in the narrow rows, And fought for its life with the weeds and crows. Oh, it was hard, as the days wore on, To take the place of that father, gone. The boyish shoulders could hardly bear All their burden of work and care. But he thought, 'It is for my country's sake That father's place at the plough I take. When the war is over, and peace is won, How proud he'll be of his little son!' But they brought him home to a soldier's grave, Wrapped in the flag he had died to save. And Ben took up his burden again, With its added weight of grief and pain, Saying bravely, 'In all things now I must take father's place behind the plough.' Seed-time and harvest came and went, Steadily still to the work he bent, For the family needed bread, and then, So did the half-starved fighting men. Only a boy! Not a hero bold, Whose deeds in the histories are told. Still, there fell under British fire, No braver son of a patriot sire Than this young lad, who for duty's sake Said, 'This is the task I'll undertake. I cannot fight for my country now, But I'll take father's place behind the plough.'" "I wonder why it is," said Mary, thoughtfully, as she came to the end, "that all the heroes live so far away that nobody knows them except the people who write the books and poetry about them. I wish I knew a boy like that." "You do," said her mother, quietly. "One who has been just as faithful to duty, just as much of a hero in his small way as Ben. Who said the same thing, 'In all things now, I must take father's place behind the plough,' and who has done it, too, so faithfully and well that he has lifted a great burden from his mother's heart, and made living easier for all the family." "Why, mamma, do I know him? Was it somebody in Plainsville? What was his name?" "John Alwyn Ware," said her mother, with a smile, although her lips trembled. "John Alwyn Ware," repeated Mary, with a puzzled expression. "Why, that was papa's name, and you said that he was a boy that I knew." "Isn't it Jack's name, too?" asked her mother. "Yes, so it is! But how could _he_ take his father's place behind the plough? Papa was a lawyer, and never had any plough." "Whatever is a man's life-work may be called his plough," explained Mrs. Ware, gently, "and papa's duties were not all in his law-office. They were at home, too, and there is where Jack tried to take his place. He was such a little fellow. My first thought was, 'Oh, how am I ever going to bring up my three boys without their father's help and noble example!' and he came to me, his little face all streaked with tears, and put his arms around me, and said, 'Don't cry, mother, I'll take papa's place now, and help take care of the family. If I can't do anything for awhile but just be a good boy, I'll do that much, and set them a good example.' And from that day to this he has never given me an anxious moment. He is a high-strung boy, fond of having his own way, and it has often been a struggle for him to resist the temptation of doing as his chums did, when they were inclined to be a little wild. But he has always been true to his promise, and Holland and Norman have both been easier to manage, because of the example of obedience he has always set them. So you see the heroes don't always live so far away after all. You've been living in the same house with one, and didn't know it." Norman came clamouring into the kitchen for something that Holland had sent for, and Joyce lost the rest of the conversation, but what she had heard stayed with her. Little scenes that she had almost forgotten came up in her mind. Now she understood why Jack had so often refused to join in the larks of the other boys. It was not because he was lazy and indifferent, as she had sometimes thought, when he had settled down with a book at home, instead of going with them in the evenings. She understood, too, why he never "answered back" or asked why. Not because he had any less spirit than Holland, or cared less for his own way. It was because of the promise he had made beside his father's coffin. He was setting the highest example he knew of obedience and faithfulness to duty. "How could I have called him selfish?" she asked herself, "when this is the first time he has asked for anything for his own pleasure since we have been here. He has stayed at home and dug and delved like an old man instead of a boy of fourteen, and of course it must be as dull for him as it is for me. I suppose I didn't realize it, because he never complains as I do. I've had so many more good times than he has," she went on in her self-communing. "My trip to Europe, and the Little Colonel's house-party,--and he was never even out of Plainsville until we came here." As she thought of the house-party, she caught the gleam of the little ring, the lover's knot of gold on her finger that Eugenia had given her to remind her of the Road of the Loving Heart, and she stood quite still for a moment, looking at it. "I believe I'll do it," she decided, finally, and fell to work so energetically that the last damp roll of clothes was soon tucked away in the basket. Then taking the candle from the shelf, and shading it carefully with her hand, she hurried out to her tent. Dropping on her knees beside her trunk, she began turning over its contents till she reached a pink bonbon-box at the very bottom. Inside the box was a letter, and inside the letter was a gold coin, the five dollars that Cousin Kate had sent her Christmas. She had put it sacredly away as a nest-egg, intending to add to it as she could, until there was enough to pay for a course of instruction in illustrating, by correspondence. The address of an art school which advertised to give such lessons, was copied on the envelope. As she turned the letter irresolutely in her hands, she heard Jack's voice in the next tent, talking to Holland: "I wonder who'll take my place in the high school nine this year? Wouldn't I give my eyes to pitch for them when they play the Plainsville 'Invincibles'! Wish I could see old Charlie Scudder's red head behind the bat again! And don't I wish I could hear him giving his call for me out by the alley gate! I'd walk from here to Phoenix just to hear it again." "I don't miss the fellows much as I thought I would," said Holland, who was hunting for a certain hook he wanted in what looked to be a hopeless snarl of fishing-tackle. "There's some first-rate kids go to this school, and I see about as much fun out here as I did at home." "I suppose it would be different with me if I went to school," said Jack. "But it gets mighty monotonous poking around the desert by yourself, even if you have got a gun. Now that Phil Tremont has his horse, that will cut me out from going with him, for I'll have to foot it wherever I go." "Oh, I know where there's a dandy Indian pony for sale over by Scottsdale," began Holland. "George Lee told me about it. They're going to put it up at auction Saturday, if they don't sell it before. Don't you wish you had it?" "You can bet your only dollar I do! I tried to talk Joyce into thinking we could afford it, but she wouldn't be convinced." "I don't see why she should always have the say-so," said Holland. "She's only a year older than you are, anyhow. She sits down on everything we want to do, as if she was our grandmother. She's too bossy." "No, she isn't," answered Jack, loyally. "She knows what she is talking about. She's had a mighty tough time trying to make one dollar do the work of two since we've been out here. And she's worked like a squaw, and it's powerful hard on her having so much responsibility. What she says in this wigwam _goes_, even if it doesn't suit our tastes!" A warm little glow came into Joyce's heart as she knelt there beside the trunk, unconsciously playing eavesdropper. How good it was of Jack to uphold her that way with Holland, who was always resenting her authority, and inclined to be rebellious. Hesitating no longer, she reached into the tray of her trunk for the purse which held the monthly housekeeping allowance. Taking out a crisp five-dollar bill, she folded the coin in it, and ran out toward the boys' tent. The candle-light, streaming through the canvas, made a transparency on which the green-eyed gods of the Dacotahs stood out in startling distinctness. Holland's shadow, bending over the fishing-tackle beside the candle, reached to the top of the tent. Jack's waved its heels over the foot-board of the bed on which he had thrown himself. "Jack," she said, putting her head through the opening of the tent where the flap was pinned back, "I've changed my mind about that investment. I've decided to go in with you. I'll put in Cousin Kate's Christmas money, and if you still want to take the place of the washing-machine and wringer, we'll use the five dollars they would cost, to buy the pony. Then I think the most appropriate name we could give it would be _Washing_-ton!" CHAPTER VII. A SURPRISE IN order to understand the excitement that prevailed at the Wigwam when it was announced that the Little Colonel was on her way toward it, one would first have to understand what an important part she had played in the Ware household. To begin with, the place where she lived had always seemed a sort of enchanted land to the children. "The Old Kentucky Home" was their earliest cradle-song, and their favourite nursery-tales were about the people and places of Lloydsboro Valley, where their mother's happy girlhood had been passed. They might grow tired of Red Riding Hood and Cinderella. Aladdin and even Ali Baba and the forty thieves might lose their charm, but no story failed to interest them that began "Once upon a time in Lloydsboro Valley." These reminiscences had passed from Joyce to Jack, and on down the line, with the high chair and the Cock Robin book and the red building-blocks, belonging to each in turn, but claimed by all. Mary's tears, Holland's tempers, and Norman's tantrums had many a time disappeared as if by magic, at those familiar words. After Joyce's return from the house-party at Locust, the Little Colonel became the central figure of interest, and all the glamour with which their childish imaginations had surrounded the place, now gathered around her like a nimbus around a saint. To Mary, who had read the "Princess Winsome" until she knew it all by heart, Lloyd was something between an ideal princess, who played on a golden harp, and an ideal little schoolgirl, who lived in a real palace, and did exactly as she pleased. She could talk of nothing else, after the letter came, and followed Joyce and her mother with innumerable questions, pausing often before the pictures of Lloyd and Tarbaby. The boys' interest in her coming was increased when they found that she was going to bring a rifle, and that her father had promised to hire a horse for her as soon as they arrived. Phil, who came so often to the Wigwam now that he seemed almost one of the family, caught so much of its enthusiasm over the coming guest, that he planned picnics and excursions for every day of her visit. He even had a voice in what he called the Council of War, in which it was decided to let the two older boys move their cots out-of-doors. Holland had been clamouring to sleep outside the tent ever since George Lee told him that he had begun to do so, and that was what made the cowboys so strong. So the gaily decorated tent, with its "figures mystical and awful," was made ready for Lloyd, and Norman took Joyce's place in his mother's tent. "She'll know that she's really out West when she once sets her eyes on those gods of the Dacotahs," Holland said to Mary on their way to school one morning. "As long as we call this the Wigwam, I think we ought to be dressed up in war-paint and feathers when she gets here. I'll do it, Mary, if you will. I'll dare you to. I'll double dare you!" Usually a double dare never failed to have the desired effect upon Mary. She would attempt anything he suggested. But it was too serious a matter to risk the first impression that such an appearance would make upon Lloyd, so she trudged on with a resolute shake of her little blond braids and big blue bows. "No, sir-ree, Holland Ware. I'm going to stay home from school that day, and wear my very best white dress and my rosebud sash. It's just as good as new if it is two years old, and the little spots on it where I squirted orange-juice don't show at all when it's tied. And Joyce said that she is going to put your hands to soak overnight, to see if she can't get them clean for once, for if there's anything the Little Colonel abominates, it's dirty hands and finger-nails. And you've got to wear a necktie every day, and go into Phoenix and have your hair cut. So there!" "Oh, I have, have I?" repeated Holland, mimicking her tone. "If Joyce has all those plans in her head, she can just get them out again. I'm not going to be a dude for any old girl in the country, I don't care if it is Lloyd Sherman. And if she is so dreadful particular as all that, I'll do something to shock her every day, till she gets used to it. Yes, I believe I'll come to the table the very first meal in a blanket, with feathers in my hair, and if you dare tell anybody beforehand, I'll--I'll--well, I'll get even with you in a way you won't like." "Oh, Holland, please don't! _Please_ don't disgrace us," begged Mary, who always took his threats in earnest. "It would be too dreadful. I'll give you something nice if you'll promise not to." "What will you give me?" "What have I got that you want?" "Oh, I don't know. I'll have to think about it." Holland had no intention of carrying out his threats, but he kept Mary in a fever of anxiety all week, saying one hour that he'd think about her offer, and the next that she didn't have anything he cared for, and that he preferred the fun of tormenting the girls to anything she could give. Joyce drew a star on the kitchen calendar, over the date on which they expected Lloyd to arrive; a big five-pointed red star. She rejoiced that it fell on a Wednesday, for by that time the washing and ironing would be out of the way. Her first experience in laundry-work made her look ahead to the coming Mondays as weekly bugbears. But the second was not so hard as the first. True to his promise, Jack did all the rubbing and wringing, getting up at daybreak to start the fire under the big wash-boiler out in the yard. This morning, as he touched a match to the little pile of kindling, and fanned the blaze with his hat, the new pony, grazing in the alfalfa field, came up to the pasture-bars with a whinny, and put his head over the fence, as if to watch him. "Oh, you think you'll boss this job, do you, Mr. Washington?" said Jack, who, in the short time he had had the pony, had grown as fond of him as if he were a person, and who talked to him as if he had human intelligence. "Well, you ought to take an interest in the washing, since that's the way you got your name, and the reason you are here. Wait till I get this boiler filled, and I'll bring you a lump of sugar." Washington was a wiry little pony. He had a wicked light in his eyes, and was too free with his heels at times, but he had been raised as a household pet, and stood like a kitten while Jack rubbed his nose and fed him sugar. "Take it easy while you can," said Jack. "If I have to work like a dog all morning on your account, to earn half the dollars that you cost us, I'll put you through your paces this afternoon to make up for it. You'll think that you are the Wild Mazeppa by the time we get back. Oh, you're such a nice old fellow!" Nobody was near to see the impulsive way in which the boy threw his arms around the pony's neck and hugged him tight. The feeling of possession made him happy as a king, as he sat on the topmost bar braiding Washington's shaggy forelock, while the sun came up over the Camelback, and the morning chorus of bird-calls swelled louder and sweeter over the awakening world. The fire under the boiler was crackling merrily, and the water was steaming, when Joyce came out of her tent and started toward the kitchen. She stopped a moment by the pasture-bars to reach through and give the pony a friendly stroke, for she was almost as proud and fond of him as Jack. She had had several delightful rides on him; once with Jack for company, on Phil's new horse, and twice with Phil, when they had raced for miles down the sandy road, past olive orchards and orange groves, sweet with the coming of spring. "I'm going to clip his mane to-morrow," said Jack, as he slipped down from his seat, and followed Joyce toward the kitchen. "He must look his best when Lloyd comes." "We've done everything to that tune for a week," laughed Joyce. "'When Lloyd comes' has grown to be a sort of refrain, running through all our conversation. You notice now, at breakfast, and see how often it will be used." Holland was the first to repeat the well-worn phrase, as he took his seat at the table, and waited hungrily for his plate to be served. "When Lloyd comes you'll have some of those good little corn muffins for breakfast, won't you, Joyce? Kentucky people aren't used to cold bread." Joyce smiled at Jack as the words they were waiting for were repeated, and then almost mechanically used them herself in her answer. "We'll have them once in awhile, I suppose, but we can't afford a very great change in our bill of fare. We'll have a mighty skimpy dinner to-day, for there's not much left over from Sunday, and we'll be too busy washing to stop to cook. But I want to have a big baking before Lloyd comes. If I go in to meet her Wednesday, in the ranch surrey, I'll have to do the extra cooking to-morrow afternoon, I suppose, after the ironing is out of the way." Mary cast an inquiring glance at the red star on the calendar. "Only to-day and to-morrow, then I can stay home the day after that when Lloyd comes, and wear my best white dress and my rosebud sash." "Oh, that will be joyful," chanted Holland, imitating her tone. "I wish that I were able to help you more with the work," said Mrs. Ware, wistfully. "Then you would have more time for preparation. Norman and I can manage the tent work, I think, this morning. Then I'll go down to the seat under the willows, and finish that Indian head sofa pillow. We must have that done before Lloyd comes." "Seems to me that I can hardly wait," said Mary, giving an impatient little wiggle that nearly upset her glass of milk. "I wish Betty were coming, too," said Joyce. "She would be making up stories from morning till night about the strange things out here; but she wouldn't have much peace. You children would never let her out of your sight." "Like Davy did at the cuckoo's nest," said Mary, who knew Betty's history almost as well as her own, and loved dearly to talk about it. Betty's devotion to her godmother since she had gone to live at Locust, and her wonderful gift for writing verses and stories made her almost as interesting to Mary as the Little Colonel herself. As she moved about the house after breakfast, doing the little duties that fell to her lot before school-time, she chanted in a happy undertone all the play of the "Rescue of the Princess Winsome," from beginning to end. Sir Feal, the faithful knight, had been associated in her mind with Phil, since the day he rescued her from her fright when she was running away from the Indian. She was the princess, and Phil the gallant knight, who, she dreamed in her romantic little heart, might some day send her messages by the morning-glories and forget-me-nots, as Sir Feal had done. Of course, not now, but some day when she was grown, and wore long, lovely dresses, and had a beautiful voice. She had pictured herself many a time, standing by a casement window with a dove clasped to her breast, and singing the song, "Flutter, and fly, flutter, and fly, bear him my heart of gold." But now that the real princess was coming, she lost interest in her own little day-dreams, which were of such a far-away time and so vague and shadowy, and began dreaming them for Lloyd. She wondered what Phil would think of her when they first met. She had already recited the entire play to him, and showed him the miniature, and, as he studied the sweet face at the casement, bending over the dove, he had hummed after Mary in an absent-minded sort of way: "Spin, spin, oh, golden thread, He dreams of me night and day. The poppy's chalice is sweet and red, Oh, Love will find a way." She was still humming it this morning when she came out of the back door, ready to start to school, and her thoughts were full of the play. "Joyce," she remarked, critically, pausing to watch her sister put more wood on the camp-fire and poke the clothes in the boiler with the end of an old broom-handle, "you look like the witch in the play: "'On the fire I'll pile my faggots higher and higher, And in the bubbling water stir This hank of hair, this patch of fur. Bubble and boil, and snake-skin coil! This charm shall all plans but the Ogre's foil.'" Joyce laughed, and Mary, slipping through the bars, followed Holland across lots to school. "I do feel like a witch in this old dress and sunbonnet," she said, "and I must look like one. But no one ever comes here in the mornings but Phil, and he has had his orders to stay away on Mondays." "What is the use of worrying about how you look?" asked Jack. "Nobody expects a fellow to play Chinese laundryman with a high collar and kid gloves on." Sousing the tubful of clothes into the rinse-water, Joyce went on vigorously with her morning's work. She and Jack relapsed into busy silence as the morning wore on, and when the clock struck eleven, neither had spoken for nearly an hour. Suddenly a sound of wheels, coming rapidly along the road, and a child's high-pitched voice made them both stop and look up to listen. "Aren't we getting back-woodsy!" Joyce exclaimed, as Jack shook the suds from his arms, and ran to the corner of the kitchen to watch a buggy drive past. "So few people come out this desert road, that it is really an event to see any one. I suppose we ought not to be blamed for staring." "It is Hazel Lee," said Jack. "I'm sure that's her voice. There must be some new boarders at the ranch, for there's a strange gentleman and a girl in the buggy with her, and she's standing up in front pointing out the country to them." Joyce came and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, that's Hazel," she said. "She's the knowingest little thing I ever saw for a child of five. You couldn't lose her anywhere around this region, and she is as good as a guide-book, for giving information. Mr. Ellestad was laughing the other day about her disputing with the White Bachelor over the market price of chickens. She was in the right, too, and proved it. She hears everything, and never forgets anything she hears." [Illustration: "'I THOUGHT WE'D NEVAH, NEVAH GET HEAH!'"] "She's saying something now to amuse those people mightily," said Jack, as a hearty laugh rang out above the rattle of wheels. Joyce transferred her gaze from the chubby, bareheaded child, leaning over the dashboard with eager gestures, to the two strangers behind her. Then she grasped Jack's elbow with a little cry of astonishment. "It's Lloyd!" she gasped. "Lloyd Sherman and her father, two days ahead of time. What shall we do? Everything is in a mess, and nothing in the house for dinner!" That instant Hazel's bright eyes spied them, her plump little finger pointed them out, and Joyce had no more time to consider appearances; for, springing over the wheel, Lloyd came running toward her, calling in the soft Southern accent that was the sweetest music to Joyce's ears, "Oh, you deah, darling old thing! What made you move away out to the edge of nowhere? I thought we'd nevah, nevah get heah!" In the delight of seeing her again, Joyce forgot all about things being topsyturvy, and how little there was in the house for dinner. She even forgot to introduce Jack, who stood awkwardly waiting in the background, till Mr. Sherman, amused at the girls' absorption in each other, stepped out of the buggy and came forward, laughing. "It looks as if the two Jacks will have to introduce themselves," he said, holding out his hand. Jack's awkwardness vanished instantly at this hearty greeting, and a moment later he was shaking hands with Lloyd as easily as Joyce was welcoming Lloyd's father, wholly indifferent to his outgrown overalls and rolled-up shirt-sleeves. In the meantime, Hazel, who was a major-general in her small way for comprehending situations, had, of her own accord, raced off to find Mrs. Ware and bring her to welcome the unexpected guests. "And you are Aunt Emily!" exclaimed Lloyd, turning with outstretched hands as the sweet-faced little woman came toward them. "Mothah said you wouldn't mind if I called you that, because you and she have always been such deah friends." There were tears in Mrs. Ware's eyes as she returned the impulsive kiss. She had expected to be fond of Elizabeth's only daughter. She had hoped to find her pretty and sweet, but she had not looked for this winsomeness, which had been the Little Colonel's greatest charm since babyhood. With that greeting, Lloyd walked straight into her heart. The surprise ended more satisfactorily than most surprises do, for, while Jack was unhitching the horse, and Mrs. Ware was talking over old times with Mr. Sherman, whom she had known in her school-days, some one went whizzing around the house on a bicycle. "It's Jo, the Japanese chef from the ranch," said Joyce, springing up from the front door-step where she sat with Lloyd, and starting back to the kitchen to ask his errand. "Oh, let me go, too," cried Lloyd, following. "I nevah saw a Jap close enough to speak to." Lloyd could not understand the pigeon-English with which he delivered a basket he had brought, but it was evidently a funny proceeding to Jo. He handed it over as if it had been a joke, doubling up like a jack-knife as he pointed to the contents, and laughing so contagiously that Joyce and Lloyd could not help laughing, too. "He not velly nice pie, maybe," giggled Jo. "But you eat him allee same. Mis' Lee say you not lookee for comp'nee. You not have nuzzing cook." "Did Mrs. Lee tell you to bring the basket, Jo?" asked Joyce. He shook his head. "Mis' Lee say take soup," pointing to the large glass jar of clearest consommé, smoking hot, which Joyce had just lifted from the basket. "I, _me_, bling along the pie, for my compli_ment_. She no care. She kind, Clistian lady." "She certainly is," laughed Joyce. "Now we can at least begin and end our dinner in style. That's a _lovely_ pie, Jo; the prettiest I ever saw." The little almond eyes twinkled, as he watched her hold up the dainty pastry with its snowy meringue for Lloyd to admire. "Aw, he not velly good pie," protested Jo, with a self-conscious smirk, knowing in his soul that it was the perfection of pastry, and eager to hear Joyce say so again. "I make-a heap much betta nex-a time." Then, with another laugh, he whizzed away on his wheel, pausing under the pepper-trees to catch up Hazel, and take her home on his handle-bars. "Joyce," asked Lloyd, as she watched him disappear down the road, "did you uncawk a bottle, or rub Aladdin's lamp? I feel as if I had walked into the Arabian nights, to have a foreign-looking, almond-eyed chef suddenly appear out of the desert with consommé and pie, like a genie out of a bottle." "It doesn't happen every day," laughed Joyce. "I suppose that after you stopped at the ranch to inquire the way here, and picked up Hazel for a guide, that it occurred to Mrs. Lee that we were not looking for you until Wednesday, and that, as this is our wash-day, maybe we wouldn't have a very elaborate dinner prepared, and she thought she would help us out in a neighbourly way. Jo enjoyed coming. When we were at the ranch, he was always making delicious little extra dishes for mamma." "Oh, I hope our coming soonah than you expected hasn't made a difference!" exclaimed Lloyd. "I nevah thought about yoah doing yoah own work. Mr. Robeson decided not to stop in New Mexico as long as he had planned, and, when I found that would put us heah two days soonah, I wouldn't let Papa Jack telegraph. I'm so sorry." "Don't say another word about it," interrupted Joyce. "The only difference it makes is to you and your father. You've not been received in quite such good style as if we'd been dressed in our best bibs and tuckers, but maybe you'll feel more at home, dropping right down in the middle of things this way." Lloyd felt as if she certainly had dropped down in the middle of things, into a most intimate knowledge of the Ware family's affairs. For, as Joyce circled around, setting the table, she saw that a pitcher of milk, bread and butter, and some cold boiled potatoes, sliced ready to fry, was all that the pantry held for dinner. If Joyce had spoken one word of apology, Lloyd would have felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but she only laughed as she put the consommé on the stove to keep hot, and set out the pie-plates on the sideboard. "Lucky for you," she said, "that the genie came out of his bottle. We were spending all our energy in rushing through the laundry work, so that we could make grand preparations for to-morrow, but we couldn't have equalled Jo, no matter how hard we tried." While Joyce, talking as fast as she worked, fried the potatoes and sliced the bread, Jack wrung out the last basketful of clothes and hung them on the line, and then disappeared in his mother's tent to make himself presentable for dinner. Lloyd had already had a peep into the tent that she was to share with Joyce, and had called her father to come and have a laugh with her over the green-eyed gods of the Dacotahs which were to guard her slumbers during her visit to the Wigwam. He was to leave that same night, and go on to the mines with Mr. Robeson and his party. Her trunk was brought out from town soon after dinner, and, while she partly unpacked it, putting the things she would need oftenest into the bureau drawers that Joyce had emptied for her, Jack and Mr. Sherman drove away to look at the horses one of the neighbours kept to hire to tourists. They came back later with a shaggy Indian pony, which Lloyd at once mounted for a trial ride. Joyce went with her on Washington as far as the White Bachelor's. Lloyd was not accustomed to a cross saddle, or to guiding a horse by the pressure of the bridle-reins against its neck, so they rode slowly at first. When they were almost opposite the camp at Lee's ranch, Joyce saw a familiar little figure trudging along the road, and wished with sisterly solicitude that they could avert a meeting. It was Mary on her way home from school, dusty and dishevelled, as usual at such times, one hair-ribbon lost, and the braid it had bound hanging loose and limp over her ear. Joyce was not near enough to see, but she felt sure that her shoe-laces were dangling, that there was ink on her hands and maybe her face, and that at least one button, if not more, had burst loose from the back of her dress. She knew that the child would be overwhelmed with mortification if she should come face to face with the Princess Winsome in such a condition, when she had set her heart upon appearing before her in her white dress and rosebud sash. Before Joyce could think of an excuse to turn back, Mary had settled the matter for herself. Hazel had stopped her at the gate to tell her of the unexpected arrival, so she was not wholly unprepared for this sudden meeting. Darting up the high bank of the irrigating ditch like a little gray lizard, she slid down on the other side into its dry bed and crouched there till they passed. There had been no water running for several days, but it would have made no difference to Mary. She would have plunged in just the same, even if it had been neck deep. She simply could not let the adored Little Colonel see her in such a plight. Joyce almost laughed aloud at the frantic haste in which she scuttled out of sight, but seeing that Lloyd had been too absorbed in guiding her pony to notice it, she said nothing, and delayed their return until she was sure that Mary was safe in her tent. So it was that when Lloyd went back to the Wigwam one member of the Ware family was arrayed in all her glory according to the original programme. Mary stood out under the pepper-trees, washed, combed, and clad, painfully conscious of her festive garments, which had had so few occasions to be donned on the desert, and in a quiver of eagerness. It was not only Lloyd Sherman who was coming toward her up the road. It was the Little Colonel, the Queen of Hearts, the Princess Winsome, the heroine of a hundred familiar tales, and the beautiful Dream-Maiden around whom she had woven all she knew or imagined of romance. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE DESERT OF WAITING LLOYD sat with her elbows on the white kitchen table, watching Joyce at her Saturday afternoon baking. Five busy days had passed since her coming, and she felt almost as much at home in the Wigwam as any of the Wares. Phil had been there every day. Mrs. Lee had invited her to the ranch to tea, where she had met all the interesting boarders she had heard so much about. Jack, Holland, and Norman devoted themselves to her entertainment, and Mary followed her so adoringly, and copied so admiringly every gesture and intonation, that Holland called her "Miss Copy-cat" whenever he spoke to her out of his mother's hearing. Lloyd could not fail to see how they all looked up to her, and it was exceedingly pleasant to be petted and deferred to by everybody, and on all occasions. The novelty of the place had not yet worn off, and she enjoyed watching Joyce at her housekeeping duties, and helped whenever she would allow it. "How white and squashy that dough looks," she said, as Joyce turned it deftly out on the moulding-board and began kneading it. "I'd like to put my fingahs in it the way you do, and pat it into shape, and pinch in the cawnahs. I wish you'd let me try to make a loaf next week. Will you, Joyce?" "You may now, if you want to," said Joyce. Lloyd started to her tent to wash her hands, but Jack's shout out in the road stopped her as she reached the door. He was galloping toward the house as fast as Washington could carry him, and she waited to hear what he had to say. "Get your rifle, quick, Lloyd!" he called, waving his hat excitedly. "Chris says that the river is full of ducks. We can get over there and have a shot at them before supper-time if we hurry. I'll catch your pony and saddle him while you get ready." "How perfectly splendid!" cried Lloyd, her eyes shining with pleasure. "I'll be ready in almost no time." Then, as he galloped on toward the pasture, she turned to Joyce. "Oh, I wish _you_ could go, too!" "So do I," was the answer; "but it's out of the question. We've only the one horse, you know, and I haven't any gun, and I can't leave the baking, so there's three good reasons. But I'm glad you have the chance, Lloyd. Run along and get ready. Don't you bother about me." By the time Jack came back leading Lloyd's pony, she was ready and waiting at the kitchen door, in her white sweater and brown corduroy riding-skirt. Her soft, light hair was gathered up under a little hunting-cap, and she carried her rifle in its holster, ready to be fastened to her saddle. "Oh, I wish you were going, too, Joyce!" she exclaimed again, as she stood up in the stirrups and smoothed the folds of the divided skirt. Settling herself firmly in the saddle and gathering up the reins with one hand, she blew her an airy kiss with the other, and started off at the brisk pace Jack set for her on Washington. Joyce called a laughing good-bye after them, but, as she stood shading her eyes with her hand to watch them ride away, all the brightness seemed to die out of the mid-afternoon sunshine. "How much I should have enjoyed it!" she thought. "I could ride as well as Jack if I had his pony, and shoot as well as Lloyd if I had her rifle, and would enjoy the trip to the river as much as either of them if I could only leave the work. But I'm like that old Camelback Mountain over there. I'll never get away. It will be this way all the rest of my life." Through the blur of tears that dimmed her sight a moment, the old mountain looked more hopeless than ever. She turned and went into the house to escape the sight of it. Presently, when the loaves were in the oven, and she had nothing to do but watch the baking, she brought her portfolio out to the kitchen and began looking through it for a sketch she had promised to show to Lloyd. It was the first time she had opened the portfolio since she had left Plainsville, and the sight of its contents made her fingers tingle. While she glanced over the sketches she had taken such pleasure in making, both in water-colours and pen and ink, her mother came into the kitchen. "Joyce," she said, briskly, "don't you suppose we could afford some cookies while the oven is hot? I haven't baked anything for so long that I believe it would do me good to stir around in the kitchen awhile. I'll make some gingersnaps, and cut them out in fancy shapes, with a boy and girl apiece for the children, as I always used to make. Are there any raisins for the eyes and mouths?" It seemed so much like old times that Joyce sprang up to give her mother a squeeze. "That will be lovely!" she cried, heartily. "Here's an apron, and I'll beat the eggs and help you." "No, I want to do it all myself," Mrs. Ware protested. "And I want you to take your sketching outfit, and go down to the clump of willows where Jack put the rustic bench for me. There are lovely reflections in the irrigating canal now, and the shadows are so soft that you ought to get a very pretty picture. You haven't drawn any since we left home, and I'm afraid your hand will forget its cunning if you never practise." "What's the use," was on the tip of Joyce's tongue, but she could not dim the smile on her mother's face by her own hopeless mood, and presently she took her box of water-colours and started off to the seat under the willows. Mary and Norman, like two muddy little beavers, were using their Saturday afternoon playtime in building a dam across the lateral that watered the side yard. Joyce stood watching them a moment. "What's the use of your doing that?" she asked, impatiently. "It can't stay there. You'll have to tear it down when you stop playing, and then there'll be all your work for nothing." "We don't care, do we, Norman?" answered Mary, cheerfully. "It's fun while we're doing it, isn't it, Norman?" As Joyce walked on, Mary's lively chatter followed her, and she could hear her mother singing as she moved about the kitchen. She was glad that they were all happy, but somehow it irritated her to feel that she was the only discontented one. It made her lonely. She opened her box and spread out her material, but she was in no mood for painting. She couldn't get the right shade of green in the willows, and the reflections in the water were blotchy. "It's no use to try," she said, finally. "Mamma was right. My hand has already lost its cunning." Leaning back on the rustic seat, she began idly tracing profiles on the paper, scarcely conscious of what she was doing. People's faces at first, then the outline of Camelback Mountain. Abstractedly, time after time, she traced it with slow sweeps of her brush until more than a score of kneeling camels looked back at her from the sheet of paper. Presently a cough just behind her aroused her from her fit of abstraction, and, turning hastily, she saw Mr. Ellestad, the old Norwegian, coming toward her along the little path from the house. He had been almost a daily visitor at the Wigwam since they moved into it, not always coming in, usually stopping for only a moment's chat under the pepper-trees, as he strolled by. But several times he had spent an entire morning with them, reading aloud, while Joyce ironed and her mother sewed, and Norman built block houses on the floor beside them. Once he had taken tea with them. He rarely came without bringing a book or a new magazine, or something of interest. And even when he was empty-handed, his unfailing cheerfulness made his visits a benefaction. Mary and Norman called him "Uncle Jan," such a feeling of kinship had grown up between them. "Mary said you were here," he began, in his quaint, hesitating fashion, "so I came to find you. I have finished my legend at last,--the legend I have made about Camelback Mountain. You know I have always insisted that there should be one, and as tradition has failed to hand one down to us, the task of manufacturing one has haunted me for three winters. Always, it seems, the old mountain has something to say to me whenever I look at it, something I failed to understand. But at last I have interpreted its message to mankind." With a hearty greeting, Joyce moved over to make room for him upon the bench, and, as he sat down, he saw the sheet of paper on her lap covered with the repeated outlines of the old mountain. "Ah! It has been speaking to you also!" he exclaimed. "What did it say?" "Just one word," answered Joyce,--"'_Hopeless_!' Everything out here is hopeless. It's useless to try to do anything or be anything. If fate has brought you here, kneel down and give up. No use to struggle, no use to hope. You'll never get away." He started forward eagerly. "At first, yes, that is what I thought it said to me. But now I know it was only the echo of my own bitter mood I heard. But it is a mistake; that is not its message. Listen! I want to read it to you." He took a note-book from his pocket. "Of course, it is crude yet. This is only the first draft. I shall polish it and study every word, and fit the sentences into place until the thought is crystallized as a real legend should be, to be handed down to future generations. Then people will not suspect that it is a home-made thing, spun from the fancy of one Jan Ellestad, a simple old Norwegian, who had no other legacy to leave the world he loved. This is it: "'Once upon a time, a caravan set out across the desert, laden with merchandise for a far-distant market. Some of the camels bore in their packs wine-skins that held the richest vintage of the Orient. Some bore tapestries, and some carried dyestuffs and the silken fruits of the loom. On Shapur's camel was a heavy load of salt. "'The hope of each merchant was to reach the City of his Desire before the Golden Gate should close. There were other gates by which they might enter, but this one, opening once a year to admit the visiting rajahs from the sister cities, afforded a rare opportunity to those fortunate enough to arrive at the same time. It was the privilege of any who might fall in with the royal retinue to follow in its train to the ruling rajah's palace, and gain access to its courtyard. And wares displayed there for sale often brought fabulous sums, a hundredfold greater sometimes than when offered in the open market. "'Only to a privileged few would the Golden Gate ever swing open at any other time. It would turn on its hinges for any one sent at a king's behest, or any one bearing something so rare and precious that only princes could purchase. No common vender could hope to pass its shining portal save in the rear of the train that yearly followed the rajahs. "'So they urged their beasts with all diligence. Foremost in the caravan, and most zealous of all, was Shapur. In his heart burned the desire to be first to enter the Golden Gate, and the first one at the palace with his wares. But, half-way across the desert, as they paused at an oasis to rest, a dire lameness fell upon his camel, and it sank upon the sand. In vain he urged it to continue its journey. The poor beast could not rise under its great load. "'Sack by sack he lessened its burden, throwing it off grudgingly and with sighs, for he was minded to lose as little as possible of his prospective fortune. But even rid of its entire load, the camel could not rise, and Shapur was forced to let his companions go on without him. "'For long days and nights he watched beside his camel, bringing it water from the fountain and feeding it with the herbage of the oasis, and at last was rewarded by seeing it struggle to its feet and take a few limping steps. In his distress of mind at being left behind by the caravan, he had not noticed where he had thrown the load. A tiny rill, trickling down from the fountain, had run through the sacks and dissolved the salt, and when he went to gather up his load, only a paltry portion was left, a single sackful. "'"Now, Allah has indeed forgotten me!" he cried, and cursing the day that he was born, he rent his mantle, and beat upon his breast. Even if his camel were able to set out across the desert, it would be useless to seek a market now that he had no merchandise. So he sat on the ground, his head bowed in his hands. Water there was for him to drink, and the fruit of the date-palm, and the cooling shade of many trees, but he counted them as naught. A fever of unrest consumed him. A baffled ambition bowed his head in the dust. "'When he looked at his poor camel kneeling in the sand, he cried out: "Ah, woe is me! Of all created things, I am most miserable! Of all dooms mine is the most unjust! Why should I, with life beating strong in my veins, and ambition like a burning simoom in my breast, be left here helpless on the sands, where I can achieve nothing, and can make no progress toward the City of my Desire?" "'One day, as he sat thus under the palms, a bee buzzed about him. He brushed it away, but it returned so persistently that he looked up with languid interest. "Where there are bees, there must be honey," he said. "If there be any sweetness in this desert, better that I should go in its quest than sit here bewailing my fate." "'Leaving the camel browsing by the fountain, he followed the bee. For many miles he pursued it, till far in the distance he beheld the palm-trees of another oasis. He quickened his steps, for an odour rare as the perfumes of Paradise floated out to meet him. The bee had led him to the Rose Garden of Omar. "'Now Omar was an alchemist, a sage with the miraculous power of transmuting the most common things of earth into something precious. The fame of his skill had travelled to far countries. So many pilgrims sought him to beg his wizard touch that the question, "Where is the house of Omar?" was heard daily at the gates of the city. But for a generation that question had remained unanswered. No man knew the place of the house of Omar, since he had taken upon himself the life of a hermit. Somewhere, they knew, in the solitude of the desert, he was practising the mysteries of his art, and probing deeper into its secrets, but no one could point to the path leading thither. Only the bees knew, and, following the bee, Shapur found himself in the old alchemist's presence. "'Now Shapur was a youth of gracious mien, and pleasing withal. With straightforward speech, he told his story, and Omar, who could read the minds of men as readily as unrolled parchments, was touched by his tale. He bade him come in and be his guest until sundown. "'So Shapur sat at his board and shared his bread, and rose refreshed by his wine and his wise words. And at parting, the old man said, with a keen glance into his eyes: "Thou thinkest that because I am Omar, with the power to transmute all common things to precious ones, how easily I could take the remnant of salt that is still left to thee in thy sack and change it into gold. Then couldst thou go joyfully on to the City of thy Desire, as soon as thy camel is able to carry thee, far richer for thy delay." "'Shapur's heart gave a bound of hope, for that is truly what he had been thinking. But at the next words it sank. "'"Nay, Shapur, each man must be his own alchemist. Believe me, for thee the desert holds a greater opportunity than kings' houses could offer. Give me but thy patient service in this time of waiting, and I will share such secrets with thee that, when thou dost finally win to the Golden Gate, it shall be with wares that shall gain for thee a royal entrance." "'Then Shapur went back to his camel, and, in the cool of the evening, urged it to its feet, and led it slowly across the sands. And because it could bear no burden, he lifted the remaining sack of salt to his own back, and carried it on his shoulders all the way. When the moon shone white and full in the zenith over the Rose Garden of Omar, he knocked at the gate, calling: "Here am I, Omar, at thy bidding, and here is the remnant of my salt. All that I have left I bring to thee, and stand ready now to yield my patient service." "'Then Omar bade him lead his camel to the fountain, and leave him to browse on the herbage around it. Pointing to a row of great stone jars, he said: "There is thy work. Every morning before sunrise, they must be filled with rose-petals, plucked from the myriad roses of the garden, and the petals covered with water from the fountain." "'"A task for poets," thought Shapur, as he began. "What more delightful than to stand in the moonlighted garden and pluck the velvet leaves." But after awhile the thorns tore his hands, and the rustle and hiss underfoot betrayed the presence of serpents, and sleep weighed heavily upon his eyelids. It grew monotonous, standing hour after hour, stripping the rose-leaves from the calyxes until thousands and thousands and thousands had been dropped into the great jars. The very sweetness of the task began to cloy upon him. "'When the stars had faded and the east begun to brighten, old Omar came out. "Tis well," he said. "Now break thy fast, and then to slumber with thee, to prepare for another sleepless night." "'So long months went by, till it seemed to Shapur that the garden must surely become exhausted. But for every rose he plucked, two bloomed in its stead, and night after night he filled the jars. "'Still he was learning no secrets, and he asked himself questions sometimes. Was he not wasting his life? Would it not have been better to have waited by the other fountain until some caravan passed by that would carry him out of the solitude to the dwellings of men? What opportunity was the desert offering him greater than kings' houses could give? "'And ever the thorns tore him more sorely, and the lonely silence of the nights weighed upon him. Many a time he would have left his task had not the shadowy form of his camel, kneeling outside by the fountain, seemed to whisper to him through the starlight: "Patience, Shapur, patience!" "'Once, far in the distance, he saw the black outline of a distant caravan passing along the horizon where day was beginning to break. He did no more work until it had passed from sight. Gazing after it with a fierce longing to follow, he pictured the scenes it was moving toward,--the gilded minarets of the mosques, the deep-toned ringing of bells, the cries of the populace, and all the life and stir of the market-place. When the shadowy procession had passed, the great silence of the desert smote him like a pain. "'Again looking out, he saw his faithful camel, and again it seemed to whisper: "Patience, Shapur, patience! So thou, too, shalt fare forth to the City of thy Desire." "'One day in the waning of summer, Omar called him into a room in which he had never been before. "Now at last," said he, "hast thou proven thyself worthy to be the sharer of my secrets. Come! I will show thee! Thus are the roses distilled, and thus is gathered up the precious oil floating on the tops of the vessels. "'"Seest thou this tiny vial? It weighs but the weight of one rupee, but it took the sweetness of two hundred thousand roses to make the attar it contains, and so costly is it that only princes may purchase. It is worth more than thy entire load of salt that was washed away at the fountain." "'Shapur worked diligently at the new task till there came a day when Omar said to him: "Well done, Shapur! Behold the gift of the desert, its reward for thy patient service in its solitude!" "'He placed in Shapur's hands a crystal vase, sealed with a seal and filled with the precious attar. "'"Wherever thou goest this sweetness will open for thee a way and win for thee a welcome. Thou camest into the desert a vender of salt. Thou shalt go forth an apostle of my alchemy. Wherever thou seest a heart bowed down in some Desert of Waiting, thou shalt whisper to it: 'Patience! Here, if thou wilt, in these arid sands, thou mayst find thy Garden of Omar, and from these daily tasks that prick thee sorest distil some precious attar to sweeten all life!' So, like the bee that led thee to my teaching, shalt thou lead others to hope." "'Then Shapur went forth with the crystal vase, and his camel, healed in the long time of waiting, bore him swiftly across the sands to the City of his Desire. The Golden Gate, that would not have opened to the vender of salt, swung wide for the Apostle of Omar. "'Princes brought their pearls to exchange for his attar, and everywhere he went its sweetness opened for him a way and won for him a welcome. Wherever he saw a heart bowed down in some Desert of Waiting, he whispered Omar's words and tarried to teach Omar's alchemy, that from the commonest experiences of life may be distilled its greatest blessings. "'At his death, in order that men might not forget, he willed that his tomb should be made at a place where all caravans passed. There, at the crossing of the highways, he caused to be cut in stone that emblem of patience, the camel, kneeling on the sand. And it bore this inscription, which no one could fail to see, as he toiled past toward the City of his Desire: "'"Patience! Here, if thou wilt, on these arid sands, thou mayst find thy Garden of Omar, and even from the daily tasks which prick thee sorest mayst distil some precious attar to bless thee and thy fellow man." "'A thousand moons waxed and waned above it, then a thousand, thousand more, and there arose a generation with restless hearts, who set their faces ever westward, following the sun toward a greater City of Desire. Strange seas they crossed, new coasts they came upon. Some were satisfied with the fair valleys that tempted them to tarry, and built them homes where the fruitful hills whispered stay. But always the sons of Shapur pushed ahead, to pitch their tents a day's march nearer the City of their Desire, nearer the Golden Gate, which opened every sunset to let the royal Rajah of the Day pass through. Like a mirage that vision lured them on, showing them a dream gate of opportunity, always just ahead, yet ever out of reach. "'As in the days of Shapur, so it was in the days of his sons. There were those who fell by the way, and, losing all that made life dear, cried out as the caravan passed on without them that Allah had forgotten them; and they cursed the day that they were born, and laid hopeless heads in the dust. "'But Allah, the merciful, who from the beginning knew what Desert of Waiting must lie between every son of Shapur and the City of his Desire, had long before stretched out His hand over one of the mountains of His continent. With earthquake shock it sank before Him. With countless hammer-strokes of hail and rain-drops, and with gleaming rills he chiselled it, till, as the centuries rolled by, it took the semblance of that symbol of patience, a camel, kneeling there at the passing of the ways. And to every heart bowed down and hopeless, it whispers daily its message of cheer: "'"_Patience! Thou camest into the desert a vender of salt, thou mayst go forth an Alchemist, distilling from Life's tasks and sorrows such precious attar in thy soul that its sweetness shall win for thee a welcome wherever thou goest, and a royal entrance into the City of thy Desire!_" There was a long silence when Mr. Ellestad closed his note-book. Joyce had turned her face away to watch the mountain while he read, so he could not see whether the little tale pleased her or not. But suddenly a tear splashed down on the paper in her lap, and she drew her hand hastily across her eyes. "You see, it seems as if you'd written that just for me," she said, trying to laugh. "I think it's beautiful! If ever there was a heart bowed down in a desert of waiting, I was that one when I came out here this afternoon. But you have given a new meaning to the mountain, Mr. Ellestad. How did you ever happen to think of it all?" "A line from Sadi, one of the Persian poets, started me," he answered. "'_Thy alchemist, Contentment be._' It grew out of that--that and my own unrest and despondency." "Look!" she cried, excitedly. "Do you see that? A bee! A bee buzzing around my head, as it did Shapur's, and I can't drive him away!" She flapped at it with her handkerchief. "Oh, there it goes now. I wonder where it would lead us if we could follow it?" "Probably to some neighbour's almond orchard," answered Mr. Ellestad. "Oh, dear!" sighed Joyce. "I wish that there was a bee that I could follow, and a real rose garden that I could find. It sounds so beautiful and easy to say, 'Out of life's tasks and sorrows distil a precious attar in thy soul,' and I'd like to, heaven knows, but, when it comes to the point, how is one actually to go about it? If it were something that I could do with my hands, I'd attempt it gladly, no matter how hard; but doing the things in an allegory is like trying to take hold of the girl in the mirror. You can see her plainly enough, but you can't touch her. I used to feel that way about 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and think that if I only had a real pack on my back, as Christian had, and could start off on a real road, that I could be sure of what I was doing and the progress I was making. I wish you'd tell me how to begin really living up to your legend." She spoke lightly, but there was a wistful glance in the laughing eyes she turned toward him. "You will first have to tell me what is the City of your Desire." "Oh, to be an artist! It has always been that. To paint beautiful pictures that will live long after I am gone, and will make people better and happier. Then the work itself would be such a joy to me. Ever since I have been old enough to realize that I will have to do something to earn my own living, I've hoped that I could do it in that way. I have had lessons from the best teachers we could get in Plainsville, and Cousin Kate took me to the finest art galleries in Europe, and promised to send me to the Art League in New York if I finished my high school course creditably. "But we had to come out here, and that ended everything. I can't help saying, like Shapur, 'Why should I, with life beating strong in my veins, and ambition like a burning simoom in my breast, be left here helpless on the sands, where I can achieve nothing and make no progress toward the City of my Desire?' It seems especially hard to have all this precious time wasted, when I had counted so much on the money I expected to earn,--enough to keep mamma comfortable when she grows old, and to give the other children all sorts of advantages." "And you do not believe that these 'arid sands' hold anything for you?" said Mr. Ellestad. Joyce shook her head. "It takes something more than a trained hand and a disciplined eye to make an artist," he answered, slowly. "Did you ever think that it is the soul that has to be educated? That the greater the man behind the brush, the greater the picture will be? Moses had his Midian before he was worthy to be 'Lawgiver' to his people. Israel had forty years of wilderness-wandering before it was fit for its Promised Land. David was trained for kingship, not in courts, but on the hillsides with his flocks. "This is the secret of Omar's alchemy, to gather something from every person we meet, from every experience life brings us, as Omar gathered something from the heart of every rose, and out of the wide knowledge thus gained, of human weaknesses and human needs, to distil in our own hearts the precious oil of sympathy. That is the attar that will win for us a welcome wherever we go,--sympathy. The quick insight and deep understanding that help us to interpret people. And nobody fills his crystal vase with it until he has been pricked by the world's disappointments and bowed by its tasks. No masterpiece was ever painted without it. A man may become a fine copyist, but he can never make anything live on canvas until he has first lived deeply himself. "Do not think your days wasted, little friend. Where could you learn such lessons of patience and courage as here on this desert where so many come to die? Where could you grow stronger than in the faithful doing of your commonplace duties, here at home, where they all need you and lean upon you? "You do not realize that, if you could go on now to the City of your Desire, the little you have to offer the world would put you in the rank of a common vender of salt,--you could only follow in the train of others. Is not waiting worth while, if it shall give you wares with which to win a _royal_ entrance?" "Oh, yes," answered Joyce, in a quick half-whisper, as the musical voice paused. She was looking away toward the mountain with a rapt expression on her uplifted face, as of one who sees visions. All the discontent had vanished now. It was glowing with hope and purpose. As Mr. Ellestad rose to go, she turned impulsively to thrust both outstretched hands into his. "I can never thank you enough!" she exclaimed. "Old Camelback will be a constant inspiration to me after this instead of an emblem of hopelessness. _Please_ come in and read the legend to mamma! And may I copy it sometime? Always now I shall think of you as _Omar_. I shall call you that in my thoughts." "Thank you, little friend," he said, softly, as they walked on toward the house. "I have failed to accomplish many things in life that I had hoped to do, but the thought that one discouraged soul has called me its Omar makes me feel that I have not lived wholly in vain." CHAPTER IX. LLOYD'S DUCK HUNT MEANWHILE, Lloyd and Jack, riding along toward the river, were enjoying every moment of the sunny afternoon. Leaving the road at the White Bachelor's, they followed the trail across a strip of desert. [Illustration: "ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT OF THE SUNNY AFTERNOON"] "Look out for gopher holes," called Jack. "If your horse should happen to stumble into one, you'll be over his head before you can say 'scat.' The little pests burrow everywhere." As he spoke, his pony sprang to one side of the road with a suddenness that nearly threw him from the saddle. "You old goose!" he exclaimed. "That was nothing but a stick you shied at. But it does look remarkably like a snake, doesn't it, Lloyd? That's the way with all these ponies. They're always on the watch for rattlers, and they'll shy at anything that looks the least bit like one." "I didn't know that we'd find snakes out heah in this dry sand," said Lloyd, in surprise. "Yes, you'll find almost anything if you know just where to look,--a whole menagerie. There are owls and snakes living together in the same holes. Wait! It looks as if there might be a nest of them yonder. I'll stir it up and see." Leaving the trail, he rode up between a clump of sage-brush and greasewood bushes, and threw his hat with all his force toward a hole beneath them. A great, sleepy owl fluttered out, and sailed off with a slow flapping of wings to the shelter of a stubby mesquit farther on. "If we had time to dig into the nest, we'd find a snake in there," declared Jack, hanging down from his saddle, cowboy fashion, to pick up his hat from the ground as he rode along. He could feel that Lloyd admired the easy grace with which he did it, and that she was interested in the strange things he had to tell about the desert. He was glad that Phil was not along, for Phil, with his three years' advantage in age and six inches in height, had a way of monopolizing attention that made Jack appear very young and insignificant. He resented being made to feel like a little boy when he was almost a year older than Lloyd and several inches taller. This was the first time he had been out alone with her, and the first time that he had had a chance to show her that he could be entertaining when he tried. Joyce and Mary and Phil had always had so much to say that he had kept in the background. The sun on Lloyd's hair made it gleam like sunshine itself, tucked up under her jaunty little hunting-cap. The exercise was bringing a deeper colour to the delicate wild-rose pink of her cheeks, and, as her eyes smiled mischievously up at him whenever he told some tale that seemed almost too big to believe, he decided that she was quite the nicest girl he had ever known, except Joyce, and fully as agreeable to go hunting with as any boy. In that short trip he pointed out more strange things than she could have seen in a whole afternoon in the streets of Paris or London. There were the wonderful tiny trap-doors leading down into the silk-lined tunnels of the cunning trap-door spiders; the hairy tarantulas; the lizards; the burrows of the jack-rabbits; a trail made by the feet of coyotes on their way to the White Bachelor's poultry-yard. Then he pointed out a great cactus, sixty feet high, branched like a candelabrum, and told her that the thorny trunk is like a great sealed cup, full of the purest water, and that more than one traveller has saved his life by boring into one of these desert wells when he was perishing of thirst. He told her how the Navajo Indians hunt the prairie-dogs, sticking up a piece of mirror at the entrance to the mound, and lying in wait for the little creature to come out. When it meets its own reflection, and sees what it supposes to be a strange prairie-dog mocking it at its own front door, it hurries out to fight, and the Indian pins it to the ground with his arrow. "Now, we'll have to go faster and make up for lost time," he exclaimed, as they left the desert and turned into a road leading to Tempe, a little town several miles away on Salt River. "There is an old ruin near this road, where the Indians had a fort of some kind, that I'd like to show you, but it's getting late, and we'd better hurry on to the river. Let's gallop." Lloyd had enjoyed many a swift ride, but none that had been so exhilarating as this. The pure, fresh air blowing over the desert was unlike any she had ever breathed before, it seemed so much purer and more life-giving. It was a joy just to be alive on such a day and in such a place. She felt that she knew some of the delight a bird must feel winging its wild, free way through the trackless sky. "I'd like to show you the town, too," Jack said, as they came to the ford in the river leading over to Tempe. "The Mexican quarter is so foreign-looking. But, as we're out to kill, we'll just keep on this side, and follow the river up-stream a piece. Chris said that is where he saw the ducks." "Oh, I'd be the proudest thing that evah walked," she exclaimed, "if I could only shoot one. A peacock couldn't hold a candle to me. It would be worth the trip to Arizona just to do that, if I nevah did anothah thing. How I could crow ovah Malcolm and Rob. Oh, Jack, you haven't any idea how much I want to!" "You shall have first pop at them," Jack answered. "You don't stand as good a show with that little rifle as I do. You'll have to wait till you get up just as close as possible." Compared to the broad Ohio, which Lloyd was accustomed to seeing, Salt River did not look much wider than a creek. She was in a quiver of excitement when they turned the bend, and suddenly came in sight of the beautiful water-fowl. The ponies, trained to stand perfectly still wherever they were left, came to a sudden halt as the two excited hunters sprang off, and crept stealthily along the bank. "They'll see your white sweater," cautioned Jack. "Stoop down, and sneak in behind the bushes." "Then I'd bettah wait heah," returned Lloyd, "and you go on. I don't believe I could hit a bahn doah now, I'm in such a shake. I must have the 'buck ague.' If I bang into them, I'll just frighten them all away, and you won't get a shot." It was a temptation to Jack to do as she urged. This was the first sight he had had of a duck since he had owned a gun, and the glint of the iridescent feathers as the pretty creatures circled and dived in the water made him tingle with the hunters' thrill. "No," he exclaimed, as she insisted. "I brought you out here to shoot a duck, and I don't want to take you back without one." "Then I'll get down and wiggle along in the sand so they can't see me," said Lloyd, "just like 'Lawless Dick, the Half-breed Huntah.' Isn't this fun!" Crawling stealthily through the greasewood bushes, they crept inch by inch nearer the water, fairly holding their breath with excitement. Then Lloyd, rising to her knees, levelled her rifle to take aim. But her hands shook, and, lowering it, she turned to Jack, whispering, "I'm suah I'll miss, and spoil yoah chance. You shoot!" "Aw, go on!" said Jack, roughly, forgetting, in his excitement, that he was not speaking to a boy. "Don't be a goose! You can hit one if you try!" The commanding tone irritated Lloyd, but it seemed to steady her nerves, for, flashing an indignant glance at him, she raised her rifle again, and aimed it with deliberate coolness. _Bang!_ Jack, who knelt just beside her, prepared to fire the instant her shot should send a whir of wings into the air, gave a wild whoop, and dropped his gun. "Hi!" he yelled. "You've hit it! See it floating over there! Wait a minute. I'll get it for you!" Crashing through the bushes he ran back to where Washington stood waiting, and, swinging himself into the saddle, spurred him down the bank. But the pony, who had never balked before with him at any ford, seemed unwilling to go in. "Hurry up, you old slow-poke!" called Jack. "Don't you see it's getting away?" He succeeded in urging him into the middle of the river, where the water was almost up to the pony's body, but half-way across, the pony began to plunge, and turned abruptly about. Then his hind feet seemed to give way, and he went suddenly back on his haunches. At the same instant a gruff voice called from the bank, "Come out of that, you little fool! Don't you know there's quicksand there? Head your cayuse down the river! Quick! Spur him up! Do you want to drown yourself?" With a desperate plunge and a flounder or two, the pony freed himself, and struggled back to safe ground, past the treacherous quicksand. As Jack reached the bank he saw the White Bachelor peering at him from the back of his white horse. He was evidently on the same mission, for he wore a hunting-coat, as brown and weather-beaten as his swarthy face, and carried an old gun on his shoulder. "You'd have been sucked clean through to China, if you'd gone much farther over," he said, crossly. "That's one of the worst places in the river." Although his tone was savage, there was a pleasant gleam in his eyes as he added: "Too bad you've lost your duck." "Haven't lost it yet," said Jack, with a glance toward the dark object floating rapidly down-stream. He kicked off his boots as he spoke. "Oh, Jack, please don't go in after it!" begged Lloyd. "It isn't worth such a risk." The word quicksand had frightened her, for she had heard much of the dangerous spots in the rivers of this region. "Bound to have it!" called Jack, "for you might not get another shot, and I'm bound not to take you back home without one." Striking out into the water regardless of his sweater and heavy corduroy trousers, he paddled after it. By this time the entire flock was out of sight, and when Jack emerged from the river dripping like a water-dog, the man remarked, coolly: "Well, your hunt's up for this day, Buddy. Better skip home and hang yourself up to dry, or you'll be having pneumonia. Aren't you one of the kids that lives at that place where they've got Ware's Wigwam painted on the post, and all sorts of outlandish figgers on the tents?" "Yes," acknowledged Jack, in a surly tone, resenting the name kid. Then, remembering the fate that the man's warning had saved him from, he added, gratefully: "It was lucky for me you yelled out quicksand just when you did, for I was so bent on getting that duck that I'd have kept on trying, no matter how the pony cut up. I thought he had taken a stubborn spell, and wanted to balk at the water. I'm a thousand times obliged. Here, Lloyd," he added. "Here's your trophy. We'll hang it on your saddle." He held out the fowl, a beautifully marked drake, but she drew back with a little shrug of the shoulders. "Oh, mercy, no!" she answered. "I wouldn't touch it for the world!" "Haw! Haw!" roared the White Bachelor, who had watched her shrinking gesture with a grin. "Afraid of a dead duck!" "I'm not!" she declared, turning on him, indignantly. "I'm not afraid of anything! But I just can't beah to touch dead things, especially with fu'h or feathahs on them. Ugh! It neahly makes me sick to think about it!" "Well, if that don't beat the Dutch," said the man, in an amused tone, after a long stare. She seemed to be a strange species of womankind, with which he was unacquainted. Then, after another prolonged stare, he swung his heels against the sides of his old white horse as a signal to move, and ambled slowly off, talking to himself as he went. "Meddlesome old thing!" muttered Lloyd, casting an indignant glance after him. "It's none of his business. I don't see what he wanted to poke in for." "It was lucky for me that he did," answered Jack. "I never once thought of quicksand. Queer that I didn't, too, when I've heard so much about it ever since I came. It's all through Southern Arizona, and more than one man has lost his life blundering into it." Lloyd grew serious as she realized the danger he had escaped. "It was mighty brave of you to go back into the rivah aftah you came so neah being drowned, and just fo' my pleasuah--just because you knew I wanted that duck. I'll remembah it always of you, Jack." "Oh, that's nothing," he answered, carelessly, blushing to the roots of his wet hair. "When I once start out to get a thing, I hate to be beaten. I'd have swam all the way to Jericho rather than let it get away. But I hope you won't always think of me as sloshing around in the water, though I suppose you can't help that, for you know the first time you saw me I was over my elbows in a washtub." "That's so," laughed Lloyd. "But you weren't quite as wet then as you are now. It's a pity you can't wring yourself as dry as you did those towels." While Jack was tugging into his boots, she went back to the bushes for the gun he had dropped. Then she stood drawing out the loads while he tied the duck to his saddle. "Poah thing," said Lloyd. "It looked so beautiful swimming around in the watah a few minutes ago. Now it's mate will be so lonesome. Papa Jack says wild ducks nevah mate again. Of co'se," she went on, slowly, "I'm proud to think that I hit it, but now that it's dead and I took it's life, I feel like a murdahah. Jack, I'm nevah going to kill anothah one as long as I live." "But it isn't as if you'd done it just for sport," protested Jack. "They were meant for food. Wait till Joyce serves it for dinner, and you'll change your mind." "No," she said, resolutely, "I'll keep my rifle for rattlesnakes and coyotes, in case I see any, and for tah'get practice, but I'm not going to do any moah killing of this kind. I'm glad that I got this one, though," she added, as she swung herself into the saddle. "I'll send grandfathah a feathah, and one to Mom Beck. They'll both be so proud. And I'll send one to Malcolm and one to Rob, and they'll both be so envious, to think that I got ahead of them." "May I have one?" asked Jack, "just to keep to remember my first duck hunt?" "Yes, of co'se!" cried Lloyd. "I wouldn't have had any myself, if it hadn't been for you. You have given me one of the greatest pleasuahs I evah had. This has been a lovely aftahnoon." "Then I can count that quite a 'feather in my cap,' can't I," said Jack, laughingly. Reaching down, he selected the prettiest feather he could find, and thrust the long quill through his hatband. Lloyd glanced quickly at him. She would have expected such a complimentary speech from Malcolm or Phil, but coming from the quiet, matter-of-fact Jack, such a graceful bit of gallantry was a surprise. "You can save the down for a sofa-cushion, you know," he added. "Even if you have sworn off shooting any more yourself, you can levy on all that Phil and I get, to finish it." "Oh, thank you," she called back over her shoulder. Her pony, finding that he was turned homeward, was setting off at his best gait. Slapping his hat firmly on his head, Jack hurried to overtake her, and the two raced along neck to neck. "This is how they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," he called. "I recited it once at school! "'Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,-- Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place.'" "Isn't it glorious?" called back Lloyd. Her cheeks dimpled with pleasure, and were growing red as a sun-ripened peach from the exercise. Her hat-pin began slipping out. Snatching at the little cap, she caught it just in time to save it from sailing off into the desert, but her hair came slipping down over her shoulders to her waist, in soft, shining waves. Jack thought that he had never seen anything prettier than the little golden ripples in it, as it floated back behind her in the sunshine. "You look like Goldilocks when the three bears chased her," he laughed. "Don't try to put it up again. That's squaw fashion. You ought to wear it that way all the time you're out here, if you want to be in style." Across the road from the Wigwam, Mary and Norman were waiting for the return of the hunters. They had rolled a barrel from the back yard over to the edge of the desert, where they could watch the road, and, turning it on its side, had laid a plank across it, left from flooring the tents. On this they were seesawing up and down, taking turns at occupying the end which faced in the direction Jack and Lloyd would come. Mary happened to have the coveted seat when they came in sight. "Gay go up, and gay go down," she chanted, as the seesaw rose and fell with delightful springiness. "All the way to London town." Norman was high in the air when she began again, "Gay go up," but it was anything but gay go down for Norman. With an unexpectedness that he was wholly unprepared for, Mary's chant ended with a whoop of "Here they come!" She sprang off, and ran to meet them, regardless of the other end of the plank. It fell with such a thud that Norman felt that his spinal column must certainly have become unjointed in the jolt, and his little white teeth shut down violently on his little red tongue. His cries and Mary's shout of "Here they come" brought Joyce to the door. Mr. Ellestad was just leaving. She had prevailed upon him to read the legend to her mother, and then he had stayed on till sundown, discussing the different things that a girl might do on the desert to earn money. The story of Shapur had inspired her with a hope that made all things possible. She was glad that Lloyd's triumph gave her an outlet for her enthusiasm. As soon as Mr. Ellestad left, she hustled Jack off to his mother's tent to change his wet clothes, and then started to build the fire for supper. "It's a pity that it's too dark for me to take a snap shot of you with that duck," she said. "But the first one that Jack or Phil kills we'll have a picture of it. It will do just as well. Then if I were you I'd make some little blotting-pads of white blotting-paper, put a blue-print on the top sheet, of you and your rifle and the duck, and at the top fasten one of the feathers made into a pen. You can split the end of the quill, you know, just as they used to make the old-fashioned goose-quill pens." "So I can!" cried Lloyd. "I'm so glad you thought of it. Oh, Joyce, I've had the best time this aftahnoon! I had no idea the desert could be so interesting!" "Nor I, either," began Joyce. "I'll tell you about it some other time," she added, as Holland burst in, demanding to see the duck that Lloyd had killed. Mary had run down the road to meet him with the news, but he stoutly declined to believe that a girl could have accomplished such a feat, until he had the proof of it in his hands. Then to Lloyd's delight he claimed the honour of picking it. She felt that she would rather throw it away than go through the ordeal herself, yet she could not impose such a task on any one else at such a late hour on a busy Saturday. "Oh, if you only will," she cried, "I'll let you use my rifle all next Saturday. I didn't see how I could possibly touch it! That down is so thick undah the long outside feathahs, that it would be as bad as picking a--a _cat_!" Holland ripped out a handful with a look of fine scorn. "Well, if you aren't the funniest!" he exclaimed. "Girls are awful finicky," he confided to Mary later. "I'm glad that I'm not one." CHAPTER X. THE SCHOOL OF THE BEES WITH her slipper toes caught in the meshes of the hammock to keep her from falling out, and with her head hanging over nearly to the ground, Mary lay watching something beneath her, with breathless interest. "What is it, Mary?" called Phil, as he came up and threw himself down on the grass beside her, in the shade of the bushy umbrella-tree. She pointed to a saucer of sugar and water just below her, on the edge of which several bees had alighted. "I put it there," she said, in a low tone, as if afraid of disturbing the bees. "Mr. Ellestad has been telling us how smart they are, and I wanted to watch them do some of their strange things myself. He wants Joyce to raise bees instead of chickens or squabs or any of the things they were talking about doing. He came up after dinner with some books, and told us so much about them, that I learned more than I would in a whole week in school. Joyce and Lloyd were so interested that, as soon as he left, they rode right over to Mr. Shaw's bee ranch to find out how much a hive costs, and all about it." "Have they been gone long?" asked Phil, more interested in the girls than in the bees. Finding that they had been away more than an hour, and that it was almost time for their return, he settled himself to wait, feigning an interest almost as great as Mary's in the saucer of sugar and water. There was something comical to him always in Mary's serious moods, and the grave expression of the little round face, as it hung over the edge of the hammock, promised enough amusement to make the time pass agreeably. "When one bee gets all he can carry, he goes and tells the others," explained Mary. "I've had six, so far. I suppose you know about Huber," she asked, looking up eagerly. "I didn't till Mr. Ellestad read us a lot about him out of one of the books he brought." "I've heard of him," answered Phil, smiling, as he saw how much she wanted the pleasure of repeating her newly gained knowledge. "Suppose you tell me." "Well, he was born in Switzerland--in Geneva, and when Lloyd found that out, she was ready to read anything he had written, or to study anything he was interested in. She just loves Geneva. That was where she met the major who gave her Hero, her Red Cross war-dog, you know, and that is where he saved her life, by stopping a runaway horse. "Well, Huber went blind when he was just a boy, and he would have had a terribly lonesome time if it hadn't been for the bees. He began to study them, and they were so interesting that he went on studying them his whole life. He had somebody to help him, of course, who watched the hives, and told him what went on inside, and he found out more about them than anybody had ever done before, and wrote books about them. It is two hundred years since then, and a whole library has been written about bees since then, but his books are still read, and considered among the best. "Holland said, Pooh! the bees couldn't teach _him_ anything. He'd just as soon go to a school of grasshoppers, and that I'd be a goose if I spent my time watching 'em eat sugar and water out of a dish. He was going off fishing with George Lee. He wouldn't wait to hear what Mr. Ellestad had to say. But all the fish in the canal wouldn't do me as much good as one thing I learned from the bees." "What was that?" asked Phil, lazily, stretching himself out full length on the grass, and pulling his hat over his eyes. "Sometimes it happens that something gets into the hives that don't belong there; like a slug. Once a mouse got in one, and it told in the book about a child dropping a snail in one. Well, the bees can sting such things to death, but they're not strong enough to drag them out after they're dead, and if the dead bodies stayed in the hives they'd spoil everything after awhile. So the bees just cover them all over with wax, make an air-tight cell, and seal them up in it. Isn't that smart? Then they just leave it there and go off about their business, and forget about it. Mr. Ellestad said that's what people ought to do with their troubles that can't be cured, but have to be endured. They ought to seal them up tight, and stop talking and fretting about them--keep them away from the air, he said, seal them up so they won't poison their whole life. That set me to thinking about the trouble that is poisoning my happiness, and I made up my mind I'd pretend it was just a snail that had crept into my hive. I can't change it, I can't drag it out, but I won't let it spoil all my honey." "Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed Phil, sitting up very straight, and looking at her with an interest that was unfeigned this time. "What trouble can a child like you have, that is so bad as all that?" "Won't you ever tell?" said Mary, "and won't you ever laugh at me?" She was eager to unburden her soul, but afraid of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of her hero. "Well, it's being so fat! I've always wanted to be tall and slender and willowy, like the girls in books. I always play I am, when Patty and I go off by ourselves at recess. I have such good times then, but when I come back the boys call me Pudding, and Mother Bunch and _Gordo_. I think that is Spanish for _fat_. My face is just as round as a full moon, and my waist--well, Holland calls me _Chautauqua_, and that's Indian for bag-tied-in-the-middle. There isn't a girl in school that has such legs as mine. I can barely reach around them with both hands." She pulled her short gingham skirt farther over her knees as she spoke, and stole a side glance at Phil to see if he were taking as serious a view of her troubles as the situation demanded. He was staring straight ahead of him with a very grave face, for he had to draw it into a frown to keep from laughing outright. "I'd give anything to be like Lloyd," she continued. "She's so straight and graceful, and she holds her head like a real princess. But she grew up that way, I suppose, and never did have a time of being dumpy like me. They used to call her 'airy, fairy Lillian' when she was little, because she was so light on her feet." "They might well call her that now," remarked Phil, looking toward the road down which she was to appear. Mary, about to plunge into deeper confidences, saw the glance, and saw that he had shifted his position in order to watch for the coming of the girls. She felt that he was not as interested as she had supposed. Maybe he wouldn't care to hear how she stood every day in the tent before the mirror, to hold her shoulders as Lloyd did, or throw back her head in the same spirited way. Maybe he wouldn't understand. Maybe he would think her vain and silly and a copy-cat, as Holland called her. Lloyd would not have rattled on the way she had been doing. Oh, why had she been born with such a runaway tongue! Covered with confusion, she sat so long without speaking that Phil glanced at her, wondering at the unusual silence. To his surprise there was an expression of real distress on the plump little face, and the gray eyes were winking hard to keep back the tears. "So that is the trouble, is it?" he said, kindly, not knowing what was in her thought. "Well, it's a trouble you'll probably outgrow. I used to go to school with a girl that was nicknamed Jumbo, because she weighed so much, and she grew up to be as tall and slim as a rail; so you see there is hope for you. In the meantime, you are a very sensible little girl to take the lesson of the bees to heart. Just seal up your trouble, and don't bother your head about it, and be your own cheerful, happy little self. People can't help loving you when you are that way, and they don't want you to be one mite different." Phil felt like a grandfather as he gave this bit of advice. He did not see the look of supreme happiness which crossed Mary's face, for at that moment the girls came riding up to the house, and he sprang up to meet them. "I'll unsaddle the ponies," he said, taking the bridles as the girls slid to the ground, and starting toward the pasture. By the time he returned, Mary had carried some chairs out to the hammock, and Joyce had brought a pitcher of lemonade. "Come, drink to the success of my new undertaking," she called. "It's all so far off in the future that mamma says I'm counting my chickens before they are hatched, but--I'm going into the bee business, Phil. Mr. Shaw will let me have a hive of gold-banded Italian bees for eight dollars. I don't know when I'll ever earn that much money, but I'll do it some day. Then that hive will swarm, and the new swarms will swarm, and with the honey they make I'll buy more hives. There is such a long honey-making time every year in this land of flowers, that I'll be owning a ranch as big as Mr. Shaw's some day, see if I don't! I always wanted a garden like Grandmother Ware's, with a sun-dial and a beehive in it, just for the artistic effect, but I never dreamed of making a fortune out of it." "And I intend to get some hives as soon as I go back to Locust," said Lloyd. "It will be the easiest way in the world to raise money for ou' Ordah of Hildegarde. That's the name of the club I belong to," she explained to Phil. "One of its objects is to raise money for the poah girls in the mountain schools. We get so tiahed of the evahlasting embroidery and fancy work, and, as Mr. Ellestad says, this is so interesting, and one can learn so much from the bees." "That's what Mary was telling me," said Phil, gravely. "But I must confess I never got much out of them. I investigated them once when I was a small boy--stirred up the hive with a stick, and by the time I was rescued I was pretty well puffed up. Not with a sense of my wisdom, however. They stung me nearly to death. So I've rather shrunk from having any more dealings with them." "You can't deny that they gave you a good lesson in minding your own business," laughed Lloyd. "Well, I don't care to have so many teachers after me, all teaching me the same thing. I prefer variety in my instructors." "They don't all teach the same thing," cried Joyce, enthusiastically. "I had no idea how the work was divided up until I began to study them. People have watched them through glass hives, you know, with black shutters. They have nurses to tend the nymphs and larvæ, and ladies of honour, who wait on the queen, and never let her out of their sight. And isn't it odd, they are exactly like human beings in one thing, they never turn their back on the queen. Then there are the house bees, who both air and heat the hives by fanning their wings, and sometimes they help to evaporate the honey in the same way, when there is more water in the flower nectar than usual. There are architects, masons, waxworkers, and sculptors, and the foragers, who go out to the flowers for the pollen and nectar. Some are chemists, who let a drop of formic acid fall from the end of their stings to preserve the honey, and some are capsule makers, who seal down the cells when the honey is ripe. Besides all these are the sweepers, who spend their time sweeping the tiny streets, and the bearers, who remove the corpses, and the amazons of the guard, who watch by the threshold night and day, and seem to require some kind of a countersign of all who pass, just like real soldiers. Some are artists, too, as far as knowing colours is concerned. They get red pollen from the mignonette, and yellow pollen from the lilies, and they never mix them. They always store them in separate cells in the storerooms." "Whew!" whistled Phil, beginning to fan himself with his hat as Joyce paused. "Anything more? It takes a girl with a fad to deluge a fellow with facts." "Tell him about the drones," said Lloyd, meaningly. She resented being laughed at. "_They_ don't like the school of the bees eithah. If Aristotle and Cato and Pliny and those old philosophahs could spend time studying them, _you_ needn't tuh'n up yoah nose at them!" Lloyd turned away indignantly, but she looked so pretty with her eyes flashing, and the colour coming up in her cheeks, that Phil was tempted to keep on teasing them about their fad, as he called it. His antagonism to it was all assumed at first, but he began to feel a real resentment as the days wore on. It interfered too often with his plans. Several times he had walked up to the ranch to find Mr. Ellestad there ahead of him with a new book on bee culture, or an interesting account of some new experiment, or some ride was spoiled because, when he called, the girls had gone to Shaw's ranch to spend the afternoon. Joyce and Lloyd purposely pointed all their morals, and illustrated all their remarks whenever they could, by items learned at the School of the Bees, until Phil groaned aloud whenever the little honey-makers were mentioned. "If you had been Shapur you nevah would have followed that bee to the Rose Garden of Omah, would you?" asked Lloyd, one day when they had been discussing the legend of Camelback. "No," answered Phil, "nothing could tempt me to follow one of those irritating little creatures." "Not even to reach the City of yoah Desiah?" "My City of Desire would have been right in that oasis, probably, if I had been Shapur. The story said, 'Water there was for him to drink, and the fruit of the date-palm.' He had everything to make him comfortable, so what was the use of going around with an ambition like a burning simoom in his breast." "I don't believe that you have a bit of ambition," said Lloyd, in a disapproving tone that nettled Phil. "Have you?" "I can't say that it keeps me awake of nights," laughed Phil. "And I can't see that anybody is any happier or more comfortable for being all torn up over some impossible thing he is for ever reaching after, and never can get hold of." "Neahly everybody I know is like Shapur," said Lloyd, musingly. "Joyce is wild to be an artist, and Betty to write books, and Holland to go into the navy, and Jack to be at the head of the mines. Papa has promised him a position in the mine office as soon as he learns Spanish, and he is pegging away at it every spare minute. He says Jack will make a splendid man, for it is his great ambition to be just like his fathah, who was so steady-going and reliable and honahable in all he undahtook, that he had the respect of everybody. Papa says Jack will make just the kind of man that is needed out heah to build up this new country, and he expects great things of him some day. He says that a boy who is so faithful in small things is bound to be faithful to great ones of public trust." "What is your City of Desire?" asked Phil, who did not relish the turn the conversation had taken. He liked Jack, but he didn't want Lloyd to sing his praises so enthusiastically. "Oh, I'm only a girl without any especial talent," answered Lloyd, "so I can't expect to amount to as much as Joyce and Betty. But I want to live up to our club motto, and to leave a Road of the Loving Heart behind me in everybody's memory, and to be just as much like mothah and my beautiful Grandmothah Amanthis as I can. A home-makah, grandfathah says, is moah needed in the world than an artist or an authah. He consoles me that way sometimes, when I feel bad because I can't do the things I'd like to. But it is about as hard to live up to his ideal of a home-makah, as to reach any othah City of Desiah. He expects so much of me." "But what would your ambition be if you were a boy?" asked Phil, lazily leaning back in the hammock to watch her. "If I were a boy," she repeated. A light leaped up into her face, and unconsciously her head took its high, princesslike pose. "If I were a boy, and could go out into the world and do all sawts of fine things, I wouldn't be content to sit down beside the well and the palm-tree. I'd want something to do that was hard and brave, and that would try my mettle. I'd want to fight my way through all sawts of dangahs and difficulties. I couldn't beah to be nothing but a drone, and not have any paht in the world's hive-making and honey-making." "Look here," said Phil, his face flushing, "you girls are associating with bees entirely too much. You're learning to sting." CHAPTER XI. THE NEW BOARDER AT LEE'S RANCH Mary could hardly wait to tell the news to Phil and Mrs. Lee. She ran nearly all the way from the Wigwam to the ranch, her hat in her hand, and the lid of her lunch-basket flapping. Long before she came within calling distance, she saw Phil mount his horse out by the pasture bars, and ride slowly along the driveway which led past the tents to the public road. With the hope of intercepting him, she dashed on still more wildly, but her shoe-strings tripped her, and she was obliged to stop to tie them. Glancing up as she jerked them into hard knots, she breathed a sigh of relief, for he had drawn rein to speak to Mr. Ellestad and the new boarder, who were sitting in the sun near the bamboo-arbour. Then, just as he was about to start on again, Mrs. Lee came singing out to the tents with an armful of clean towels, and he called to her some question, which brought her, laughing, to join the group. Thankful for these two delays, Mary went dashing on toward them so breathlessly that Phil gave a whistle of surprise as she turned in at the ranch. "What's the matter, Mary?" he called. "Indians after you again?" "No," she panted, throwing herself down on the dry Bermuda grass, and wiping her flushed face on her sleeve. "I'm on my way to school. I just stopped by with a message, and I thought you'd like to hear the news." "Well, that depends," began Phil, teasingly. "We hear so little out on this lonely desert, that our systems may not be able to stand the shock of anything exciting. If it's good news, maybe we can bear it, if you break it to us gently. If it's bad, you'd better not run any risks. 'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,' you know." "Oh, come now, Tremont, that's too bad," laughed Mr. Ellestad. "Don't head her off that way when she's in such a hurry to tell it." "Then go on, Mary," said Phil, gravely. "Mr. Ellestad's curiosity is greater than his caution, and Mr. Armond hasn't been in the desert long enough to be affected by its dearth of news, so anything sudden can't hurt him. Go on." Mary stole a glance at the new boarder. The long, slender fingers, smoothing his closely clipped, pointed beard, hid the half-smile that lurked around his mouth. He was leaning back in his camp-chair, apparently so little interested in his surroundings, that Mary felt that his presence need not be taken into account any more than the bamboo-arbour's. "Well," she said, as if announcing something of national importance, "_Joyce has an order_." "An order," repeated Phil, "what under the canopy is that? Is it catching?" "Don't pay any attention to him, Mary," Mr. Ellestad hastened to say, seeing a little distressed pucker between her eyes. "Phil is a trifle slow to understand, but he wants to hear just as much as we do." "Well, it's an order to paint some cards," explained Mary, speaking very slowly and distinctly in her effort to make the matter clear to him. "You know the Links, back in Plainsville, Mrs. Lee. You've heard me talk about Grace Link ever so many times. Her cousin Cecelia is to be married soon, and her bridesmaids are all to be girls that she studied music with at the Boston Conservatory. So her Aunt Sue, that's Mrs. Link, is going to give her a bridal musicale. It's to be the finest entertainment that ever was in Plainsville, and they want Joyce to decorate the souvenir programmes. Once she painted some place cards for a Valentine dinner that Mrs. Link gave. She did that for nothing, but Mrs. Link has sent her ten dollars in advance for making only thirty programmes. That's thirty cents apiece. "They're to have Cupids and garlands of roses and strings of hearts on 'em, no two alike, and bars of music from the wedding-marches and bridal chorus. Joyce is the happiest thing! She's nearly wild over it, she's so pleased. She's going to buy a hive of bees with the money." Phil groaned, but Mary paid no attention to the interruption. "The letter and the package of blank cards for the programmes came this morning while she was sweeping, and she just left the dirt and the broom right in the middle of the floor, and sat down on the door-step and began sketching little designs on the back of the envelope, as they popped into her head. Lloyd and Jack and mamma are going to do all the cooking and housework and everything, so Joyce can spend all her time on the cards. They want them right away. Isn't that splendid?" "Whoop-la!" exclaimed Phil, as Mary stopped, out of breath. "Fortune has at last changed in your favour. I'll ride straight up to the Wigwam to congratulate her." "Oh, I almost forgot what I stopped by for," exclaimed Mary. "Lloyd told me to tell you that you needn't come to-day to take her riding, for she'll be too busy helping Joyce to go." Phil scowled. "The turn in _my_ fortune isn't so favourable, it seems. Well, if I'm not wanted at the Wigwam I'll go to town to-day. There's always something doing in Phoenix. Climb up behind me, Mary, and I'll give you a lift as far as the schoolhouse." As they galloped gaily down the road, Mrs. Lee looked after them with a troubled expression in her eyes. "There's too much doing in Phoenix for a nice boy like that," she thought. "I wish he wouldn't go so often. I must tell him the experience some of my other boys have had when they went in with idle hands and full purses like his." Her boarders were always her boys to Mrs. Lee, and she watched over them with motherly interest, not only nursing them in illness and cheering them in homesickness, but many a time whispering a warning against the temptations which beset all exiles from home who have nothing to do but kill time. Now with the hope of interesting the new boarder in something beside himself, she dropped down into the rustic seat near him, hanging the towels over the arm of it while she talked. "You must make the acquaintance of the Wares, Mr. Armond," she began. "They stayed at the ranch three weeks, and this little Mary and her brothers kept things humming, the whole time." "They'd give me nervous prostration in half a day, if they're all like that little chatterbox," he answered, listlessly. "Not Joyce," interrupted Mr. Ellestad. "She's the most interesting child of her age I ever knew, and being an artist yourself you couldn't fail to be interested in her unbounded ambition. She really has talent, I think. For a girl of fifteen her clever little water-colours and her pen-and-ink work show unusual promise." "Then I'm sorry for her," said Mr. Armond. "If she has ambition and thinks she has talent, life will be twice as hard for her, always a struggle, always an unsatisfied groping after something she can never reach." "But I believe that she will reach what she wants, some day," was the reply. "She has youth and health and unbounded hope. The other day I quoted an old Norwegian proverb, '_He waits not long who waits for a feast_.' She wrote it on the kitchen door, saying, 'I'll have to wait till I can earn enough money to buy one hive of bees, and then I'll wait for that hive to swarm and make another, and for the two to grow into a hundred, and that into two hundred maybe, before I'll have enough to go away and study. It'll be years and years before I reach the mark I've set for myself, but when I'm really an artist, doing the things I've dreamed of doing, that will be a feast worth any amount of waiting.' Now in less than a week she has found her way to the first step, the first hive of bees, and I'm truly glad for her." "But the happier such beginnings, the more tragic the end, oftentimes," Mr. Armond answered. "I've known such cases,--scores of them, when I was an art student myself in Paris. Girls and young fellows who thought they were budding geniuses. Who left home and country and everything else for art's sake. They lived in garrets, and slaved and struggled and starved on for years, only to find in the end that they were not geniuses, only to face failure. I never encourage beginners any more. For what is more cruel than to say to some hungry soul, 'Go on, wait, you'll reach the feast, your longing shall be satisfied,' when you know full well that in only one case in ten thousand, perhaps, can there be a feast for one of them. That when they stretch out their hands for bread there will be only a stone." "But you reached it yourself, Armond, you know you did," answered Mr. Ellestad, who had known the new boarder well in his younger days. "To have had pictures hung in the Salon and Academy, to be recognized as a success in both hemispheres, isn't that enough of a feast to satisfy most men?" The face turned to him in reply wore the look of one who has fought the bitterest of fights and fallen vanquished. "No. To have a sweet snatched away just as it is placed to one's lips is worse than never to have tasted it. What good does it do me now? Look at me, a hopeless invalid, doomed to a year or two of unendurable idleness. How much easier it would be for me now to fold my hands and wait, if I had no baffled ambitions to torment me hourly, no higher desires in life than Chris there." He pointed to the swarthy Mexican, digging a ditch across the alfalfa pasture. "No," he repeated. "I'd never encourage any one, now, to start on such an unsatisfactory quest." "I'm sorry," said Mr. Ellestad. "When I heard that you were coming, I hoped that you would take an interest in Joyce Ware. You could be the greatest inspiration and help to her, if you only would." "There she is now," exclaimed Mrs. Lee, who sat facing the road. "It does me good to see any one swing along as she does, with so much energy and purpose in every movement." Mr. Armond turned his head slightly for a view of the girlish figure moving rapidly toward them. "Don't tell her that I am an artist, Ellestad," he said, hurriedly, as she drew near, "or that I've ever lived in the Latin Quarter or--or anything like that. I know how schoolgirls gush over such things, and I'm in no mood for callow enthusiasms." Joyce's errand was to borrow some music, the wedding-marches, if Mrs. Lee had them, from Lohengrin and Tannhauser. She remembered seeing several old music-books on the organ in the adobe parlour, and she thought maybe the selections she wanted might be in them. Mr. Armond sat listening to the conversation with as little interest, apparently, as he had done to Mary's. After acknowledging his introduction to Joyce by a grave bow, he leaned back in his chair, and seemed to withdraw himself from notice. At first glance Joyce had been a trifle embarrassed by the presence of this distinguished-looking stranger. Something about him--the cut of the short, pointed beard, the nervous movement of his long, sensitive fingers, the eyes that seemed to see so much and so deeply in their brief glances, recalled some memory, vague and disturbing. She tried to remember where it was she had seen some man who looked like this one. "Is it very necessary that you should have the wedding-marches?" asked Mrs. Lee, coming back from a fruitless search in the parlour. "Wouldn't a few bars from any other music do just as well? So long as you have some notes, I should think any other march would carry out the idea just as well." "No," said Joyce. "All the guests will be musicians. They'd see at a glance if it wasn't appropriate, and ordinary music would not mean anything in such a place." "I know where you can get what you want," said Mrs. Lee, "but you'd have to go to Phoenix for it. I have a friend there who is a music-teacher and an organist. I'll give you a note to her, if you care enough to go six miles." "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Lee," cried Joyce. "I'll be glad to take it, if it isn't too much trouble for you to write it. I'd go twenty miles rather than not have the right notes on the programmes." Mr. Armond darted a quick glance at her through half-closed eyelids. Evidently she was more in earnest than he had supposed. As Mrs. Lee went to the house to write the note, Mr. Ellestad said, smilingly, "Mary told us that this piece of good fortune will bring you your first hive of bees, give you your first step toward the City of your Desire. It seems appropriate that this bridal musicale should give you your hives. Did you ever hear that the bow of the Hindu love-god is supposed to be strung with wild bees?" "No," she answered, slowly, "but it's a pretty idea, isn't it?" Then her face lighted up so brightly that Mr. Armond looked at her with awakening interest. "Oh, I'm so glad you told me that! It suggests such a pretty design. See! I can make one card like this." Taking a pencil from her hair, where she had thrust it when she started on her errand, and catching up the old music-book Mrs. Lee had brought out, she began sketching rapidly on a fly-leaf. "I'll have a little Cupid in this corner, his bow strung with tiny bees, shooting across this staff of music, suspended from two hearts. And instead of notes I'll make bees, flying up and down between the lines. Won't that be fine?" Mr. Armond nodded favourably when the sketch was passed to him. "Very good," he said, looking at it critically. Slipping a pencil from his pocket, he held it an instant over the little fat Cupid, as if to make some correction or suggestion, but apparently changing his mind, he passed the sketch back to Joyce without a word. Again she was baffled by that vague half-memory. The gesture with which he had taken the pencil from his pocket and replaced it seemed familiar. The critical turn of his head, as he looked at the sketch, was certainly like some one's she knew. She liked him in spite of his indifference. Something in his refined, melancholy face made her feel sorry for him; sorrier than she had been for any of the other people at the ranch. He looked white and ill, and the spells of coughing that seized him now and then seemed to leave him exhausted. When Mrs. Lee came out with the note, Joyce rose to go. She had learned in the short conversation with Mr. Ellestad that this stranger was an old acquaintance of his, so she said, hospitably, "We are your nearest neighbours, Mr. Armond. I know from experience how monotonous the desert is till one gets used to it. Whenever you feel in need of a change we'll be glad to see you at the Wigwam. It's always lively there, now." He thanked her gravely, and Mr. Ellestad added, with a laugh, "He is just at the point now where Shapur was when the caravan went on without him. He doesn't think that these arid sands can hold anything worth while." "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Joyce, with an understanding note in her voice. "It's dreadful until you follow the bee, and find your Omar. You must tell him about it, Mr. Ellestad." Then she hurried away. Half an hour later she galloped by on the pony, toward Phoenix. Lloyd was riding beside her. As they passed the ranch she waved a greeting with the note which Mrs. Lee had given her. "What do you think of her work?" asked Mr. Ellestad of his friend. "One couldn't judge from a crude outline like that," was the answer. "She's so young that it is bound to be amateurish. Still she certainly shows originality, and she has a capacity for hard work. Her willingness to go all the way to Phoenix for a few bars of music shows that she has the right stuff in her. But I wouldn't encourage her if I were in your place." When Mr. Ellestad called at the Wigwam that afternoon, he found Joyce hard at work. A row of finished programmes was already stretched out on the table before her. Through the door that opened into the kitchen, he could see Lloyd at the ironing-board. Her face was flushed, and there was an anxious little frown between her eyes, because the wrinkles wouldn't come out of the sheets, and the hot irons had scorched two towels in succession. But she rubbed away with dogged persistence, determined to finish all that was left in the basket, despite Joyce's pleading that she should stop. "Those things can wait till the last of the week just as well as not," she insisted. But Lloyd was unyielding. "No, suh," she declared. "I nevah had a chance to i'on even a pocket-handkerchief befoah, and I'm bound I'll do it, now I've begun." There was a blister on one pink little palm, and a long red burn on the back of her hand, but she kept cheerfully on until the basket was empty. "Tell me about Mr. Armond," said Joyce, as she worked. "He reminds me of some one I've seen. I've been trying all afternoon to think. You've known him a long time, haven't you?" "Yes, I met him abroad when he was a mere boy," answered Mr. Ellestad, wishing that he had not been asked to say nothing about his friend's career as an artist. The tale of his experiences and successes would have been of absorbing interest to Joyce. "Armond doesn't like to have his past discussed," he said, after a pause. "He made a brilliant success of it until his health failed several years ago. Since then he has grown so morose that he is not like the same creature. He has lost faith in everything. I tell him that if he would rouse himself to take some interest in people and things about him,--if he'd even read, and get his mind off of himself, then he'd quit cursing the day he was born, and pick up a little appetite. Then he would live longer. If he were at some sanitarium they'd make him eat; but here he won't go to the table half the time. Jo fixes up all sorts of tempting extras for him, but he just looks at them, and shoves them aside without tasting. The only thing I have heard him express a wish for since he has been at the ranch is quail." "Oh, we're going to have some for supper to-night," cried Joyce. "Jack shot seven yesterday. He gets some nearly every day. I'll send Mr. Armond one if you think he'd like it. That is, if they turn out all right. My cooking isn't always a success, especially when my mind is on something like this work." [Illustration: "SHE LEANED OVER TO OFFER HIM THE LITTLE BASKET"] Everybody in the family helped to get supper that night, even Norman, so that Joyce might work on undisturbed till the last moment. The only part that she took in the preparations was to superintend the cooking of the quail, and to call out directions to the others, as she painted garlands of roses and sprays of orange-blossoms on one programme after another. "Spread one of the white fringed napkins out in the little brown covered basket, Mary, please, and put in a knife and fork. And Lloyd, I wish you'd set a saucer on the stove hearth where it'll get almost red-hot. Jack, if you'll have the pony ready at the door I'll fly down to Mr. Armond with a quail the minute they are done, so that he'll get it piping hot. No, I'll take it myself, thank you. You boys are as hungry as bears, and I've painted so hard all afternoon that I haven't a bit of appetite. I'll feel more like eating if I have the ride first." The ranch supper-bell was ringing as she started down the road on a gallop, holding the basket carefully in one hand, and guiding the pony with the other. Everybody had gone in to the dining-room but Mr. Armond. Wrapped in a steamer-rug and overcoat, he sat just outside the door of his tent, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Turning from the driveway she rode directly across the lawn toward him. She was bareheaded, and her face was glowing, not only from the rapid ride, but the kindly impulse that prompted her coming. He looked up in astonishment as she leaned over to offer him the little basket. "I've brought you a quail, Mr. Armond," she said, breathlessly. "You must eat it quick, while it's blazing hot, and eat it every bit but the bones, for it was cooked on purpose for you. It'll do you good." Without an instant's pause she started off again, but he called her. "Wait a moment, child. I haven't thanked you. Ellestad said you were working at your programmes like a Trojan, and wouldn't stop long enough to draw a full breath. You surely haven't finished them." "No, it will take nearly two days longer," she said, gathering up the reins again. "And you stopped in the middle of it to do this for me!" he exclaimed. "I certainly appreciate your taking so much time and trouble for me--an entire stranger." "Oh, no! You're not a stranger," she protested. "You're Mr. Ellestad's friend." "Then may I ask one more favour at your hands? I'd like to see your programmes when they're finished,--before you send them away. There is so little to interest one out here," he continued, apologetically, "that if you don't mind humouring an invalid's whims----" "Oh, I'd be glad to," cried Joyce, flushing. "I'll bring them down just as soon as they're done. That is," she added, with a mischievous smile dimpling her face, which made her seem even younger than she was, "if you'll be good, and eat every bit of the quail." "I'll promise," he replied, an answering smile lighting his face for an instant. An easy promise to keep, he thought, as he lifted the lid, and took out the hot covered dish. The quail on the delicately browned toast was the most tempting thing he had seen in weeks. "What a kind little soul she is," he said to himself, as he tasted the first appetizing morsel, "fairly brimming over with consideration for other people. As Ellestad says, I could do a lot for her, if it seemed the right thing to encourage her." Whether it was the quail, which he ate slowly, enjoying it to the last mouthful, or whether it was the remembrance of a pair of honest, friendly eyes, beaming down on him with neighbourly good-will and sympathy, he could not tell, but as he went into his tent afterward and lighted the lamp, somehow the desert seemed a little less lonely, the outlook a trifle less hopeless. CHAPTER XII. PHIL HAS A FINGER IN THE PIE PHIL went up to the Wigwam early next morning. Breakfast was just over, and Joyce had begun painting again. He paused an instant at the front door to watch her brown head bending over the table, and the quick motion of her deft fingers. She was so absorbed in her task that she did not look up, so after a moment he went on around the house to the kitchen. Mrs. Ware was lifting the dish-pan from its nail to its place on the table, and Lloyd was standing beside her, enveloped in a huge apron, holding a towel in her hands, ready to help. Norman, beside a chair on which a clean napkin had been spread, was filling the salt-cellars. Jack, having carried water to the tents, was busy chopping wood. "Good mawning!" called Lloyd, waving her towel as Phil appeared in the door. Mrs. Ware turned with such a cordial smile of welcome, that he took it as an invitation to come in, and hung his hat on the post of a chair. "I want to have a finger in this pie," he announced. "I was told to stay at home yesterday, but I don't intend to be snubbed to-day. "Wait, Aunt Emily, that kettle is too heavy for you!" He had called her Aunt Emily since the first time he had heard Lloyd do it. "You don't care, do you?" he had asked. "It makes a fellow feel so forlorn and familyless when he has to mister and madam everybody." She was sewing a button on his coat for him at the time he asked her, and she gave such a pleased assent that he stooped to leave a light kiss on the smooth forehead where gray hair was beginning to mingle with the brown. Now he took the kettle from her before she could object, and began pouring the boiling water into the pan. "Let me do this," he insisted. "I haven't had a hand in anything of the sort since I was a little shaver. It makes me think of a time when the servants were all away, and Stuart and I helped Aunt Patricia. She paid us in peppermint sticks and cinnamon drops." "You'll get no candy here," she answered, laughing. "You might as well go on if that's what you expect." But there was no resisting the coaxing ways of this big handsome boy, who towered above her, and who took possession in such a masterful way of her apron and dish-mop. His coat and cuffs were off the next instant, and he began clattering the china and silverware vigorously through the hot soap-suds. Mrs. Ware, taking a big yellow bowl in her lap, sat down to pick over some dried beans, and to enjoy the lively conversation which kept pace with the rattle of the dishes. It was interrupted presently by a complaint from Lloyd. "Aunt Emily, he doesn't wash 'em clean! He's left egg all ovah this spoon. That's the second time I've had to throw it back into the watah." "Aunt Emily, it isn't so," mocked Phil, in a high falsetto voice, imitating her accent. "It's bettah than she could do huhself. She's no great shakes of a housekeepah." "I'll show you," retorted Lloyd, throwing the spoon back into the pan with a splash. "I'm going to make a pie foh dinnah to-day, and you won't get any." "Then probably I'll be the only one who escapes alive to tell the tale. Aunt Emily, please invite me to dinner," he begged, "and mayn't I stay out here, and watch her make it?" "Of co'se I can't help it if she chooses to ask you to dinnah," said Lloyd, loftily, when he had received his invitation, "but I most certainly won't have you standing around in my way, criticizing me when I begin to cook. You can fill the wood-box and brush up the crumbs and hang these towels out on the line, if you want to, then you may go in and watch Joyce paint." "Oh, thank you!" answered Phil. "_Such_ condescension! _Such_ privileges! Your Royal Highness, I humbly make my bow!" He bent low in a burlesque obeisance that a star actor might have envied, and, throwing up a saucer and catching it deftly, began to sing: "The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts, Upon a summer day. But none could look--that selfish cook Drove every one away." It was all the most idle nonsense, and yet, as they worked together in a playful half-quarrel, Lloyd liked him better than she had at any time before. He reminded her of Rob Moore. He was big like Rob, tall and broad-shouldered, but much handsomer. Rob had teased her since babyhood, and, when Phil began his banter in the same blunt, big-brother fashion, it made her feel as if she had known him always. And yet he was more like Malcolm than Rob, in some respects, she thought later. The courteous way he sprang to pick up her handkerchief, the quick turn he gave to some little remark, which made it a graceful compliment, his gentlemanly consideration for Mrs. Ware--all that was like Malcolm. Phil would not be driven out of the kitchen until he had exacted a promise from Mrs. Ware that he might come the next day, and make the dessert for the morrow's dinner, vowing that, if it were not heels over head better than Lloyd's, he would treat everybody at the Wigwam and on the ranch to a picnic at Hole-in-the-rock. "Prop the door open, please," called Joyce, as he went into the sitting-room from the kitchen. "I need some of that heat in here. It's chilly this morning when one sits still." So Lloyd, moving back and forth at her pastry-making, could see their heads bending over the table, and hear snatches of an animated discussion about a design he proposed for her to put on one of the programmes. "Put a line from 'Call me thine own' on this one," he said, "and have a couple of turtle-doves perched up on the clef, cooing at each other, and make little hearts for the notes." "How brilliant!" cried Joyce. "Phil, you're a genius. Do think up some more, for I'm nearly at my wits' end, trying to get thirty different designs." "Don't make them all so fine," he suggested. "Some of those people will get it into their heads that matrimony is all roses." He lifted his voice a little, so that Lloyd could not fail to hear. She was standing before the moulding-board now, her sleeves tucked up, and a look of intense seriousness on her face as she sifted flour, as if pie-making were the most important business in the universe. "Make the Queen of Hearts with a rolling-pin in her hand and a scowl on her face, as she will look after the ceremony, when she takes it into her head to make some tarts. Put a bar of 'Come, ye disconsolate,' with a row of tiny pies for the notes, and the old king doubled up at the end of it, with the knave running for a doctor." "You horrid thing!" called Lloyd, wrathfully, from the kitchen. "You sha'n't have a bite of these pies now." "Nothing personal, I assure you," called Phil, laughing. "I'm only helping the artist." But Joyce said, in a low tone, "It _is_ a little personal, because she used to be called the Queen of Hearts so much. Did you ever see her picture taken in that character, when she was dressed in that costume for a Valentine party? It was years ago. Miss Marks made some coloured photographs of her. You'll find one in that portfolio somewhere, if you'll take the trouble to look through it. She's had so many different nicknames," continued Joyce. Norman was hammering on something in the kitchen now, so there was no need for her to lower her voice. "She is 'The Little Colonel' to half the Valley, and I suppose always will be to her grandfather's friends. Then when she started to school, about the time that picture was taken, she was such a popular little thing that one of her teachers began calling her Queen of Hearts. Both boys and girls used to fuss for the right to stand beside her in recitations, and march next her at calisthenics, and she was sure to be called first when they chose sides for their games at recess. "Then, after she was in that play with her dog Hero, that Mary told you about, the girls at boarding-school began calling her the Princess Winsome, and then just Princess. Malcolm McIntyre, who took the part of the knight who rescued her, never calls her anything but that now. There she is, as she looked in the play when she sang the dove song." Joyce pointed with her brush-handle to another photograph in the pile. It was the same picture that Mary had showed him, the beautiful little medallion of the Princess Winsome, holding the dove to her breast as she sang, "Flutter and fly." The same picture which had swayed on the pendulum in Roney's lonely cabin, repeating, with every tick of the clock, "For love--will find--a way!" Phil put it beside the other photograph, and studied them both intently as Joyce went on. "Then the other day, when her father was here, I noticed that he had a new name for her. He called her that several times, and when he went away, he said it in a tone that seemed to mean so much, 'Good-bye, my little _Hildegarde_!'" Phil looked from the pictures on the table to the original, standing in the kitchen wielding a rolling-pin under Mrs. Ware's direction. The morning sun, streaming through the window, was making a halo of her hair. Somehow he found this last view the most pleasing. He said nothing, however, only thrummed idly on the table, and hummed an old song that had been running through his head all morning. "What's that you're humming?" asked Joyce, when she had worked on in silence several minutes. Phil came to himself with a start. "I'm sure I don't know," he laughed. "I wasn't conscious that I was making even an attempt to sing." "It went this way," said Joyce, whistling the refrain, softly. "It's so sweet." "Oh, that," said Phil, recognizing the air. "That's a song that Elsie's old English nurse used to sing her to sleep with. "'Maid Elsie roams by lane and lea, Her heart beats low and sad.' She liked it because it had her name in it, and I liked it because of the jingle of the chorus. It always seemed full of bells to me." He hummed it lightly: "'Kling, lang ling, She seems to hear her bride-bells ring, Her bonny bride-bells ring.' It must have been these bridal musicale programmes that brought it up to me, for I haven't thought of it in years." "And that suggests something to me," answered Joyce. "I haven't used any wedding-bells on these programmes. Now, let me see. How can I put them on?" She sat studying one of the empty cards intently. "Here! This way!" cried Phil. "I can't draw it as it ought to be, but I can see in my mind's eye what you want. Put a Cupid up in each top corner, with a bunch of five narrow ribbons, strung across from one to the other in narrow, wavy lines, and hang the little bells on them for notes. Then the ends of the ribbons can trail down the sides of the programmes sort of fluttery and graceful. Pshaw! I can't make it look like anything, but I can see exactly how it ought to look." He scribbled his pencil across the lines he had attempted to draw, and started to tear the paper in disgust, when she caught it from him. "I know just what you mean," she cried. "And Phil Tremont, you _are_ a genius. This will be the best design in the whole lot." She was outlining it quickly as she spoke. "You ought to be a designer. You'd make your fortune at it, for originality is what counts. Why don't you study it?" "I did have it in mind for a week or so," answered Phil, "but I wanted most of all to be an architect, or something of the sort. Father wanted me to study medicine, and grandfather thought I'd do better at civil engineering. But I couldn't settle down to anything. I suppose the truth of the matter was I was thinking too much about the good times I was having, and didn't want to buckle down to anything that meant hard digging. So last year father said I wasn't getting any kind of discipline, and that I had to go to a military school for it. That there I would at least learn punctuality and order, and that military training would fit me to be a good citizen just as much as to be a good soldier." "What does he think about it now?" answered Joyce. "I beg your pardon," she added, hastily. "I had no right to ask such a personal question." "That's all right," answered Phil. "I don't care a rap if you do talk about it. It's worried me a good deal thinking how cut up the old pater will feel when he finds out about it. He thought he'd left me in such good hands, shut up where I couldn't get out into any trouble, and I hated to write that they'd fired me almost as soon as his back was turned. If I could have talked to him, and explained both sides of it, how unfair the Major was, and all that, and how we were just out for a lark, with the best intentions in the world, I could have soon convinced him that I meant all right, and he wouldn't have minded so much. But I never was any good at letter-writing, so I kept putting it off the first two weeks I was here. I wrote last week, but it takes a month to send a letter and get an answer, so it'll be some time yet before I hear from him. In the meantime, I'm taking life easy, and worrying as little as possible." Joyce made no reply when he paused, only bent her head a little lower over her work; but Phil, unusually sensitive to mental influences, felt her disapprobation as keenly as if she had spoken. The silence began to grow uncomfortable, and finally he asked, lightly, toying with a paper-knife while he spoke, "Well, what do you think of the situation?" "Do you want to know honestly?" asked Joyce, her head bending still lower over her work. "Yes, honestly." Her face grew red, but looking up her clear gray eyes met his unflinchingly. "Well, I think you're the very brightest boy that I ever knew, anywhere, and that it would be a very easy thing for you to make your mark in the world in any way you pleased, if you would only make up your mind to do it. But it's lazy of you to loaf around all winter doing nothing, not even studying by yourself, and it's selfish to disappoint your father when he is so ambitious for you, and it's--yes, it's _wicked_ for you to waste opportunities that some boys would almost give their eyes for. There!" "Whew!" whistled Phil, getting up to pace the floor, with his hands in his pockets. "That's the worst roast I _ever_ got." "Well, you asked for it," said Joyce. "You said for me to tell you honestly what I thought." "What would you have me to do?" asked Phil, impatiently, anxious to justify himself. "A fellow with any spirit couldn't get down and beg to be taken back to school, when he knew all the time that he was only partly in the wrong, and that it was unjust and arbitrary of the officers to require what they did." "That isn't the only school in the country," said Joyce, quietly, "and for a fellow six feet tall, and seventeen years old, a regular athlete in appearance, to wait for somebody to lead him back to his books does seem a little ridiculous, doesn't it?" "Confound it!" he began, angrily, then stopped, for Joyce was smiling up into his face with a friendliness he could not resist, and there was more than censure in her eyes. There was sincere admiration for the handsome boy whom she found so entertaining and companionable. "Now don't get uppity," she laughed. "I'm only saying to you what Elsie would say if she were here." Phil shrugged his shoulders. "Not much!" he exclaimed. "You don't know Elsie. She thinks her big brother is perfection. She has always stood up for me in the face of everything. Daddy never failed to let me off easy when she patched up the peace between us. _She_ wouldn't rake me over the coals the way you do." Joyce liked the expression that crossed his face as he spoke of Elsie, and the gentler tone in which he said Daddy. "All the more reason, then," she answered, "that somebody else should do the raking. I hope I haven't been officious. It's only what I would say to Jack under the same circumstances. I'm so used to preaching to the boys that I couldn't help sailing in when you gave me leave. I won't do it any more, though. See! Here is the design you suggested. I've finished it." Mollified by her tone and her evident eagerness to leave the subject, he dropped into the chair beside her again, and sat talking until Lloyd called them both out to admire her pies. There were two of them on the table, hot from the oven, so crisp and delicately browned, that Lloyd danced around them, clicking a couple of spoons in each hand like castanets, and calling Mrs. Ware to witness that she had made them entirely by herself. "Don't they look delicious?" she cried. "Did you evah see moah tempting looking pies in all yoah life? I wish grandfathah could have a slice of that beautiful custa'd with the meringue on top. He'd think Mom Beck made it, and he'd nevah believe, unless he saw it with his own eyes, that I could make such darling cross-bahs as are on that cherry taht." "I wish you'd listen!" cried Phil. "Don't you know that proverb about letting another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth?" "I'm not praising _me_," retorted Lloyd. "I'm just praising my pies, and if they're good, and I know they're good, why shouldn't I say so? They're the first I evah made, and I think I have a right to be proud of their turning out so well. Of co'se they wouldn't have been this nice if Aunt Emily hadn't showed me what to do." "Let's sample them now," proposed Jack, who had been called in from the wood-pile to pay his respects to the pastry. Lloyd threw herself between the table and Jack with a little scream of remonstrance, as he advanced threateningly with a knife. "I believe Lloyd is prouder of making those old pies than she was of shooting the duck. Confess, now, aren't you?" he insisted. "Yes, I am," she answered, emphatically. "You had your picture taken with a duck," suggested Phil. "Suppose you have one now with the pies to add to your collection. Come on and get your camera, and I'll take a companion piece to the hunting-picture. We'll call this the 'Queen of Tarts.' Stand out back of the tent, and hold the custard pie in one hand, and the cherry tart in the other." With the dimples deepening in her cheeks as the whole family gathered around to watch the performance, Lloyd took her position out-of-doors, with the white tent for a background. Holding her hands stiffly out in front of her, she stood like a statue, while Jack and Joyce each brought out a pie, and balanced them in the middle of her little pink, upturned palms. "I want to take two shots," said Phil, waiting for them to step out of range. "There are several blank films left on this roll. Now," he ordered, when the shutter clicked after the first exposure, "hold still, we'll try another. Suppose you put the plates up on the tips of your fingers, the way hotel waiters do. They carry things that way with such an easy offhand grace. I always admired it." "I should say it was offhand!" cried Jack. For Lloyd, obeying orders, clutched frantically after the cherry tart, with a shriek of dismay. It had refused to stay poised on her finger-tips. "Topside down, of co'se," she wailed, as the broken plate fell in one place, and the pastry in another. "And the juice is running all ovah me, and the darling little cross-bahs are all in the sand!" Phil hastily clicked the shutter again. He was sure that the second snap had caught the tart in the act of falling, and with the third film he wanted to preserve the expression of surprise and dismay that clouded Lloyd's face. It was one of the most ludicrous expressions he had ever seen. "Pride goeth before destruction," he quoted, laughingly. "I wish you'd hush up with yoah old proverbs, Phil Tremont," cried Lloyd, half-laughing and half-angry. "It's all yoah fault, anyway. You knew I'd spill that taht if I held it that way, and I just believe you did it on purpose. You knew when you first saw those pies it would be useless for you to try to make any dessert to-morrow that would half-way come up to them, and you deliberately planned to get them out of the way, so you wouldn't have to stand the test. You were afraid you'd have to give the picnic you promised." "Sputter away, if it will ease your mind any," laughed Phil. "It was worth the picnic to see your frantic grab after that tart. But honestly, Lloyd," he said, growing serious as he saw she really cared, "I'm as sorry as I can be that it happened, and I'll do anything you say to make atonement. I'll withdraw from the contest, award you the laurels, and give the picnic, anyhow." "There's nothing the matter with the custard pie," piped up Norman, "'cept'n you can see where Joyce's fingers jabbed into the meringue when she caught it from Lloyd. I think it would be safer to eat it now before anything else happens." "No, we'll set mamma to guard it till the rest of the dinner is ready," said Joyce, leading the way back to the kitchen. "If everybody will fly around and help, we'll have it a little earlier to-day." It was one of the jolliest meals that Phil had had in the Wigwam. "Let's all go to Phoenix this afternoon," proposed Phil, when they had gone back to the sitting-room. "We can take the films in to the photographer, and have them developed. Joyce, you may ride my horse, and I'll get one from Mrs. Lee." "Oh, thank you!" cried Joyce, looking wistfully through the window. "The outdoors never did look so tempting, it seems to me, and those programmes are getting so monotonous I can hardly make myself go back to them. I wish I could go. But I can't shirk even for a few hours, or they might miss getting there in time." "Couldn't anything tempt you to go?" urged Phil. She shook her head resolutely. "'Not all the king's horses and all the king's men' could draw me away from these programmes till they are finished." "No wonder she preached me such a sermon on loafing, this morning," thought Phil, as he rode away beside Jack, with the roll of films in his pocket. "Anybody with that much energy and perseverance doesn't need to go to the School of the Bees. It makes her all the harder on the drones. And I know that's what she thinks I am." CHAPTER XIII. A CHANGE OF FORTUNE IT was nearly two o'clock next day when the thirtieth programme was finished and placed in the last row of dainty cards, laid out for the family's farewell inspection. While Lloyd cut the squares of tissue-paper which were to lie between them, Joyce brought the box in which they were to be packed and the white ribbons to tie them. Jack, having saddled Washington, was blacking his shoes and making other preparations for his ride to town. A special trip had to be made, in order to get the package to the Phoenix post-office in time. "They might wait until morning, I suppose," said Joyce, as she began placing them carefully in piles of ten. "But it is best to allow all the time possible for delays. Then the programmes have to be written on them after they get to Plainsville. Oh, I _hope_ Mrs. Link will like them!" "I don't see how she can help it!" exclaimed Lloyd. "They're lovely, and I think you'd be so proud of them you wouldn't know what to do." "I am pleased with them," admitted Joyce, stopping to take one last peep at the pretty rose-garlanded Cupids ringing the bride-bells, which Phil had suggested. It was the best design in the lot, she thought. "Oh, I forgot!" she exclaimed, suddenly, looking up in dismay. "What shall I do? I promised Mr. Armond that I'd let him see these cards before I sent them away." "You won't have time now," suggested Lloyd. "I suppose Jack could wait a few minutes, but I thought we'd start over to Shaw's ranch just as soon as the cards were off. I didn't want to lose a minute in getting my hive of bees, after I'd earned them. It's such a long walk over there and back, that I don't feel like going to the ranch first." "Let Jack stop and show them to Mr. Armond," suggested her mother. "He's always so careful that he can be trusted to tie the box up safely afterward." "Oh, he's _safe_ enough," answered Joyce, "but he'd make such a mess of it, tying and untying the white ribbons on the inside of the package. He can't make a decent bow to save his life. He'd have them all in knots and strings, and after all the care I've taken I want Mrs. Link to find them just as they leave me." For a moment Joyce stood undecided, regretting her promise to Mr. Armond, and sorely tempted to break it. "He won't really care," she thought, but his own words came back to her plaintively: "There is so little to interest one here,--if you don't mind humouring an invalid's whims." She couldn't forget the hopeless melancholy of his face, and what Mr. Ellestad had said to her about him: "He's just where Shapur was when the caravan went on without him." And she remembered that in the story Shapur had cursed the day he was born, and laid his head in the dust. "I'll go," she exclaimed. "Jack can follow as soon as he is ready, and I'll hand the package to him as he passes. I'll be back as soon as I can, Lloyd, and then we'll start right over to Mr. Shaw's. You explain to Jack, please, mamma, and give him the money to pay the postage." Stopping only long enough to write the address on the wrapper, she hurried down the road, bareheaded, toward the ranch. Lloyd sat down on the front door-step to wait for her return. Opening a book, in which she had become interested, she was soon so deep in the story that she scarcely noticed when Jack rode away, a quarter of an hour later, glancing up for just an instant as she waved her hand mechanically in answer to his call. The kitchen clock struck half-past two, then three. With the last stroke came a vague consciousness that it was growing late, and that Joyce was long in coming, but the absorbing interest of the story made her immediately forgetful again of her surroundings. It was nearly four when Mrs. Ware, coming out beside her on the step, stood shading her eyes with her hand to peer down the road. "I can't imagine what keeps Joyce so long," she said, anxiously. "It will soon be too late for you to go to the Shaws." But even as she spoke, Joyce came in sight, running as Lloyd had never seen her run before. She had left the dusty road, and was bobbing along on the edge of the desert, where the hard, dry sand, baked into a crust, made travelling easier. "Oh, you'll never, never guess what kept me!" she called, as she hurried up to the door, eager and breathless. Seizing her mother around the waist, she gave her a great squeeze. "Oh, I'm so happy! So happy and excited that I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. I feel like a cyclone caught in a jubilee, or a jubilee caught in a cyclone, I don't know which. There never was such glorious good fortune in the world for anybody!" "Do stop yoah prancing and dancing and tell us," demanded Lloyd, "or we'll think that you've lost yoah mind." Joyce sank down beside her on the door-step. Her face was shining with a great gladness, and she could hardly find breath to begin. "Oh, there aren't words good enough to tell it in!" she gasped. "Mr. Armond is an artist, mother, a really great one, who has had pictures hung in the Salon and the Academy. Mr. Ellestad walked part of the way home with me, and told me about him. He studied for years in Paris, and lived in the Latin Quarter, and had a studio there, just like Cousin Kate's friend, Mr. Harvey. And _that's_ the man Mr. Armond looks like," she added, triumphantly. "I've been trying to think ever since I first met him, who I had seen before with a short Vandyke beard like his, and long, alive-looking fingers, that seem to have brains of their own." "And that's what makes you so glad," laughed Lloyd, "to think you've discovered the resemblance? Do get to the point. I'm wild to know." "Well, he liked my work, thought it showed originality and promise, and, if mamma is willing, he wants to give me lessons. Think of that, Lloyd Sherman,--lessons from an artist, a really great artist like that! Why, it would mean more for me than years of class instruction in the Art League, or anywhere else. He seemed pleased when I told him that I wanted to do illustrating, because he said that that was something practical, and work that would find a ready market. He told me so many interesting things about famous illustrators that he has known, that I have come away all on fire to begin. My fingers fairly tingle. Oh, mamma!" she cried, two great happy tears welling up into her eyes. "Isn't it splendid? The story of Shapur is true! For me the desert holds a greater opportunity than kings' houses could offer!" "But the price, my dear little girl--" "And that's the best of it," interrupted Joyce. "He asked to be allowed to do it for nothing. Time hangs so heavily on his hands that he said it would be a charity to give him something to do, and Mr. Ellestad told me afterward, as we walked home, that I ought to let him, because it's the first thing that he has taken any interest in for months; that with something to occupy his mind and make him contented, he would get better much faster. "When I tried to thank him, and told him that he had showed me a better way to the City of my Desire than the one I had planned for myself, he said, with the brightest kind of a smile, 'I expect to get far more out of this arrangement than you, my little girl. _You_ are the alchemist whose courage and hope shall help me distil some drop of Contentment out of this dreary existence.' "He is going to drive up here to-morrow, to ask you about it, and to see the work I have already done. I'm glad now that I saved all those charcoal sketches of block hands and ears and things. And I'm going to get out all those still life studies I did with Miss Brown, and pin them up on the wall, so he'll know just how far I've gone, and where to start in with me." "Get them out now," said Lloyd. "You never did show them to me." There was some very creditable work hidden away in the old portfolio, and, while they talked and looked and arranged the studies on the wall, time slipped by unnoticed. "Aren't you mighty proud, Aunt Emily?" asked Lloyd, stepping back for a final view, when the exhibit was duly arranged. "Proud and glad," answered Mrs. Ware, with a happy light in her eyes. "It was always my dream to be an artist myself, and now to see my unfulfilled ambitions realized in Joyce more than compensates for all my disappointments." "Phil's coming," called Norman, from the yard. "And we haven't started for the bees!" exclaimed Joyce. "It's so late, we'll have to put it off until to-morrow." But all plans for the morrow were laid aside when Phil told his errand. He would not dismount, but paused just a moment to invite them to the promised picnic at Hole-in-the-rock. "Everybody on the ranch is going," he explained. "Even Jo, to make the coffee and unpack the lunch. There'll be a carriage here for you, Aunt Emily, at three o'clock, and you must let Mary and Holland stay home from school to go. No, don't bother to take any picnic baskets," he interrupted, hastily, as Mrs. Ware started to say something about lunch. "This is my affair. Jo is equal to anything, even cherry tarts and custard pies, and I must make the atonement I promised to Lloyd, for spilling hers." Waiting only long enough to hear their pleased acceptance, he dashed off down the road again. Ever since her arrival in Arizona Lloyd had wanted to see the famous hole in the rock. It lay several miles across the desert, in a great red butte. There was a picture of it in the ranch parlour, and nearly every tourist who passed through Phoenix made a pilgrimage to the spot, and took snap shots of this curious freak of nature. Climbing up the butte toward it, one seemed to be going into a mighty cave, but when he had passed up into the opening, and down over a ledge of rock, he saw that the cave led straight through the butte, like an enormous tunnel, and at the farther end opened out on the other side of the mountain, giving a wide outlook over the surrounding desert. It was a favourite spot for picnic parties, but of all ever gathered there, none had had so many preparations made for the comfort of the guests. Phil rode over several times; once to be sure that the wood he had ordered for the camp-fire had been delivered, and again to take a load of canvas chairs, rubber blankets, rugs, and cushions, so that even the invalids on the ranch could enjoy the outing. It was the first of March. Where the irrigating ditches ran, almond and peach orchards were pink with bloom. California poppies, golden as the sunshine, nodded on the edges of the waving green wheat. Even the dry, hard desert was sweet in its miracle of blossoming. A carpet of bloom covered it. Stems so short that they could scarcely raise the buds they bore above the sand bravely pierced the hard-baked crust. Great masses of yellow and blue, white, lavender, and scarlet transformed the bleak solitary places for a little while into a glory of colour and perfume. An odour, sweet as if blown across acres of narcissus, made Mrs. Ware turn her head with a little cry of pleasure as they drove along toward the butte the afternoon of the picnic. "It's the desert mistletoe," explained Phil, who was following on horseback with Lloyd and Joyce the surrey which Jack was driving. "It is in blossom now, hanging in bunches from all those high bushes over yonder. Mrs. Lee says it isn't like ours. The berries, instead of being little white wax ones like pearls, shade from a deep red to the palest rose-pink." "How lovely!" exclaimed Lloyd. "I hope I'll see some of the berries befoah I go home. Oh, deah! the days are slipping by so fast. The month will be gone befoah I know it." Phil, seeing the wistful expression in the eyes raised to his for a moment, laid a detaining hand on her bridle-rein. "Let's walk the horses, then," he said, laughingly, "and make the minutes last just as long as possible. We'll have to fill the few days left to us so full of pleasant things that you'll never forget them. I don't want you to forget this day anyhow, because it's in your especial honour that this picnic is given--because you're such an accomplished Queen of Hearts." "Tahts you mean," she answered, correcting him. "Maybe I mean both," he replied, with an admiring glance that sent a quick blush to her face, and made her spur her pony on ahead. There were more things than that fragrant, breezy ride across the desert to make her remember the day. There was the delicious supper that Jo spread out under the sheltering ledge of rock at the entrance to the great hole. There were the jokes and conundrums that passed around as they ate, the witty repartee of the boy from Belfast that kept them all laughing, and the stories gathered, like the guests, from all parts of the world. "This is the first picnic I have been to since the one at the old mill, when you had your house-party," said Joyce, snuggling up beside Lloyd against a pile of cushions, after supper, as the blazing camp-fire dispelled the gathering shadows of the twilight. "There is as much difference between the two picnics as there is between a cat and a tigah," said Lloyd, tingling with the horror of an Indian story that the cowboy had just told. "Mine was so tame and this is so exciting. I'm glad that I didn't live out West in the times they are telling about. Just listen!" Phil had asked for an Indian story from each one, and Mrs. Lee had begun to tell her experiences during her first years on the ranch. No actual harm had come to her, but several terrible frights during a dreadful Apache uprising. She had been alone on the ranch, with only George, who was a baby then, and a neighbour's daughter for company. They had seen the smoke and flames shoot up from a distant ranch, where the Indians fired all the buildings and haystacks; and they had waited in terror through the long hours, not knowing what moment an arrow might come hurtling through the window of the little adobe house, where they cowered in darkness. In frightened whispers they discussed what they should do if the Apaches should come, and the only means of escape left to them was to take the baby and climb down the jagged rocks that lined the walls of the well. The water was about shoulder deep. Even that was a dangerous proceeding, for there was the fear that the baby might cry and call attention to their hiding-place, or that some thirsty Indian, coming for water, might discover them. Mrs. Lee told it in such a realistic way that Lloyd almost held her breath, feeling in part the same fear that had seized the helpless women as they waited for the dreaded war-whoop, and watched the flames of their neighbours' dwellings. She shuddered when she heard of the scene that was discovered at the desolated ranch next morning. An entire family had been massacred and scalped, and left beside the charred ruins of their home. Even the little blue-eyed baby had not escaped. As the twilight deepened, the stories passing around the camp-fire seemed to grow more dreadful. Mary was afraid to look behind her, and presently, hiding her face in her mother's lap, stuck her fingers in her ears. It was a relief to more than Mary when Jo, who had been packing the dishes back into the baskets behind the scenes, came rushing into the circle around the fire so excited that, in his wild mixture of Japanese and broken English, he could hardly make himself understood. He was holding out both forefingers, from each of which trickled a little stream of blood. Each bore the gash of a carving-knife, which had slipped through his fingers in his careless handling of it, as he kept his ears strained to hear the Indian stories. [Illustration: "HE WAS HOLDING OUT BOTH FOREFINGERS"] He laughed and jabbered excitedly, with a broad grin on his face. Finally he succeeded in making Mrs. Lee understand that the cutting of both forefingers at the same moment was the sign that there was some extraordinary good fortune in store for him. It was the luckiest thing that could have befallen him, and he declared that he must go at once to the Chinese lottery in Phoenix. "If I toucha ticket with these," he cried, holding up his bleeding fingers, "I geta heap much money; fo', five double times so much as I puta in. I be back fo' geta breakfus'," he called, suddenly darting away. Before Mrs. Lee could protest, he was on his wheel, tearing across the desert trail toward Phoenix like some uncanny wild thing of the night. "The superstitious little heathen!" exclaimed Mrs. Lee. "If he should win, I may never lay eyes on him again. He's not the first good cook that I've lost in that way. I have found that, if one once gets the gambling fever, I may as well begin to look immediately for a new one." "Chris says that he has seen men lose ten thousand dollars at a time," broke in Holland, his eyes big with interest. "Prospectors used to come in from the mines with their gold-dust and nuggets, and they'd spread down a blanket right on the street corner and play sometimes till they'd lose everything they had." "It's the curse of the West," sighed Mrs. Lee. "I could tell some pitiful tales of the young men and boys I have known, who came out here for their health, got infatuated with the different games of chance, and lost everything. One man I knew was such a nervous wreck from the shock of finding himself a pauper as well as an invalid that he lost his mind and committed suicide. Another had to be taken care of in his last days and be buried by a charitable society, and another had to write to his sister that he was penniless. She sewed for a living, and she sewed then to support him, till she worked herself ill and died before he did. He spent his last days in the almshouse." "We should have showed Jo Alaka's eyes, and told him the Indian legend," said Mr. Ellestad, pointing up to the stars. "Do you see those two bright ones just over Camelback Mountain? Look up in a straight line from the head, and you will see two stars unusually brilliant and twinkling. Those are the eyes of the god Alaka. He lost them in gambling. An old settler told me the story. He got it from an Indian, and, as I read something like it in a Chicago paper this winter, I think we may be justified in believing it. At least it is as plausible as the old myths the ancients told of the stars,--Cassiopeia's chair, for instance, and Leo's sickle." "Tell it," begged Lloyd. "I'd rathah heah them than those blood and thundah Apache stories. I'll not be able to close my eyes to-night." Every voice in the circle joined in the chorus of assents that went up, except Phil's, and no one noticed his silence but Lloyd. It seemed to her that he had looked uncomfortable ever since Mrs. Lee had spoken so feelingly of the curse of the West; but she told herself that it must be just her imagination,--that it was the flickering shadows of the camp-fire that gave his face its peculiar expression. He moved back into the darkness against the rock, with his hat over his eyes, as Mr. Ellestad began the story: "Once there was a young god named Alaka sent by the Great Spirit to live awhile among the cliff-dwellers of the Southwest. Now in that country there is a fever that lays hold of the children of the sun. It comes you know not how, and you cannot stop it. And this fever that runs hot in the veins of men began to course through the blood of Alaka, a fierce fever to gamble. "At first, when men challenged him to pit his skill against theirs, he refused, knowing that the Great Spirit had forbidden it; but they jeered him, saying: 'Ah, ha! He is afraid that he will lose. This can be no god, or he would not fear us.' So when they had made a mock of him until he could no longer endure it, he cried: 'Come! I will show you that I am a god! that I fear nothing!' "Forgetting all that the Great Spirit had enjoined upon him, he plunged madly into the game. Now the most precious thing known to that people is the turquoise, for it is the stone that stole its colour from the sky. Around the neck of the young god hung a string of these turquoises, and one by one he lost them, till the morning found him with only an empty string in his hand. "Still the fever was upon him, and he could not assuage it, so he put up his shells from the Great Water in the west. These people had heard of a great water many days' journey toward the setting sun, but to the dwellers in the Land of Thirst it seemed incredible to them that there could be so much water in the world as Alaka told them of. But they looked upon the exquisite colour of the shells he brought, which held the murmur of the sea in their hearts, and counted them wonderful treasures. And they gambled all day with Alaka to gain possession of them. "Still the fever waxed hotter than ever within him, and, when he had lost his shells, he put up his measure of sacred meal. When he lost that, they made a mock of him again, saying not that he was afraid to lose, but that he had no skill, that he was not a god. He was less than a man,--he was only a papoose, and that he should play no more until he had learned wisdom. "Then Alaka was beside himself with rage. 'I will show you,' he cried. 'I will venture such mighty stakes that I must win.' He plucked out his right eye and laid it where the turquoises, the shells, and the sacred meal had lain. But the eye was lost also, and after that the left eye, so that, when morning dawned, he staggered into the sunrise, blind and ruined. "Then he called upon the Great Spirit to give him back his sight, but the Great Spirit was angry with him, and drove him away into the Land of Shadows. And He caught up the eyes and said: 'I will hang them up among the stars to be a warning for ever to the children of men not to gamble.' "So they hang there to this day, and the wise look up, and, seeing them, pray to the Great Spirit to keep them from the fever; but the unheeding go on, till, like Alaka, they lose their all, and are lost themselves in the Land of Shadow." That was the last story told that evening around the camp-fire. The moon was coming up, and Phil brought out Mrs. Ware's old guitar, which he had restrung for the occasion. Striking a few rattling chords, he started off on an old familiar song, calling on all the company to join. His voice was a surprise to every one, a full, sweet tenor, strong and clear, that soared out above all the others, except Mrs. Lee's full, high soprano. The Scotchman rumbled along with a heavy bass. One by one the others caught up the song, even little Norman joining in the chorus. Lloyd was the only one who sat silent. "Sing," whispered Joyce, giving her a commanding nudge. Lloyd shook her head. "It's so heavenly sweet I want to listen," she replied, under cover of the song. The music and the mountains and the moonlight, with the wide, white desert stretching away on every side, seemed to cast some sort of witchery over her, and she sat with hands clasped and lips parted, almost afraid to breathe, for fear that what seemed to be a beautiful dream would come to end. A tremulous little sigh escaped her when it did come to an end. "It's time to strike the trail again," called Mrs. Lee. "That is the worst of these outings. We can't stay singing on the mountains. We have to get down to earth again. My return to valley life will take me into the deepest depths if Jo doesn't come back in the morning to get breakfast." "Oh, it was so beautiful!" sighed Lloyd, later, when the party finally started homeward across the moon-whitened desert. It had taken some time to collect all the chairs, hampers, and cushions which George and Holland took home in the ranch wagon. The moon was directly overhead. Lloyd was riding beside Phil a little in advance of the others. "It was the very nicest picnic I evah went to, Phil," she said, "and it's the loveliest memory that I'll have to take home with me of this visit to Arizona." "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he answered, taking off his hat, and riding along beside her bareheaded in the moonlight. How big and handsome he looked, she thought, sitting up so erect in his saddle, with his eyes smiling down into hers. "I don't want you ever to forget--" he hesitated an instant, then added in a lower tone, "Arizona." The sweet odours of the night came blowing up from every direction, the ethereal fragrance of the mistletoe bloom, the heavy perfume of the orange-blossoms hanging white in distant orchards. Behind them the picnickers began to sing again, "Roll along, silver moon, guide the traveller on his way." Lloyd looked around for Joyce. She was riding far in the rear of the caravan, beside the carriage where Mrs. Lee led the chorus. Presently the old tune changed, and some one started the Bedouin love-song, "From the desert I come to thee." Looking down at her again with smiling eyes, Phil took up the words, sending them rolling out on the night in a voice that thrilled her with its sweetness, as they rode on side by side across moonlighted desert: "_Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_" CHAPTER XIV. THE LOST TURQUOISES THAT night there was a whispered consultation in Mrs. Ware's tent while Lloyd was undressing in the other one. Sitting on the edge of her mother's bed, Joyce rapidly outlined a plan which she had thought of on her way home. "You see, I haven't done anything special at all to give Lloyd a good time," she began. "This picnic was Phil's affair. When I was at her house-party, there was something new on the programme nearly every day. She's been here nearly a month now, and her visit will soon be over. I'd like to give her one real larky day before she goes. Mrs. Lee said that I could have Bogus to-morrow, and, as it is Saturday, the children will be at home to help you. So I thought it would be fun for Jack and Lloyd and me to ride over to the Indian school. It's so interesting, and it doesn't cost anything to get in. Then we could go on to the ostrich farm just outside of Phoenix. Lloyd wants to get some kodak pictures of the ostriches. The admission fee will only be seventy-five cents for the three of us. I can pay that out of the money that Mrs. Link sent, and get a nice little lunch at Coffee Al's restaurant, and still have enough left to pay for my hive of bees. We can spend the rest of the afternoon prowling around the curio shops and picture stores. Lloyd wants to get ever so many things to take home,--bead belts and moccasins, and things made out of cactus and orangewood. I haven't said anything to her about it yet, but Phil said that if we went he would join us." "I think that is a very good plan," said Mrs. Ware, entering into whatever Joyce proposed with hearty interest. "You'd better not tell her to-night, or you'll lie awake talking about it too long, and you'll need to make an early start, you know." By half-past eight next morning the little cavalcade was on its way, Jack and Lloyd riding on ahead, and Phil and Joyce following leisurely. The road they took led through irrigated lands, and green fields and blooming orchards greeted them at every turn, instead of the waste stretches of desert that they were accustomed to seeing. "I wish you'd look!" exclaimed Lloyd, drawing rein to wait for Joyce and Phil, and then pointing to a field where a boy was ploughing a long, straight furrow. "That's an _Indian_ ploughing there! An Indian in a cadet unifawm, with brass buttons on it. Doesn't it seem queah? Jack says it's the unifawm of the school, and that they have to weah it when they hiah out to the fahmahs. This is paht of their education. I like them best in tomahawks and blankets. It seems moah natural." "This isn't Hiawatha's land," laughed Phil, "nor the Pathfinder's country. I was disappointed, too, to find them so tame and unromantic-looking, but they're certainly more pleasant as neighbours since they have taken to civilization. You remember the horrible tales we heard last night." Lloyd had expected to see a large school-building, but she was surprised to find in addition so many other buildings. Dormitories, workshops, a public hall, and the fine, wide streets leading around the central square gave the appearance of a thrifty little village. They lingered long in the kindergarten, where the bright-eyed little papooses were so interested in watching them that they almost forgot the song they were singing about "Baby's ball so soft and round." They went through the great kitchens, where Indian girls were learning to cook, and the tailoring establishment where the boys were turning out the new uniforms. Down in one of the parlours a little eagle-eyed girl, with features strikingly like those of Sitting Bull, practised the five-finger exercises at the piano. Only twice did they see anything that reminded them of the primitive Indians. In one of the workshops a swarthy boy sat before a loom such as the old squaws used to have, weaving patiently a Navajo blanket. And in one of the buildings where dressmaking was taught there was a table surrounded by busy bead-workers, working on chains and belts and gaily decorated trinkets that made Lloyd wish for a bottomless purse. They were all so tempting. So much time was occupied in watching the classes in wood-carving, and in listening to recitations in the various rooms, that it was nearly noon when they reached the ostrich farm. It was not the ranch where the great birds were hatched and raised, but a large enclosure near the street-car line, where they were brought to be exhibited to the tourists. So, after watching the foolish-looking creatures awhile, laughing at their comical expressions as they tilted mincingly up and down in what Lloyd called the perfection of cake-walking, and taking several snap-shots of them, Joyce proposed that they should leave their horses at a corral farther down the street, and go at once for their lunch. It was the first time that Jack had been inside the restaurant, and he was glad that Phil, who often lunched there, was with them to take the lead. He felt very young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, as he marched in behind him, and, while he secretly admired the lordly air with which Phil gave his orders, he saw that the girls were impressed by it, too, and he inwardly resented being made to appear such an insignificant small boy by contrast. He had supposed that they would sit up on the stools at the lunch-counters which one could see from the street. That is where he, in his ignorance, would have piloted the party. But Phil, passing them by, led the way up-stairs. An attractive-looking dining-room opened out from the upper hall, but, ignoring that also, Phil kept on to a balcony overlooking the street, where there were several small tables. "They serve out here in hot weather," he said, "and it's warm enough to-day, I'm sure. Besides, we'll be all by ourselves, and can see what is going on down below. Here, Sambo!" He beckoned to a coloured waiter passing through the hall, and soon had him scurrying around in haste to fill their orders. It was the most enjoyable little lunch Lloyd could remember. Phil, who somehow naturally assumed the part of host, had never been so entertaining. Time slipped by so fast while they laughed and talked that the hour was finished before they realized that it had fairly begun. Then Phil, putting Lloyd's camera on an opposite table, and focussing it on the group, showed the waiter how to snap the spring, and hurried back to his chair to be included in the picture which they all wanted as a souvenir of the day's excursion. They made arrangements for the rest of the afternoon after that. Jack was to take the camera to a photographer's and leave it for the roll of films to be developed, and then go to a shoestore and the grocery. Phil had an errand to attend to for Mrs. Lee and a few purchases to make. Lloyd had a long list of things she hoped to find in the Curio Building. They agreed to meet at a drug store on that street which had a corner especially furnished for the comfort of its out-of-town patrons. Besides numerous easy chairs and tables, where tired customers could be served at any time from the soda-fountain, there were daily papers to help pass the time of waiting, and a desk provided with free stationery. It was just four o'clock when Joyce and Lloyd, coming back to the drug store with their arms full of packages, found Jack already there waiting for them. He was weighing himself on the scales near the door. "I've been knocking around here for the last half-hour," he said. "I'll go out and look for Phil now, and tell him you are ready, and we'll get the horses and bring them around." "How long will it take?" asked Joyce. "Fifteen or twenty minutes, probably. He's just up the street." "Then I'll begin a lettah to mothah," said Lloyd, depositing her bundles on a table, and sitting down at the desk. Joyce picked up an illustrated paper and settled herself comfortably in a rocking-chair. The big clock over the soda-fountain slowly dropped its hands down the dial, but Joyce, absorbed in her reading, and Lloyd in her writing, paid no attention until half an hour had gone by. Then Lloyd, folding her letter and slipping it into an envelope, looked up. "Mercy, Joyce! It's half-past foah! What do you suppose is the mattah?" Before Joyce could answer, she caught sight of Jack, through the big show-window, hurrying down the street by himself. He was red in the face from his rapid walking when he came in, and had a queer expression about his mouth that he always had when disgusted or out of patience. "Phil's busy," he announced. "He wants me to ask you if you'd mind waiting a few minutes longer. He wouldn't ask it, but it's something quite important." "We ought to get back as soon as we can," said Joyce, "for I've been away all day, and there's the ride home still ahead of us. I'm afraid mamma will start to get supper herself if I'm not there." "I think I'll put in the time we're waiting in writing to the Walton girls," said Lloyd, drawing a fresh sheet of paper toward her. Joyce picked up her story again, and Jack went out into the street, where he stood tapping one heel against the curbstone, and with his hands thrust into his pockets. Then he walked to the corner and back, and peered in through the show-window at the clock over the soda-fountain. When he had repeated the performance several times, Joyce beckoned for him to come in. "It's after five o'clock," she said. "It must be very important business that keeps him so long." "It is," answered Jack. "I'll go back once more, and if I can't get him away, I'll go around and get the horses and we'll just ride off and leave him." "Can't get him away!" repeated Joyce. "Where is he?" "Oh, just up the street a little way," said Jack, carelessly, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. Joyce looked at him steadily an instant, then, as if she had read his mind, said, with startling abruptness: "Jack Ware, you might as well tell me. Is he doing what Mr. Ellestad says all the boys out here do sooner or later, getting mixed up in some of those gambling games?" There was no evading Joyce when she spoke in that tone. Jack had learned that long ago. But, with a glance toward Lloyd, who sat with her back toward them, he only nodded his reply. Startled by the question, Lloyd turned just in time to see the nod. "I didn't intend to tell on him," blurted Jack, "but you surprised it out of me. He put some money on a roulette wheel, and lost all the first part of the afternoon. Now his luck has begun to change, and he says he's got to stick by it till he makes back at least a part of what he started with." Joyce looked up at the clock. "We ought to be going," she said, drumming nervously on the arm of her chair with her fingers. Then she hesitated, a look of sisterly concern on her face. "I hate, though, to go off and leave him there. No telling when he'll come home if he feels he is free to stay as long as he pleases. Goodness, Jack! I'm glad it isn't you. I'd be having a fit if it were, and I can't help thinking how poor Elsie would feel if she knew it. Lloyd, what do you think we ought to do?" "I think we ought to go straight off and leave him!" she answered, hotly. "It's perfectly horrid of him to so fah fo'get himself as a gentleman as to pay no attention to his promises. He made a positive engagement with us to meet us heah at foah o'clock, and now it's aftah five. I nevah had a boy treat me that way befoah, and I must say I haven't much use for one that will act so." Presently, after some slight discussion, the girls slowly gathered up the bundles and walked up the street to the corral. Jack hurried on ahead, so that by the time they reached it, the men there had the ponies saddled and were waiting to help them mount and tie on the packages by the many leather thongs which fringed the saddles for that purpose. It was a quiet ride homeward. A cloud seemed to have settled over their gay spirits. Nobody laughed, nobody spoke much. The story of Alaka was still fresh in each mind, and what Mrs. Lee had said about the curse of the West, and the fate of the men she had known who had become possessed by the same fever. They remembered how Jo had come in at daylight, red-eyed and sullen, after his night's losses, for the lucky feeling which seized him at the sight of his cut fingers had been a mistaken omen of success. All that he had saved in months of service had vanished before sunrise in the same way that Alaka's turquoises and shells and eyes had gone. Deeper than the indignation in Lloyd's heart, deeper than her sense of wounded pride that Phil should have been so indifferent about keeping his engagement to meet them, was a sore feeling of disappointment in him. He had seemed so strong and manly that she had thought him above the weakness of yielding to such temptations. She recalled the expression of his face the night before when he drew back from the firelight into the shadow, and pulled his hat over his eyes, as Mr. Ellestad began the story of Alaka. Evidently he had played Alaka's game before. Ah, that night before! How the whole moonlighted scene rolled back over her memory, as she rode along now, slightly in advance of Joyce and Jack. Phil had been with her that night before, and, as the sweet strains of the Bedouin love-song floated out on the stillness of the desert, something had stirred in her girlish heart as she looked up at him. A vague wonder if it were possible that in years to come this would prove to be the one the stars had destined for her. And, as if in answer to her unspoken wonder, his voice had joined in, higher and sweeter than all the others, as he smiled down into her eyes. But now--there was a little twinge of pain when she thought that he wasn't a prince at all when measured by the yard-stick of old Hildgardmar and her father, much less the one written in the stars for her. He wasn't strong, and he wasn't honourable if he gambled, and she told herself that she was glad that she knew it. And now that she had found out how much she had been mistaken in him, she didn't care any more for his friendship, and that she never intended to have anything more to do with him. A dozen times on the way home Joyce said to herself: "Oh, what if it had been Jack!" And, thinking of Elsie and the father so far away across the seas, she wished that she could do something to get him away from the surroundings that were sure to work to his undoing if he persisted in staying there. Supper was ready when they reached home. Afterward there were all Lloyd's purchases to be unwrapped and admired. Mary had hoped for a candy-pull, as it was Saturday, and they had not had one during Lloyd's visit; but the girls were too tired after so many miles in the saddle, and by nine o'clock all lights were out and a deep quiet reigned over Ware's Wigwam and the tents. The moonlight flooding the white canvas kept Lloyd awake for awhile. As she lay there, listening to the distant barking of coyotes, and going over the events of the day, she heard the approaching sound of hoof beats. Some lonely horseman was coming down the desert road. She raised herself on her elbow to listen, recognizing the sound. It was Phil's horse clattering over the little bridge. But it paused under the pepper-trees. "I suppose Phil has come up to apologize," she said to herself, "but he might as well save himself the trouble. No explanation could evah explain away the fact that he was rude to us and that he _gambled_. I could forgive the first, but I nevah can forgive being so disappointed in him." A moment later, seeing no light, and evidently concluding that his visit was untimely, he turned and rode back toward the ranch. Lloyd, still leaning on her elbow, strained her ears to listen till the last footfall died away in the distance. "He'll be back in the mawning," she thought, as she laid her head on the pillow. "He always comes Sunday mawnings; but he'll not find us this time, because we'll be gone befoah he gets heah." Joyce had arranged to keep Bogus part of the next day, so that they could ride into Phoenix to church. So it happened that when Phil came up next morning, it was to find nobody but Mary in sight. Mrs. Ware had gone to the seat under the willows to read to Norman and Holland. The beehive had been brought over during Joyce's absence the day before, and placed in the shade of the bushy umbrella-tree where the hammock swung, and Mary was swinging in the hammock now, with a book in her lap. It was closed over one finger to keep the place, for she was listening to the droning of the bees, breathing in the sweetness that floated in across the desert from its acres of vivid bloom, and paying more attention to the sunny, vibrant world about her than to the hymn she was learning. "What are you doing, Mary?" he called, as his step on the bridge made her look around. She held up a battered old volume of poems, and moved over in the hammock to make room for him beside her. "I'm learning a hymn. That's the way we always earned our missionary money back in Kansas. I'm going to Sunday school with Hazel and George this afternoon in the surrey over to the schoolhouse. Her uncle has one there. I didn't have any pennies to take, so mamma said I could begin learning hymns again, as I used to do back home." As usual Mary rattled on, scarcely pausing to take breath or give her listener a chance to make reply. "This isn't one of the singing hymns, the kind they have in church. It's by Isaac Watts. I like it because it's about bees, and it's so easy to say: "How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower.' "Joyce picked it out for me, and said that she guessed that Isaac Watts must have gone to the School of the Bees himself, and that was where he learned that 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' The bees hate idle hands, you know, that's the drones, and, although they are patient with them longer than you'd suppose they'd be, it always ends in their stinging the drones to death. "And Lloyd said it was a pity that some other people she knew not a thousand miles away couldn't go to school to the bees and learn that about Satan's finding mischief for idle hands to do. "And Joyce said yes, it was, for it was too bad for such a fine fellow to get into trouble just because he was a drone, and had no ambition to make anything of himself. And I asked them who they meant, but they just laughed at each other and wouldn't tell me. I don't see why big girls always want to be so mysterious about things and act as if they had secrets. Do you?" "No, indeed!" answered Phil, in his most sympathetic manner. He stooped and picked a long blade of grass at his feet. "And Joyce said that if Alaka had gone to school to the bees, he wouldn't have lost his eyes, and Lloyd said that if somebody kept on, he would lose at least his turquoises. When I asked her what she meant, she said, oh, she was just thinking of what Mr. Ellestad told at the picnic, that the Indians thought the turquoises were their most precious stones because they stole their colour from the sky, and she called turquoise the friendship stone because it was true blue." Phil began whistling softly, as he pulled the blade of grass back and forth between his fingers. "So they think that somebody is like Alaka, do they?" he asked, presently, "in danger of losing his turquoises, his friendship stones. Well, I can imagine instances when that would be as bad for Alaka as losing his eyes." Phil had walked up to the Wigwam more buoyantly than usual that morning. He knew that he owed the girls an apology for not meeting them as he had promised, and he was prepared to make it so penitently and gracefully that he was sure that they would accept his excuses without a question. The big roll of bills in his pocket, which he had won by a lucky turn of the wheel, did not lie heavy on his conscience at all. It rather added to his buoyance of spirit, for it was so large that it would enable him to do several things he had long wished to do. Because of it, too, he had come up to plan another picnic, this time an excursion to Paradise Valley on the other side of Camelback. But Mary's report of the conversation which had puzzled her gave him an uncomfortable feeling. He could not fail to understand its meaning. Evidently the girls knew what had detained him in town and were displeased with him. "Oh, aren't you going to stay for dinner?" asked Mary, as he slowly rose and stretched himself. "It's Sunday, you know, and we always expect you on Sunday." "No, thank you," he answered, yawning. "I've changed my programme to-day." "Aren't you coming back this afternoon?" she asked, anxiously. "They'll all be home then." He studied the distant buttes a moment before he answered, then squared back his shoulders in a decided way, settling his hat firmly on his head. "No," he answered, finally, "I promised a fellow I met in town at the hotel the other day that I'd ride over and see him soon. He has a camp over on the other side of Hole-in-the-Rock, with an old duffer that's out here for rheumatism. I took a fancy to the fellow the minute I saw him, and it turns out that he's the cousin of a boy I knew at military school. It's funny the way you run across people that way out here." One of Phil's greatest charms to Mary was the deferential way he had of talking to her as if she were his age, and taking the trouble to explain his actions. Now, as he turned away, with a pleasant good morning, it was with as polite a lifting of his hat as if she had been nineteen instead of nine. She watched him swing down the road with his quick, military step, never dreaming in her unsuspecting little heart that _he_ was the mysterious person who, the girls wished, could learn about Satan and the work he finds for idle hands. Nor did she dream that the words she had so innocently repeated were still sounding in his ears: "If somebody keeps on, he'll at least lose his turquoises. It's the friendship stone--true blue!" CHAPTER XV. LOST ON THE DESERT IF Washington had not lost a shoe on the way home from church, and if Joyce had not been seized with a violent headache that sent her to bed with a bandage over her eyes, the day would have ended far differently for Lloyd. The afternoon went by quickly, for, lulled by the drowsy hum of the bees, she had fallen asleep in the hammock under the umbrella-tree, and slept a long time. Then supper was earlier than usual, as Jack wanted his before starting to the ranch. Chris, the Mexican, was taking a holiday, and had offered Jack a quarter to do the milking for him that evening. Holland strolled down the road with him, since the lost horseshoe prevented him taking the ride he had expected to enjoy. Scarcely were they out of sight when an old buggy rattled up from the other direction, bringing a woman and her two little girls from a neighbouring ranch for an evening visit. Lloyd, who was on her way to the tent to see if she could do anything for Joyce's comfort, heard a voice which she recognized as Mrs. Shaw's, as the woman introduced herself to Mrs. Ware. "I've been planning to get over here ever since you came," she began, "and specially since I got acquainted with your daughter over them bees, but 'pears like there's nothing in life on week-days but work; so this evening, when my little girls begged to come over and see your little girl, says I to myself, it's now or never, and I just hitched up and came." "Oh, deah!" sighed Lloyd. "I don't want to spend the whole evening listening to that tiahsome woman. The boys are gone, and Joyce's head aches too bad for her to talk. I don't know what to do." She stepped softly into the tent, insisting on rubbing Joyce's head, or doing something to make her more comfortable, but Joyce sent her away, saying that the pain was growing less, and that she didn't want her to stay shut up in the tent that smelled so strongly of the camphor she had spilled. Lloyd turned away and wandered down to the pasture bars, where she stood looking over toward the west. The sun was dropping out of sight. For the first time since she had come to the Wigwam she felt lonesome. She was so full of life after her long sleep, so fresh and wide-awake, that she looked around her restlessly, wishing that something exciting would happen. She was in the mood to enjoy an adventure of some kind, no matter what. While she stood there, her pony, who had often been coaxed up to the bars for sugar, now came up through curiosity, evidently wondering at her silence. "Come on, old boy," she said, reaching through the bars to grasp the rope that trailed from his neck. "You've settled it. We'll go off and have a ride togethah." With some difficulty, she saddled him herself, and then because she did not want to disturb Joyce by going back to the tent to change her white dress for her divided skirt, she mounted as if the cross-saddle were a side-saddle, and rode slowly out of the yard bareheaded. Mrs. Ware fluttered her handkerchief in response to the wave of Lloyd's hand, and looked after her as she took the road to the ranch. "She's going to see Mrs. Lee," she thought, and then turned her attention to her talkative visitor. It was merely from force of habit that Lloyd had taken the ranch road. She was in sight of the camp before she became aware of where the pony was carrying her. Then she turned abruptly, hardly knowing why she did so. Phil was at the ranch. She would not have him think that she had gone down with the hope of seeing him. She did not put the thought into words, but that is what influenced her to turn. In front of her Camelback Mountain loomed up, looking larger and more lifelike than usual, with the reflected light of the sunset lying rosy red on its summit. She knew that there is something extremely deceptive in the clear Arizona atmosphere, and had been told that the distance to the mountain was over five miles. But it was hard to believe. It looked so near that she was sure that she could reach it in a few minutes' brisk ride,--that she could easily go that far and back before daylight was entirely gone. An old game that she had played at the Cuckoos' Nest sent a verse floating idly through her memory: "How many miles to Barley-bright?" "_Three score and ten!_" "Can I get there by candle light?" "_Yes, if your legs are long and light-- There and back again!_ _Look out! The witches will catch you!_" With somewhat of the same eerie feeling that had affected her when she joined in the game with Betty and the little Appletons, she turned the pony into the narrow trail that led across the sand in and out among the sage-brush. Later, those same gray bushes might look startlingly like witches reaching up out of the gloaming. "It's a good thing that yoah legs _are_ long and light," she said to the pony, as he started off with a long, rabbit-like lope. "And it's a good thing that you seem as much at home heah as Br'er Rabbit was in the brush-pile when Br'er Fox threw him in for stealing his buttah. I'm glad it isn't old Tar Baby that I'm on. He wouldn't be used to these gophah holes, and would stumble into the first one we came to. Oh, this is glorious!" She shook back her hair as the soft, orange-perfumed breeze blew it about her face. Her full white sleeves fluttered out from her arms. Again she had that delightful sense of birdlike motion, of free, wild swinging through space. On and on they went, never noticing how far they had travelled or how dark it was growing, till suddenly she saw that she was not on any trail. A thick growth of stubby mesquit bushes made almost a thicket in front of her. An enormous cactus, thirty feet high, stood in her way like one of the Barley-bright witches. From its thorny trunk stretched two great arms, thrown up as if to ward off her coming. Its resemblance to a human figure was uncanny, and she stood staring at it with a fascinated gaze. "It's big enough to be the camel-drivah of the camel in the mountain," she said in a half-whisper to the pony. Then looking on toward the mountain, she realized that she had to strain her eyes to see it through the rapidly gathering gloom. Night had fallen suddenly, and the mountain seemed farther away than when she started. "Oh, it will be black night befoah we get home," she thought, turning in nervous haste. Then a new trouble confronted her. She was facing a dim, trackless wilderness, and she did not know how to get home. She had kept the mountain steadily in view as she rode toward it, but now she realized that it was so large that she could easily do that, and still at the same time go far out of her course. "You'll have to find the way home," she said, helplessly, to the pony, failing to remember that the Wigwam pasture had been his home for only a few weeks, and that, left to himself, he would go directly to his native ranch. [Illustration: "CLATTERING DOWN THE ROAD AS FAST AS HIS FEET COULD CARRY HIM"] In a few minutes Lloyd found herself carried along a narrow road, not more than a wagon track. While she knew that she had never been over it before, it was some comfort to find that she was on a human thoroughfare, and not lost among the tracks of wandering coyotes and jack-rabbits. The pony, feeling that he was headed toward his own home, went willingly enough, and Lloyd began to enjoy her adventure. "How exciting it will sound back in that tame little Valley," she thought, "lost in the desert! I'll give the girls such a thrilling description of it that they'll feel cold chills running up and down their spines. It's a wondah that the cold chills don't run up and down me! But I'm not one bit afraid now. This road is bound to lead to somebody's house, and everybody is so friendly out heah in the West that whoevah finds me will take me home." The pony swung along a few rods farther, then, startled by an owl rising suddenly out of the wayside bushes with a heavy flopping of wings, jumped sideways with such a start that Lloyd was almost thrown from her seat. It was an insecure one at best, and she was about to throw her foot over into the other stirrup when a forward plunge sent the pony into a gopher hole, and Lloyd over his head. When she picked herself up from the road and looked dizzily around, she gave a little gasp of horror. The pony, freed of his burden and spurred on by his fright, was clattering down the road as fast as his feet could carry him, and she was left helpless in what seemed to her the very heart of the great, desolate desert. She stood motionless till the last faint thud of the pony's hoofs died away down the road. Then she looked around her and shivered. The possibility of the pony's not going straight to the Wigwam had not yet occurred to her, but she felt that under any circumstances she was doomed to stay in the desert until morning. They would be badly frightened at the Wigwam, and would rouse the ranch to send out a searching-party, but they might as well look for a needle in a haystack as to make an attempt to find her in the darkness. She did not know where she was herself. She was within a stone's throw of one of the buttes, out which one she could not tell. She stood peering around her through the twilight with eager, dilated eyes. A twig crackled near her, trampled underfoot by some little wild creature as startled as she. The desert had seemed so still before, but now it was full of strange whisperings and rustlings. Remembering what Jack had told her when he showed her the nest shared by snakes and owls, she dared not sit down for fear some snake should come crawling out of the hole from which the owl had flown. She felt that it would be useless to walk on, since every step might be carrying her farther away from the Wigwam. How long she stood there in the road she could not tell, but presently it seemed to her that it was growing lighter. She could see the outlines of the butte more distinctly, and the sky behind it was growing gradually luminous. Then she remembered that the moon would be up in a little while, and her courage came back as she stood and waited. When its round, familiar face came peeping up over the horizon, she felt as if an old friend were smiling at her. "I'm neahly as glad to see you as if you were one of the family," she said, aloud, with a little sob in her throat. The feeling that this was the same moon that had looked down on her through the locusts, all her life, and had even peeped through the windows and seen Mom Beck rocking her to sleep in her baby days, gave her a sense of companionship that was wonderfully comforting. It was tiresome standing in the road, and, as she dared not sit down and risk finding snakes, she decided to climb up the side of the butte and look out over the country. Maybe she might see the light from some ranch house. At least on its rocky slope she would be freer from snakes than down among the bushes and the owls' nests. Scrambling over a ledge of rock she stumbled upon a pile of tin cans and broken bottles, which told of many past picnic parties near that spot. A little higher up she clasped her hands with a cry of pleased recognition. She was at the beginning of the great hole that led through the rock. Only two nights before she had sat on that very boulder, and speared olives out of a bottle with a hat-pin. There were their own sardine cans, and the fragments of the teacup Hazel had dropped. A mound of ashes and some charred sticks marked the spot where the camp-fire had blazed. She looked around, wondering if by some happy chance Jo could have left any matches. A brilliant idea had come to her of lighting a bonfire. She knew that it could be seen from the ranch, and would draw attention to her at once. A long search failed to show any stray matches, and she wondered if she could find flint among the rocks, or how long it would take to get fire by rubbing two sticks together. Some of the gruesome tales of Apache warfare that had been told around the fire came back to her as she stood looking at the ashes, but she resolutely turned her thoughts away from them, to the Indian school she had seen the day before. It was wonderfully comforting to think of that little Indian girl at the piano, patiently practising her five-finger exercises, and of the Indian boy in the brass-buttoned uniform ploughing in the fields. It made them seem so civilized and tame. The time of tomahawks and tortures was long past, she assured herself, and there was not nearly so much to fear from the peaceful Pimas and Maricopas as there was sometimes from the negroes at home. So, quieting herself with such assurances, she climbed up to a comfortable seat on a rock, where she could lean back against the cavelike wall, and sat looking out through the great hole, as the moon rose higher and higher in the heavens. Half an hour slipped by in intense silence. Then her heart gave a thump of terror, so loud that she heard the beating distinctly. There was a fierce, hot roaring in her ears. Down at the foot of the butte, going swiftly along with moccasined tread, was a stalwart Indian. Not one of the peaceful Pimas she had been accustomed to seeing, but a cruel-mouthed, eagle-eyed Apache. At least he looked like the pictures she had seen of Apaches. He had a lariat in his hand, and he stooped several times to examine the tracks ahead of him, as if following a trail. Instantly there flashed into Lloyd's mind what Mrs. Lee had told them about the Indians allowing their ponies to run loose on the desert. Sometimes the settlers' children used to catch them, and keep them all day to ride. But woe be it, she said, if the owner tracked his pony to a settler's house before it was turned loose. He always took his revenge. Lloyd was sure that this was what the Indian was after, as she noticed the lariat, and the way his keen eyes followed the trail. She almost held her breath as she waited for him to pass on. But he did not pass. Throwing up his head he looked all around, and then, leaving the trail, started swiftly up the butte toward her. Almost frozen with fear, Lloyd drew back into the shadow, and, rolling over the ledge, drew herself into as small a space as possible, crouching down to hide her white dress. Through a crevice between the rocks she watched his approach with wide, terrified gaze, sure that some savage instinct, like a bloodhound's sense of smell, had warned him of her presence. For an instant, as he reached the remains of the camp-fire, he stood motionless, looking out across the country, silhouetted darkly against the sky, like the head on the leather cushion she was taking home to her grandfather, she thought, or rather that she had intended to take. Maybe she would never live to see her home again. She crouched still closer against the rock, rigid, tense, scarcely breathing. With a grunt the Indian stooped, and began poking around among the scraps left by the picnickers. He turned the blackened brands with his foot, then moved farther along, attracted by the gleam of a bit of broken bottle. Evidently the coyotes had been there before him, for not a scrap was left of sandwiches or chicken bones; but, like the coyotes, he knew from past experiences that it was profitable to prowl where picnics were almost weekly occurrences. The gleam of something steely and bright caught his eye. Lloyd saw the object flash in the moonlight as he picked it up. It was the carving-knife Jo had dropped in his excitement, when he found the "lucky cuts" on his forefingers. With another grunt he turned it this way and that, examined the handle and tried the edge, and then looked stealthily around. Lloyd closed her eyes lest the very intensity of their gaze should draw him to her hiding-place. She knew that another step or two would bring him to higher ground, where he could look over the ledge and see her. How she ever lived through the moments that followed, she never knew. It seemed to her that her heart had stopped beating, and she was growing clammy and faint. It could not have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed hours to her, when, the suspense growing unbearable, she opened her eyes, and peered fearfully through the crack again. He had disappeared. Trembling so that she could scarcely stand, she ventured, little by little, to raise herself until she could look over the rock. Then she saw him moving leisurely down the path at the foot of the butte. In a moment more he had reached the road, and, striding along, he grew smaller and smaller to her sight till he disappeared among the dark patches of sage-brush. Lloyd sank limply down among the rocks again, so exhausted by the nervous strain that the tears began to come. The night was passing like a hideous dream. Half an hour went by. She could hear the distant barking of coyotes, and a nervous dread took possession of her, a fear that their long, gaunt forms might come sneaking up the path after awhile in search of other picnic leavings. She eyed the swaying shadows apprehensively. Presently, as she sat and watched, tense and alert, she saw some one coming along the wagon track far below. He was on horseback, and riding slowly, as if enjoying the calm beauty of the night. She could hear him whistling. As he reached the foot of the butte the whistling changed to singing. The full, strong voice that rang out on the deathlike stillness was wonderfully rich and sweet: "From the desert I come to thee!" It was the Bedouin song. Lloyd listened wonderingly, her lips half-open. Was this part of the dream? she asked herself. Part of the strange, unreal night? That was certainly Phil's voice, and yet it was past belief that he should be riding by this out-of-the-way place at such an hour of the night. But there was no mistaking the voice, nor the song that had been haunting her memory for the last two days: "Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old." Lloyd hesitated no longer. Scrambling up from the rocks, she went running down the steep path, calling at the top of her voice, "Phil! Oh, Phil! Wait!" It was Phil's turn to think he was dreaming. Flying down the path with her white dress fluttering behind her in the moonlight, and her long, fair hair streaming loosely over her shoulder, Lloyd looked more wraithlike than human, and to be confronted by such a figure in the heart of a lonely desert was such a surprise that Phil could scarcely believe that he saw aright. A moment more, and with both her cold, trembling little hands in his big warm ones, Lloyd was sobbing out the story of her fright. The reaction was so great when she found herself in his protecting presence, that she could not keep back the tears. He swung her up into his saddle in the same brotherly way he had lifted Mary into the cart, the day he found her running home from school, and proceeded to comfort her in the same joking fashion. "This is the second time that I have been called on to play the bold rescuer act. I'll begin to think soon that my mission in life is to snatch fair maidens from the bloody scalpers of the plains." Then more gently, as he saw how hard it was for her to control herself, he spoke as he often spoke to Mary: "There, never mind, Lloyd. Don't cry. It's all right, little girl. We'll soon be home. It's only a few miles from here. It isn't as late as you think--only half-past eight." Slipping his watch back into his pocket, he began to explain how he happened to be passing. He had stayed to supper at the camp where he had gone to call on his new acquaintance, and had purposely waited for the moon to come up before starting home. He had put the rein into her hands at first, but now, taking it himself, he walked along beside her, leading the horse slowly homeward. With the greatest tact, feeling that Lloyd would gain her self-possession sooner if he did not talk to her, he began to sing again, half to himself, as if unmindful of her presence, and of the little dabs she was making at her eyes with a wet handkerchief. "Maid Elsie roams by lane and lea." It was the song that his old English nurse had sung: "Kling! lang! ling! She hears her bonny bride-bells ring." When he had sung it through, Lloyd's handkerchief was no longer making hasty passes at her eyes. "I wonder what my little sister Elsie is doing to-night," he said. "That song always makes me think of her." "Tell me about her," said Lloyd, who wanted a little more time to regain her composure. He understood why she asked, and began to talk, simply to divert her mind from her recent fright. But presently her eager questions showed that she was interested, and he talked on, feeling that it was good to have such an appreciative listener. He began to enjoy the reminiscences himself, and as he talked, the old days seemed to draw very near, till they gave him a homesick feeling for the old place that would never welcome him again. It had gone to strangers, he told her, and Aunt Patricia was dead. "Poor old Aunt Patricia," he added, after laughing over one of the pranks they had played on her. "She never did understand boys. We tried her patience terribly. She did the best she could for us, but I've often thought how different it would have been if my mother had lived. I had a letter from Daddy to-day, in answer to the one I wrote about leaving school. It broke me all up. Made me think of the time when I was a little fellow, and he rocked me to sleep one night when I had been naughty, and explained why I ought to be a good boy. It almost made me wish I could be a little kid again, and curl up in his arms, and tell him I was sorry, and would turn over a new leaf." Lloyd liked the affectionate, almost wistful way in which he spoke of his father as Daddy. Whatever indignation she had felt toward him was wiped away by those confidences. And when he apologized presently, in his most winning way, for not keeping his engagement, and told her frankly what had prevented, she liked him better than she had done before. She wondered how it could be so, but she felt now that she knew him as well as Malcolm or Rob, and that their friendship was not the growth of a few weeks, but that it reached back to the very beginning of things. "You can't imagine what a fascination there is in seeing that roulette wheel whirl around," he said, "but I'm done with that now. Daddy's letter settled the question. And even if that hadn't come, I would have stopped. I don't want to lose my precious turquoises--my friendship stones," he added, meaningly. "I know how you and Joyce feel about it. Look at old Alaka's eyes, twinkling up there over Camelback. They seem to know that I have heeded their warning." Presently, as they went along, he glanced up at her with a smile. "Do you know," he said, "you look just as you did the first time I saw you, as you rode up to the gate at Locust, all in white, and on a black horse. Maybe having your hair hanging loose as you did then makes me think so. I never imagined then that I'd ever see you again, much less find you away out here on the desert." "It is queah," answered Lloyd. "I thought I must be dreaming when I heard you sing 'From the desert I come to thee.'" "And I certainly thought I was dreaming," answered Phil, "when, in answer to my call, you appeared all in white. You could have knocked me down with a feather, for an instant. I was startled. Then I thanked my lucky stars that led me your way." He began again humming the Bedouin song. Lloyd, looking out across the wide, moonlighted desert and up at the twinkling stars, wondered if it was fate that had brought him to her rescue; if it could be possible that through him was to come the happiness written for her in the stars. "There's the Wigwam light," said Phil, presently, pausing in his song to point it out to her. "We're almost there. I'll never forget this adventure--till--" He took up the refrain again, smiling into her eyes as he hummed it. The refrain that was to ring through Lloyd's memory for many a year to come, whenever she thought of this ride across the moonlighted desert: "_Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!_" CHAPTER XVI. BACK TO DIXIE THERE was another mark on the kitchen calendar now; not a red star, betokening some happy event to come, but a deep black border, drawn all around the date on which Lloyd's visit was to end. The heavy black lines marked the time as only a few days distant. It was Saturday again, a week after the excursion to the Indian school. Joyce had gone down to the ranch, for Mr. Armond to criticize the drawings which she had made since the last lesson, and Lloyd, on the seat under the willows, was waiting for Phil. He was to come at four, and ride over to one of the neighbouring orange groves with her. She had a book in her hand, but she was not reading. She was listening to the water gurgle through the little water-gate into the lateral, and thinking of all that had happened during her visit, especially since the night she was lost on the desert, and Phil had found her. Monday he had spent the entire day at the Wigwam, and, since Joyce had forbidden him to come near the spot where the washing was in progress, he and Lloyd had brought a jar of paste and the little wicker table down to this very seat under the willows, and had mounted all her photographs in the book she had bought for the purpose. There were over a hundred, beginning with a view of the Wigwam and ending with the four laughing faces around the table on the balcony of Coffee Al's restaurant. There was Lloyd on her pony, coming back from the duck hunt, and again in the act of dropping her cherry tart. There was Mary in the hammock watching the bees, Jack in his irrigating boots, and Holland on a burro. There were a dozen different pictures of Joyce, and family groups, and picnic groups, in which was represented every acquaintance Lloyd had made in Arizona. Turning the pages was like living over the pleasant days again, for they brought the scenes vividly before her. When the last picture was mounted, Phil proposed that they write an appropriate quotation under each one. So they spent another hour over that, Phil suggesting most of them, and at Lloyd's request writing the inscriptions himself in his strong, dashing hand. Some of his apt phrases and clever parodies seemed really brilliant to Lloyd, and they had laughed and joked over them in a way that had ripened their friendship as weeks of ordinary intercourse would not have done. "Do you know," he said, when the last inscription was written, "I've kept count, and I'm in twenty-five of these pictures. You won't have much chance to forget me, will you? I haven't put my collection in a book, but I have a better reminder of this last month than all these put together." Opening the little locket that hung from his watch-fob, he held it toward her, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of her own face within it. Then, closing the locket with a snap, he put the fob back in its place. It was a picture he had taken of her one day as she sat on this same seat under the willows, watching Aunt Emily braid an Indian basket. He had cut out a tiny circle containing her head, from the rest of the group, just the size to fit in the locket. Lloyd, leaning forward unsuspectingly to look at it, was so surprised at seeing her own picture that a deep blush stole slowly over her face, and she drew back in confusion, not knowing what to say. If he had asked her permission to put her picture in his locket, she would have refused as decidedly as she had refused Malcolm the tip of a curl to carry in his watch. But Phil had not asked for anything; had not said a word to which she could reply as she had replied to Malcolm. He had showed her the locket in the same matter-of-course way that Rob had showed her the four-leafed clover which he carried. Yet deep down in her heart she knew that there was a difference. She knew that her father would not like Phil to have her picture in his locket, but she didn't know how to tell him so. It was only an instant that she sat in shy, embarrassed silence, with her heart in a flutter, and her eyes fastened on the book of photographs which she was fingering nervously. Then Jack came out with a pitcher of lemonade, and the opportunity to speak passed. She hadn't the courage to bring up the subject afterward. "Phil might think that I think that it means moah than it does," she told herself. "He weahs the pictuah just as he would Elsie's, and if I tell him that I don't want him to, he'll think that I think that he cares for me the way that Malcolm does. I don't suppose that it really makes any difference whethah he has it in his locket or not." He did not mention it again, but it did make a difference. The consciousness of it embarrassed her whenever she met his eyes. She wondered if Joyce noticed. Tuesday he came again, and read aloud all morning while they ironed. Wednesday he spent the day without bringing anything as an excuse. Thursday he rode with them over to the Indian reservation. Her pony had been brought back to her the day after it ran away. When he left them at the Wigwam that evening he said that he would not be back the next day as he had to go to Phoenix, but that he would be up Saturday afternoon to ride with Lloyd to the orange grove while Joyce took her drawing-lesson. It was of all this that Lloyd was thinking now, as she sat under the willows. And she was thinking, too, of the tale Mrs. Walton told her of The Three Weavers; the tale that had been the cause of the Shadow Club turning itself into the Order of Hildegarde. Mrs. Walton had spoken truly when she said that "Little girls begin very early sometimes to dream about that far-away land of Romance." Lloyd's dreams might not have begun so soon, perhaps, had it not been for the meetings of the Shadow Club at boarding-school, when Ida Shane fired their imaginations with the stories of "Daisy Dale" and "The Heiress of Dorn," and made Lloyd the bearer of her letters to her "Edwardo." The unhappy ending of Ida's romance had been a grave warning to Lloyd, and the story of Hildegarde in the Three Weavers was often in her thoughts. Part of it floated through her memory now, as she realized, with a start, how large a place Phil had occupied in her thoughts the last week. "Hildegarde worked on, true to her promise, but there came a time when a face shone across her mirror, so noble and fair that she started back in a flutter. 'Oh, surely, 'tis he!' she whispered to her father. 'His eyes are so blue they fill all my dreams!' But old Hildgardmar answered her, 'Does he measure up to the standard set by the sterling yardstick for a prince to be?'" "That is just what Papa Jack would ask," mused Lloyd. "And he'd say that little girls outgrow their ideals as they do their dresses, and that if I'm not careful that I'll make the same mistake that Hertha and Huberta did. Besides, there's my New Yeah's promise!" For a moment she ceased to hear the gurgle of the water, and heard instead the ticking of the clock in the long drawing-room at Locust, as she and Papa Jack kept watch beside the embers, waiting for the old year to die and the new one to dawn. And in the solemn hush she heard her own voice repeating Hildegarde's promise: "_You may trust me, fathah, I will not cut the golden warp from out the loom until I, a woman grown, have woven such a web as thou thyself shalt say is worthy of a prince's wearing!_" A woman grown! And she was not yet quite fourteen! "I'll not be the only one of all the Lloyds that can't be trusted to keep a promise," she said, aloud, with a proud lifting of the head. Resolutely shaking herself free from the day-dreaming that had been so pleasant, she picked up her book and started to the house. Listening to Aunt Emily's conversation over her stocking darning, about the commonplace happenings of the household, was not half so entertaining as letting her thoughts stray back to the moonlight ride, to the smile in Phil's eyes as he showed her the locket, or the sound of his voice as he sang, "From the desert I come to thee." There were a dozen such memories, so pleasant to dwell upon that a girl of less will-power would not have pushed them aside. Even Lloyd found it difficult to do. "It's like trying to drive away a flock of cherry birds," she thought. "They keep coming back no matter how often you say _shoo_! But I won't let them stay." Such a resolution was easier to make than to keep, especially as she was expecting to see Phil ride up to the door at any moment. But the time set for his coming passed, and when a step on the bridge made her glance up, it was Joyce she saw, walking along slowly. Usually she danced in after her lesson-hour with Mr. Armond in the gayest of spirits. To-day it was apparent that she was the bearer of bad news. "Oh, mamma!" she began, dropping her sketches on the table, and fumbling to find her hat-pin. "They're all so worried down at the ranch, over Phil! Mrs. Lee says he went to town yesterday morning, expecting to be back in time for dinner, but he hasn't come yet. Jo went in on his wheel, last night, and he saw him at one of those places where they play faro, and all those games, and he was so excited over his winnings that he didn't even see Jo, although he stood and watched him ever so long. This morning Mr. Ellestad went in, and he came across him, wandering about the streets. He had lost not only every cent he had deposited in the bank, but he put up his horse, and lost that, too. He didn't have any way to get out to the ranch. "He wouldn't drive out with Mr. Ellestad. He was so mortified and disgusted with himself that he said he couldn't face them all. He said his father would never trust him again, and that he had lost not only his father's confidence, but our respect and friendship. He said he was going to look for work of some kind, he didn't care what, and it didn't make any difference what became of him now. "Mr. Ellestad left him at a hotel, and he felt so sorry for him that, tired as he was, he rode over to Tempe, after he got home, to see a friend of his who is a civil engineer. This friend is going to start on an expedition next week, surveying for some canals. Mr. Ellestad persuaded him to take Phil in his party, and give him some work. Phil said he didn't intend to touch a cent of his usual monthly allowance until he had earned back all he lost. Mr. Ellestad telephoned to him from Tempe, and he is to start in a few days. Mrs. Lee says that losing everything is the best thing that could have happened to Phil. It's taught him a lesson he'll never forget; and this surveyor is just the sort of a man he ought to be with,--clean, and honourable, and strong." As Joyce finished her excited telling with these familiar words, the colour that had faded completely out of Lloyd's face rushed back again. "Clean, and honourable, and strong!" These were the standards of the yardstick that Papa Jack had given her. How far Phil had failed to measure up to the last two notches, and yet-- Mrs. Ware finished the unspoken sentence for her. "He is so young that I can't help feeling that, with something to keep him busy and some one to take a helpful interest in him, he will turn out all right. He has so many fine traits, I am sure they will prevail in the end, and that he will make a manly man, after all." Joyce openly wiped away the tears that came at the thought of this ending to their happy comradeship, but Lloyd stole away to the tent to hide her face in her pillow, and sob out the disappointment of her sore little heart. She would never see him again, she told herself, and they had had _such_ good times together, and she was so sorry that he had proved so weak. Presently, as she lay there, she heard Holland come clattering up on the pony, inquiring for her. He had killed a snake, she could hear him telling his mother, and had brought it home to skin for Lloyd. It was a beautifully marked diamond-back with ten rattles, and now she could have a purse and a hat-band, like some she had admired in Phoenix. Lloyd listened, languidly. "An hour ago," she thought, "I would have been out there the instant I heard him call. I would have been admiring the snake and thanking him for it and asking a hundred questions about how he got it. But now--somehow--everything seems so different." She started up as he began calling her. "I wish he'd let me alone," she exclaimed, impatiently. "Aunt Emily will think it strange if I don't answer, for she knows I'm out heah, but I don't feel like talking to anybody or taking an interest in anything, and I don't want to go out there!" The call came again. She drew back the tent-flap and looked out. "I'll be there in a minute, Holland," she answered, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. As she went over to the wash-stand to bathe her eyes, she brushed a magazine from the table in passing. It was the one Phil had brought up several days before to read aloud. She replaced it carefully, almost as one touches the belongings of some one who is dead. There were so many things around the tent to remind her of him, it would be almost impossible to keep him out of her thoughts. She confessed to herself that it was growing very hard to keep her Hildegarde promise. She started to whisper it as one might repeat some strengthening charm: "You may trust me, fathah--" She stopped with a sob. This sudden ending of their happy companionship was going to shadow all the rest of her visit. As her eyes met her reflection in the little mirror hanging against the side of the tent, she lifted her head with determination, and looked at it squarely. "I _will_ stop thinking about it all the time!" she said, defiantly, to the answering eyes. "It will spoil all my visit if I don't. I'll do the way the bees do when things get into the hive that have no right there. I'll seal it up tight as I can, and go on filling the other cells with honey,--doing things that will be pleasant to remember by and by. I'll _make_ myself take an interest in something else!" The same spirit that looked from the eyes of the proud old portraits at home looked back at her now from the eyes in the mirror--that strong, indomitable spirit of her ancestors, that could rise even to the conquering of that hardest of all enemies, self, when occasion demanded it. Running out to the wood-pile, where Holland impatiently awaited her, she threw herself into the interests of the hour so resolutely that she was soon absorbed in its happenings. By the time the snake was skinned, and the skin tacked to the side of the house to dry, she had gained a victory that left her stronger for all her life to come. She had compelled herself to take an interest in the affairs of others, when she wanted to mope and dream. Instead of an hour of selfish musing in her tent, she had had an hour of wholesome laughter and chatter outside. It would be a pleasant time to look back upon, too, she thought, complacently, remembering Mary's amusing efforts to help skin the snake, and all the funny things that had been said. "Well, that hour's memory-cell is filled all right," Lloyd thought. "I'll see how much moah honey I can store away befoah I leave." There was not much more time, for Mr. Sherman came soon, with the announcement that they would leave in two days. Numerous letters had passed between the Wigwam and the mines, so Lloyd knew what was going to happen when her father arranged for her and Joyce to spend part of one of those days in town. She knew that when they came back they would find a long rustic arbour built in the rear of the tents--a rough shack of cottonwood poles supporting a thatch of bamboo and palm-leaves. Underneath would be a dozen or more hives, humming with thousands of golden-banded bees. And for all the rest of their little lives these bees would spend their "shining hours" in helping Joyce on toward easier times and the City of her Desire. Something else happened that day while they were in town. Phil made his last visit before starting away with the surveying party. Nobody knew what passed between him and Aunt Emily in the old Wigwam sitting-room, but he came out from the interview smiling, so full of hope and purpose that her whispered _Godspeed_ seemed already to have found an answer. She told the girls afterward a little of their conversation. His ambition was aroused at last, she said. He was going to work hard all summer, and in the fall go back to school. Not the military academy, but a college where he could take the technical course this friend of Mr. Ellestad recommended. Phil admired this man immensely, and she was sure that his influence would be exceedingly helpful. She was sure, too, that he would be all right now, and he had promised to write to her every week. As Phil came out of the Wigwam he heard Mary's voice, in a sort of happy little chant, as she watched the settling of the bees in their new home. She had heard nothing of Phil's troubles, and did not know that he was going away until he told her. "I want you to tell Lloyd and Joyce something for me," he said. "Try to remember just these words, please. Tell them that I said: 'Alaka has lost his precious turquoises, but _he will win them back again, some day_!' Can you remember to say just that?" Mary nodded, gravely. "Yes," she said, "I'll tell them." Then her lip trembled. "But I don't want you to go away!" she exclaimed, the tears beginning to come. "Aren't you ever coming back?" "Not for a long time," he answered, looking away toward old Camelback. "Not till I've learned the lesson that you told me about, the first time I saw you, that day on the train, to be inflexible. When I'm strong enough to keep stiff in the face of any temptation, then I'll come back. Good-bye, little Vicar!" Stooping, he kissed her gently on each plump cheek, and turned hastily away. She watched him go off down the road through a blur of tears. Then she rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. He had turned to look back, and, seeing the disconsolate little figure gazing after him, waved his hat. There was something so cheery and hopeful in the swing he gave it, that Mary smiled through her tears, and answered with an energetic fluttering of her white sunbonnet, swung high by its one string. * * * * * Joyce's delight on her return, when she found the long row of hives, was something good to see. She could hardly speak at first, and walked from one hive to another, touching each as she passed, as if to assure herself that it was really there, and really hers. "Joyce is so bee-wildered by her good fortune that she is almost bee-side herself," said Holland, when he had watched her start on her third round of inspection. "That's the truth," laughed Joyce, turning to face Lloyd and her father. "I'm so happy that I don't know what I'm doing, and I can't begin to thank you properly till I've settled down a little." There was no need of spoken thanks when her face was so eloquent. Even the mistakes she made in setting the supper-table spoke for her. In her excitement she gave Mr. Sherman two forks and no knife, and Lloyd three spoons and no fork. She made the coffee in the teapot, and put the butter in a pickle-dish. Only Mary's warning cry saved her from skimming the cream into the syrup-pitcher, and she sugared everything she cooked instead of salting it. "Oh, I'm sorry," she cried, when her mistakes were discovered, "but if you were as happy as I am you'd go around with your head in the clouds too." After supper she said to Mr. Sherman, as they walked out to the hives again, "You see, I'd been thinking all day how much I am going to miss Lloyd, and what a Road of the Loving Heart she's left behind her on this visit. We've enjoyed every minute of it, and we'll talk of the things she's said and done for months. Then I came home to find that she's left not only a road behind her, but one that will reach through all the years ahead, a road that will lead straight through to what I have set my heart on doing. I'm going into bee culture with all my might and main, now, and make a fortune out of it. There'll be time enough after that to carry out my other plans. "To think," she added, as Lloyd joined them, "when I first came to the Wigwam I was so lonesome and discontented that I wanted to die. Now I wouldn't change places with any other girl in the universe." "Not even with me?" cried Lloyd, in surprise, thinking of all she had and all that she had done. "No, not even with you," answered Joyce, quoting, softly, "For me the desert holds more than kings' houses could offer." The last two days of Lloyd's visit went by in a whirl. As she drove away with her father, in the open carriage that had been sent out of town for them, she stood up to look back and wave her handkerchief to the little group under the pepper-trees, as long as the Wigwam was in sight. Then she kept turning to look back at old Camelback Mountain, until it, too, faded from sight in the fading day. Then she settled down beside her father, and looked up at him with a satisfied smile. "Somehow I feel as if my visit is ending like the good old fairy-tales--'They all lived happily evah aftah.' Joyce is _so_ happy ovah the bees and Mr. Armond's lessons. Aunt Emily is lots bettah, the boys have so much to hope for since you promised to help Holland get into the Navy, and make a place for Jack at the mines. As for Mary, she is so blissful ovah the prospect of a visit to Locust next yeah, that she can't talk of anything else." "And what about my little Hildegarde?" asked Mr. Sherman. "Did the visit do anything for her?" "Yes," said Lloyd, growing grave as the name Hildegarde recalled the promise that had been so hard to keep, and the victory she had won over herself the day she turned away from her day-dreams and her disappointment to interest herself in other things. She felt that the bees had shown her a road to happiness that would lead her out of many a trouble in the years to come. She had only to follow their example, seal up whatever had no right in her life's hive, or whatever was spoiling her happiness, and fill the days with other interests. "Oh, I'm lots wiseah than when I came," she said, aloud. "I've learned to make pies and coffee, and to i'on, and to weave Indian baskets." "Is that the height of your ambition?" was the teasing reply. "You don't soar as high as Joyce and Betty." "Oh, Papa Jack, I know you'll be disappointed in me, but, honestly, I can't help it! I haven't any big ambitions. Seems to me I'd be contented always, just to be you'ah deah little daughtah, and not do any moah than just gathah up each day's honey as it comes and lay up a hive full of sweet memories for myself and othah people." "That suits me exactly," he answered, with an approving nod. "Contented people are the most comfortable sort to live with, and such an ambition as yours will do more good in your little corner of the world than all the books you could write or pictures you could paint." The engine was steaming on the track when they drove up to the station. Waffles, the coloured man whom Mr. Robeson had brought with him as cook, hung over the railing of the rear platform, whistling "Going Back to Dixie." "How good that sounds!" exclaimed Lloyd, as her father helped her up the steps. "Now that we are really headed for home, I can hardly wait to get back to the Valley and tell mothah and Betty about my visit. I don't believe anybody in the whole world has as many good times to remembah as I have. Or as many good times to look forward to," she added, later, when, with a mighty snorting and puffing, the engine steamed slowly out of the station, and started on its long homeward journey. As they rumbled on, she began picturing her arrival, the welcome at the station, and her meeting with her mother and Betty and the Walton girls. How much she had to tell them all, and how many delightful meetings she would have with the club! Her birthday was only two months away. Then the locusts would be white with bloom, and after that vacation. With the coming of summer-time to the Valley would come Rob to measure with her at the measuring-tree, to play tennis, and to share whatever the long summer days held in store. With a vague sense that all sorts of pleasantness awaited her there, her thoughts turned eagerly toward Kentucky. Even the car-wheels seemed to creak in pleased anticipation, and keep time to the tune she hummed half under her breath: "My heart turns back to Dixie, And I--must--go!" THE END. BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative, per vol. $1.50 =The Little Colonel Stories.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated. Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," put into a single volume. =The Little Colonel's House Party.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by Louis Meynell. =The Little Colonel's Holidays.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. =The Little Colonel's Hero.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel at Boarding School.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel in Arizona.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark) =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= =The Giant Scissors.= =Big Brother.= Special Holiday Editions Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25. New plates, handsomely illustrated, with eight full-page drawings in color. "The books are as satisfactory to the small girls, who find them adorable, as for the mothers and librarians, who delight in their influence."--_Christian Register._ These four volumes, boxed as a four volume set $5.00 =In the Desert of Waiting=: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN. =The Three Weavers=: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS. =Keeping Tryst.= =The Legend of the Bleeding Heart.= Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative $0.50 Paper boards .35 There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these four stories, which were originally included in four of the "Little Colonel" books. =Joel: A Boy of Galilee.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author's best-known books. =Asa Holmes=; OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. A sketch of Country Life and Country Humor. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 "'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while."--_Boston Times._ =The Rival Campers=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is the story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast. "The best boys' book since 'Tom Sawyer.'"--_San Francisco Examiner._ =The Rival Campers Afloat=; OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This book is a continuation of the adventures of "The Rival Campers" on their prize yacht _Viking_. An accidental collision results in a series of exciting adventures, culminating in a mysterious chase, the loss of their prize yacht, and its recapture by means of their old yacht, _Surprise_. =The Rival Campers Ashore.= By RUEL PERLEY SMITH, author of "The Rival Campers," "The Rival Campers Afloat," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Rival Campers Ashore" deals with the adventures of the campers and their friends in and around the town of Benton. Mr. Smith introduces a new character,--a girl,--who shows them the way to an old mill, around which the mystery of the story revolves. The girl is an admirable acquisition, proving as daring and resourceful as the campers themselves. =The Young Section-Hand=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Marathon Mystery," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by L. J. Bridgman $1.50 Mr. Stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. =The Young Train Dispatcher.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Young Section-hand," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 The young hero has many chances to prove his manliness and courage in the exciting adventures which befall him in the discharge of his duty. =Captain Jack Lorimer.= By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50 Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. He has the sturdy qualities boys admire, and his fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. =Jack Lorimer's Champions=; or, Sports on Land and Lake. By WINN STANDISH, author of "Captain Jack Lorimer," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 All boys and girls who take an interest in school athletics will wish to read of the exploits of the Millvale High School students, under the leadership of Captain Jack Lorimer. Captain Jack's Champions play quite as good ball as do some of the teams on the large leagues, and they put all opponents to good hard work in other summer sports. Jack Lorimer and his friends stand out as the finest examples of all-round American high school boys and girls. =Beautiful Joe's Paradise=; OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE. A sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe." One vol., library 12mo, cloth, illustrated $1.50 "This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for juveniles--old and young."--_Philadelphia Item._ ='Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50 "It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it--honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus Townsend Brady._ =The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane," etc. Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50 Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. =Born to the Blue.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation. =In West Point Gray.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 West Point forms the background for the second volume in this series, and gives us the adventures of Jack as a cadet. Here the training of his childhood days in the frontier army post stands him in good stead; and he quickly becomes the central figure of the West Point life. =The Sandman; His Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson. Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50 "An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_Buffalo Express._ =The Sandman: More Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 Mr. Hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "Sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. =The Sandman: His Ship Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS, author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories," etc. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 "Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who put the little ones to bed, and rack their brains for stories, will find this book a treasure."--_Cleveland Leader._ "Children call for these stories over and over again."--_Chicago Evening Post._ =Pussy-Cat Town.= By MARION AMES TAGGART. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors $1.00 "Pussy-Cat Town" is a most unusual delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois's beautiful snow white pet, and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow, Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and truly cats. =The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= By JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF, author of "The Little Christmas Shoe." Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her home. =Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. =The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French by MARY J. SAFFORD. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00 The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy, discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where they might visit their storybook favorites. =The Red Feathers.= By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of "Brothers of Peril," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Red Feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young, and when fairies and magicians did wonderful things for their friends and enemies. =The Wreck of the Ocean Queen.= By JAMES OTIS, author of "Larry Hudson's Ambition," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This story takes its readers on a sea voyage around the world; gives them a trip on a treasure ship; an exciting experience in a terrific gale; and finally a shipwreck, with a mutineering crew determined to take the treasure to complicate matters. But only the mutineers will come to serious harm, and after the reader has known the thrilling excitement of lack of food and water, of attacks by night and day, and of a hand-to-hand fight, he is rescued and brought safely home again,--to realize that it's only a story, but a stirring and realistic one. =Little White Indians.= By FANNIE E. OSTRANDER. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The "Little White Indians" were two families of children who "played Indian" all one long summer vacation. They built wigwams and made camps; they went hunting and fought fierce battles on the war-trail. A bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the "make-believe" instinct in children, and will give them a healthy, active interest in "the simple life." PHYLLIS' FIELD FRIENDS SERIES _By LENORE E. MULETS_ Six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by Sophie Schneider. Sold separately, or as a set. Per volume $1.00 Per set 6.00 =Insect Stories.= =Stories of Little Animals.= =Flower Stories.= =Bird Stories.= =Tree Stories.= =Stories of Little Fishes.= In this series of six little Nature books, it is the author's intention so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular flower, insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful reading. Classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as to correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent illustrations are no little help. THE WOODRANGER TALES _By G. WALDO BROWNE_ =The Woodranger.= =The Young Gunbearer.= =The Hero of the Hills.= =With Rogers' Rangers.= Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, decorative cover, illustrated, per volume $1.25 Four vols., boxed, per set 5.00 "The Woodranger Tales," like the "Pathfinder Tales" of J. Fenimore Cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in America with interesting adventures in the backwoods. Although the same characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting and exciting tale of adventure. THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES The most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. Each one vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page illustrations in color. Price per volume $0.60 _By MARY HAZELTON WADE_ (_unless otherwise indicated_) =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Alaskan Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Arabian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Hindu Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= COSY CORNER SERIES It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.) The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =The Giant Scissors.= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =Mildred's Inheritance.= A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =Big Brother.= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =Ole Mammy's Torment.= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =The Story of Dago.= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =The Quilt That Jack Built.= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =Flip's Islands of Providence.= A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _By EDITH ROBINSON_ =A Little Puritan's First Christmas.= A Story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. =A Little Daughter of Liberty.= The author introduces this story as follows: "One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =A Loyal Little Maid.= A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George Washington. =A Little Puritan Rebel.= This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts. =A Little Puritan Pioneer.= The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at Charlestown. =A Little Puritan Bound Girl.= A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =A Little Puritan Cavalier.= The story of a "Little Puritan Cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders. =A Puritan Knight Errant.= The story tells of a young lad in Colonial times who endeavored to carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days. _By OUIDA_ (_Louise de la Ramée_) =A Dog of Flanders=: A CHRISTMAS STORY. Too well and favorably known to require description. =The Nurnberg Stove.= This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _By FRANCES MARGARET FOX_ =The Little Giant's Neighbours.= A charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =Farmer Brown and the Birds.= A little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =Betty of Old Mackinaw.= A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =Brother Billy.= The story of Betty's brother, and some further adventures of Betty herself. =Mother Nature's Little Ones.= Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =How Christmas Came to the Mulvaneys.= A bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. The wonderful never-to-be forgotten Christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of exciting incidents. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Varied hyphenation was retained as in yardstick and yard-stick. Page 138, "kneeding" changed to "kneading" (and began kneading) Page 321, the author of The Wreck of the Ocean Queen was not small-capped in the original. This was fixed in this copy. 
56087	----	Haithi Trust Org. --images digitized by Google (original from University of Wisconsin) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Haithi Trust Org. images digitized by Google (original from University of Wisconsin) IN QUEER STREET BY FERGUS HUME AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE PINK SHOP," "ACROSS THE FOOTLIGHTS," "SEEN IN THE SHADOW," ETC., ETC. LONDON F. V. WHITE & CO., LTD. 17, BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1913 CONTENTS CHAP. I. THE BOARDING-HOUSE II. OLD SCHOOL-FELLOWS III. MAN PROPOSES IV. THE ADVERTISEMENT V. THE NEXT STEP VI. SEEKING TROUBLE VII. AN AMAZING DISCOVERY VIII. FAMILY HISTORY IX. GWEN X. VANE'S AUNT XI. MACBETH'S BANQUET XII. CUPID'S GARDEN XIII. DANGER XIV. AT BAY XV. A FRIEND IN NEED XVI. EXPLANATIONS XVII. BLACKMAIL XVIII. HENCH'S DIPLOMACY XIX. A DENIAL XX. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND XXI. THE SUNSHINE OR LIFE IN QUEER STREET IN QUEER STREET CHAPTER I THE BOARDING-HOUSE "Here," explained the landlady, "we are not wildly gay, as the serious aspect of life prevents our indulging in unrestrained mirth. Each one of us is devoted to an ideal, Mr. Spruce." "And what is the ideal, Mrs. Tesk?" asked the twinkling little man who was proposing himself as a boarder. "The intention of gaining wealth in virtuous ways, by exercising the various talents with which we have been endowed by an All-seeing Providence." "If you eliminate the word 'virtuous,' most people have some such ideal," was the dry reply of Mr. Spruce. "I want money myself, or I shouldn't come to live here. A Bethnal Green lodging-house isn't my idea of luxury." "Boarding-house, if you please," said Mrs. Tesk, drawing up her thin figure. "I would point out that my establishment is most superior. Brought up in scholastic circles, I assisted my father and my husband for many years in teaching the young idea how to shoot, and----" "In plain English, you kept a school." "Crudely put, it is as you say, Mr. Spruce," assented the landlady; "but habit has accustomed me to express myself in a more elegant way. My husband and my father having been long numbered with the angelic host, I was unable to continue successfully as a teacher of youth. A learned friend suggested to me that an excellent income might be derived from a high-class boarding-house. Therefore I rented this mansion for the purpose of entertaining a select number of paying guests." "Paying guests! How admirably you express yourself, Mrs. Tesk." "It has always been my custom to do full justice to our beautiful language, Mr. Spruce. Even my establishment has a name redolent of classic times. It is called--and not unfittingly I think--The Home of the Muses." "So I observed in your advertisement. Why not call this place Parnassus? Then one word would serve for five." "The suggestion is not without merit," said the former school-mistress. "I perceive, Mr. Spruce, that you have some knowledge of the classics." "I was educated at Winchester and Cambridge, Mrs. Tesk. The Home of the Muses--what a delightful name and how very appropriate." Poor Mrs. Tesk having no sense of humour, did not understand that this last remark was ironical, and smiled gravely in full approval. Spruce screwed in his eye-glass, and glanced with a shrug at his surroundings. These were scarcely calculated to satisfy a sybarite, being extremely ugly, inartistic, well-worn and dingy. The room, of no great size, was over-crowded with clumsy furniture made in the early years of the nineteenth century, when solidity was much more valued than beauty. What with six ordinary chairs, two armchairs, a horse-hair sofa to match, a sideboard, a bookcase, and a fender-stool all of mahogany, to say nothing of an Indian screen and a rosewood piano, there was scarcely room to move. And everywhere appeared patterns;--on the carpet, on the wall-paper, on the curtains and on the table-cloth: the eye ached to find some plain spot, which was not striped, or spotted, or scrolled, or dotted. The sole redeeming feature of the dreadful apartment was that many years and constant use had mellowed everything into a sober congruity, so that the whole looked comfortable and homely. As the Home of the Muses, it was an entire failure; as the sanctum of the sedate middle-aged woman in the worn black silk gown, it was quite successful. And as there were many out-of-date educational volumes in the bookcase, and as the walls were decorated with samplers, water-coloured drawings, geographical maps, and even with framed specimens of hand-writing, it could be easily guessed that the apartment belonged to a retired school-mistress. There was something quite pathetic in Mrs. Tesk's flotsam and jetsam, which she had saved from the dire wreck of her superior fortunes. And the landlady was as suited to the room as her visitor was unsuited, for there could not be a greater contrast than the two presented to one another. Mrs. Tesk belonged to a bygone age, while Spruce had to do with the very immediate present. In her shabby-genteel gown, which clothed a thin bony figure, and with a severe parchment-coloured face, the former teacher of the young looked very respectable indeed. Her mittens, her be-ribboned cap, her long gold chain, her large brooch containing locks of hair, and her cloth boots suggested the stories of Emma Jane Worboise and Mrs. Henry Wood. She was prim, pedantic and eminently genteel, the survival of an epoch when women wore full skirts and believed that their duty was to keep house, rather than to smash windows. Spruce stared at her through his eye-glass as he would have done at a prehistoric animal. The would-be boarder was the last expression of man, as representing the lily of the fields which toils not. He resembled a cherub and was dressed like a Nut, that last variety of the masher, the swell, the dandy and the buck. With his clean-shaven pink and white face, his mild blue eyes, his smooth fair hair, little hands, little feet, and general well-groomed aspect, he looked like a good boy thoroughly acquainted with the Church Catechism. But his extravagant attire suggested Piccadilly, music-halls, the Park and afternoon teas. He wore a pale-green suit, the coat of which was made to show his waist, and turned-up trousers, which revealed purple socks and brogues of russia leather. His waistcoat was cut low, revealing a lavender-hued shirt and a purple scarf painted with a portrait of a famous dancer; and he held a green Trilby hat in his gloved hands, together with a gold-headed cane and an unlighted cigarette, which he did not dare to smoke in the severe presence of Mrs. Tesk. On the whole, Mr. Cuthbert Spruce was a thing of beauty, and wore as many colours as Joseph did when he put on his famous coat. He was the kind of male doll that virile men long to kick but dare not lest they should smash the thing. When he had completed his survey of the room and of Mrs. Tesk, the Nut explained himself glibly. "I have come down here for a few months in order to study character for a book. Until I write that book I am rather hard up, so I should like to know if your terms are----" "Twenty-five shillings a week," interrupted Mrs. Tesk solemnly. "No one, not even the most captious, can call such terms expensive or prohibitive." "I certainly don't. In fact you ask so little that I am not sure if you can make me comfortable at the price." "Good food, a good bed and genteel society, Mr. Spruce. What more does mortal man require, save a fire, which is not necessary, seeing that summer is with us in all its annual glory?" "I don't think much of its annual glory comes to Bethnal Green, Mrs. Tesk. However, your terms will suit me, and I'll bring my boxes this afternoon. I can have a bath, I suppose?" "Sixpence extra if cold and one shilling if warm." "A cold bath will suit me as it is summer. Have you a valet in the house?" "No, Mr. Spruce. Such a menial is only to be found in the houses of the rich, as I understand from the perusal of novels read for recreation. Here you will find plain living and high thinking. My cook is an old servant, who is able to roast and boil healthy viands. Amelia, who is sixteen, attends to the house-work, and there is the boy, Simon Jedd--commonly called Bottles, which is a facetious appellation given to him by a paying guest inclined to merriment. Such is my staff." "And the paying guests?" asked Spruce, who began to think that five and twenty shillings was quite the top price to ask for such board and lodging. Mrs. Tesk coughed. "Our circle is limited at present to a chosen few, as London is rather empty just now, on account of the summer season, which attracts people to the green woods and the sounding sea. There is Madame Alpenny, who is of Hungarian extraction, but who married an Englishman; together with her daughter, Zara, a dancer of repute at the Bijou Music-hall. I hesitated to accept the daughter as a paying guest," added Mrs. Tesk loftily, "as my education scarcely permits me to approve of the profession of Terpsichore." "She was one of the Muses, you know," Spruce reminded her; "and as this is the Home of those ladies----" "Quite so," interrupted Mrs. Tesk in her most stately fashion. "That fact may have biassed me in my permitting her to reside under my roof. Also, not having many paying guests at present, the money was a consideration, and humanity interdicted me from parting mother and child; although I am bound to say that Madame Alpenny refused to come if I did not take her daughter also. Finally I consented, and since seeing Zara dance I have not regretted my yielding. She exhibits the poetry of motion in a high degree and is quite respectable." "Any other paying guests?" "Mr. Edward Bracken--ordinarily termed Ned,--who plays the violin in the Bijou orchestra with great delicacy, and Mr. Owain Hench, who is at present absent, and will not return for a week." Spruce rose and looked surprised. "Owain Hench. Will you spell his first name, Mrs. Tesk? I fancy I know him." Mrs. Tesk spelt the name slowly. "It is a Welsh title!" she said as if Hench was a member of the House of Lords, "and the spelling is peculiar. In history we are told of Owen Tudor, and Owen Glendower, who signed their Christian appellations somewhat differently." "It is the proper Welsh spelling," said Spruce, smiling. "He must be the same fellow I used to know at Winchester. We used to rag him about the queer way in which he spelt his name. Fancy Hench in this galley"--and he looked disdainfully round the shabby room--"I thought he was rich." "I am not acquainted with the financial affairs of Mr. Hench," said the landlady stiffly; "but I am quite certain that he is by no means endowed largely with specie. Nevertheless he is a kind-hearted and estimable young man, who will yet achieve fame and fortune, although in what particular direction it is at present hard to say. He has resided here for six months, so I can speak of his qualities with some knowledge." Spruce walked to the door. "I shall be glad to see Hench again," he remarked lightly. "Well, Mrs. Tesk, you may expect me and my luggage by four o'clock." "I understand." Mrs. Tesk folded her hands and bowed graciously. "You will be in time for afternoon tea, when I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to Madame Alpenny, Mademoiselle Zara, and to Mr. Edward Bracken. You will find us a happy family, Mr. Spruce, and I trust you will never regret coming to stay in The Home of the Muses." Spruce stifled a laugh and went out, lighting his cigarette and putting his hat on in the hall. He was immensely amused with the stately old-fashioned airs of the ex-school-mistress, and promised himself some fun in drawing her out. He did not anticipate a rosy time in the boarding-house, which was much too shabby and poor and sordid for one of his pleasure-loving nature; but he felt that the companionship of his old schoolfellow would enable him to pass the time fairly pleasantly. In his explanation to Mrs. Tesk as to his reason for coming to Bethnal Green, Mr. Spruce had not been entirely truthful, but the excuse of gathering material for a book would serve his purpose. The truth was that the Nut had been mixed up in a gambling affair with which cheating had been connected, so he had wisely determined to obliterate himself for a few months. Not being able to go abroad or into the country by reason of a lean purse, he had made up his mind to rusticate in Bethnal Green, and hoped that when the scandal was ended he could return to the West End. In the meantime, he was safe from observation, as no one would ever suspect that he was in London, so near and yet so far from civilization. He intended to give to Hench the same excuse as he had already given to Mrs. Tesk, and had no doubt but what it would be accepted. Hench, as he considered, was smart in many ways and the reverse in a few. While at Winchester he had been considered clever, but always over-confident that others were as honourable as himself, a belief which led to his being taken advantage of on many occasions. Spruce had never been intimate with Hench, as he belonged to a different set, but he was quite ready to be intimate with him now in such a dull locality as Bethnal Green. The cherubic little man by no means cared for the plain living and high thinking to which Mrs. Tesk had alluded, as he preferred high living and plain thinking, the latter having to do with thoughts of how to kill time by amusing himself. It was not likely that Hench would be of the same opinion, as from what Spruce remembered he had always been a solid sort of chap. Of course, it was eight years since the Nut had seen the young man, but if living in The Home of the Muses denoted his status, it was probable that he would be more solid than ever. And solid in the opinion of Mr. Spruce meant woeful dullness and pronounced common-sense. Therefore he scarcely anticipated that Hench would prove to be an ideal companion. However, owing to the trouble in the West End, Spruce had to make the best of things, and duly arrived at the appointed time with his five boxes. People did not usually come to Mrs. Tesk's establishment with so much luggage, but Spruce being a Nut, and eminently fashionable, required many clothes to set off his rather mean little person. Amelia, the maid-of-all-work, and Jedd, who was facetiously called "Bottles," helped the cabman to carry up the many trunks to the new-comer's bedroom, and looked upon him with awe as the owner of such costly paraphernalia. Mrs. Tesk was also pleased in her stately fashion, as the arrival of such a quantity of luggage imparted dignity in some mysterious way to her establishment. By four o'clock the new paying guest had taken possession of his new abode, and was on his way to the drawing-room to meet those already assembled under Mrs. Tesk's hospitable roof. To do honour to the occasion, and to produce a good impression, Spruce had changed into a brand-new suit, and looked like Solomon-in-all-his-glory when he entered the stuffy apartment grandiloquently termed the drawing-room. It was tolerably large and less crowded with furniture than the sanctum of the landlady, but the windows being closed and the day being warm, Spruce gasped when he ventured in. It was like entering the coolest room of a Turkish bath. "Allow me," said Mrs. Tesk in her deepest and most genteel voice. "Mr. Spruce, permit me to introduce you to Madame Alpenny, to Mademoiselle Zara Alpenny and to Mr. Edward Bracken. Madame Alpenny, Mademoiselle Alpenny and Mr. Edward Bracken, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Spruce, our new companion." During the landlady's long-winded introduction the Nut bowed to the several people mentioned and swiftly noted their outward looks. The Hungarian lady, who had married an Englishman, was a very stout woman, slightly taller than Spruce himself, which was not saying much, and the remains of former beauty were apparent in her face if not in her figure. It is true that her complexion was sallow and her hair an unpleasant red, but she had finely-cut features and splendid eyes, dark, eloquent and alluring. She wore a dark dress spotted with orange circles, a loose black velvet mantle trimmed with beads, and a large floppy picture-hat, together with many costly bracelets, rings, chains, brooches and lockets. Evidently she carried her fortune on her person for security, and looked like a walking jeweller's shop. Spruce saw at a glance that she was a lady, although why she should wear such shabby clothes and live in such a shabby place when she possessed such valuable ornaments he could not say. Privately he decided that she looked interesting, and determined to find out all about her during his stay in the boarding-house. "You will find us very quiet here," observed Madame Alpenny in excellent English, and smiling with very white teeth at the new-comer's resplendent appearance; "it will be dull in these parts for a young gentleman." "Oh, I can make myself at home anywhere, Madame," replied Spruce, accepting a cup of very weak tea from Mrs. Tesk. "My visit here is only to collect material for a novel." "I read the stories of my countryman, Maurus Jokai," said Madame with a nod. "You write like him. Is it not so?" "By no means. I know nothing of Maurus Jokai." "Gaszynski! Morzycka! Zmorski! Mukulitch! Riedl! Vehse?" the foreign lady ran off these difficult names of Polish, Russian and Hungarian authors still smiling; "you know them. Eh? What?" "Never heard of them Madame. They sound like names out of the Book of Numbers to me. I am a very ignorant person, as you will find." "Ah, say not so, Mr. Spruce. You like amusement perhaps. The dance, the cricket, the five o'clock tea? Tell me." "All those things are more in my line. I hear from Mrs. Tesk that your daughter dances?" "Ah, yes. Zara?" "I am at the Bijou Music-hall just now in a Fire-dance," said the girl in an indifferent manner, for Spruce had not made the same impression on her as he had on her mother; "and Mr. Bracken here is in the orchestra." "Second-violin," growled Bracken, who was paying great attention to the thin bread and butter. "Hard work and bad pay"--he stole a glance at the dancer--"but I have my compensations." The look was sufficient to make Spruce understand that the young man was in love with Zara, just as the frown of Madame Alpenny, who had intercepted the look, showed him the mother's disapproval. The dancer was a tall and rather gaunt girl, handsome in a bold gipsy flamboyant way, with flashing dark eyes and a somewhat defiant manner, while the violinist was roughly good-looking, and seemed to pay very little attention to his dress. Evidently a romance was in progress here, and Spruce promised himself some amusement in watching the efforts--which he was sure were being made--of the mother to keep the lovers apart. "You see," said Mrs. Tesk complacently, "we have many talents assembled here, Mr. Spruce. Mademoiselle Zara indulges in the light fantastic toe; Mr. Bracken is devoted to the noble art of music, and Madame Alpenny is conversant with the literature of foreign nations, which is natural considering her nationality. In my own person, I represent the English element of letters, and if you enjoy heart to heart talks, I am prepared to discuss poetry with you from Dan Chaucer down to Robert Browning." "Thanks very much," said the new guest hastily and scarcely relishing the prospect; "but my doctor won't let me read much, as my health is not very good. But I daresay," he added, glancing round at the queer set he found himself amongst, "we can get up a game of bridge occasionally." "Ah, but certainly," cried Madame with vivacity and her splendid eyes flashed; "for my part I delight in cards!" "My preference is for Patience," said Mrs. Tesk solemnly. "I find it relieves the strain on my mind. So long as the stakes are not very high, Mr. Spruce, I shall be delighted to join you and Madame and Mademoiselle Zara in a friendly game. Oh, you will not find us dull, I think. And when Mr. Owain Hench returns he will be able to inform you about many parts of the world not usually accessible to the ordinary person." Spruce rather resented Mrs. Tesk calling him an ordinary person, as he considered that he was head and shoulders above the assembled company. However, he did not allow any sign of annoyance at her density to escape him, but uttered a little chuckling laugh of acquiescence. "I'll be glad to see Hench again. He was always a good chap." "Ah!" Madame glanced at her defiant daughter and then at Spruce; "it appears, then, that you know Mr. Hench?" "We were at school together." "So! He is a charming young man." Zara laughed meaningly. "With money mamma thinks that he would be still more charming," she said significantly, and the sallow face of Madame grew red. "It is true," she admitted frankly. "When one has a daughter, one must be careful of charming young men who are not rich. What do you say, Mr. Spruce?" "Well, I never had a daughter, so I can't say anything," replied the little man, who was rapidly understanding many things. "And your opinion, Mr. Bracken, if I may ask it?" He put the question advisedly, as the mention of Hench's name had brought a scowl to the face of the violinist. "Money isn't everything," growled Bracken, passing his hand through his rough hair, which he wore a trifle long, after the fashion of musicians. "Hench is a good fellow, and being clever will be rich some day." "Ah! no"--Madame Alpenny shook her head vehemently--"he is too--what you call--careless of money. He is idle; he is a mystery." Spruce opened his pale blue eyes at the last word, and put in his monocle to stare at the Hungarian lady. "There never was any mystery about Hench at school," he observed rather puzzled. "He was always rather a commonplace sort of chap." "There is a mystery," insisted Madame more vehemently than ever. "I have seen him before, but where--no, it is impossible to say." "You don't mean to say that he is wanted by the police?" asked Bracken. "Don't speak like that!" cried Zara with a frown. "Mr. Hench is the most honourable man in the world. There is nothing mean about him." "He is all that is agreeable and polite," said her mother gravely; "and but for one thing I have no fault to find with him. Still, I have seen him somewhere, that young gentleman; he has a history!" "History! mystery! You jump to conclusions, mamma." "Zara, my father was a diplomatist, and I am observant." "Suspicious, I should say," remarked Bracken under his breath. But low as he spoke the woman heard him. "Of some people I am," she said with a dark glance, which revealed that she was not so good-humoured as she looked. Zara rose with a swing of her skirts and looked as graceful and as dangerous as a pantheress. "I am going to lie down," she observed rather irrelevantly. "I always lie down, Mr. Spruce, so as to prepare for the fatigues of the night. If you ask Mr. Bracken he will take you to the smoking-room." "Oh, thanks," gasped Spruce, who did not wish to remain in the company of the violinist, whom he privately termed a bounder; "but I am going to my room to write letters." "Fancy staying in to write letters on this beautiful day. Mr. Bracken will be wiser, I am sure, and take a walk." "You've hit it," said Mr. Bracken, taking out a well-worn briar pipe. "I'm off for a breather." And he escorted Zara out of the room without noticing Spruce, to whom he had taken a dislike. Madame Alpenny half arose when she saw the two departing in company, but sat down again with a frown. In a few minutes she walked to the window and drew a sigh of relief on seeing Bracken standing on the pavement lighting his pipe. Spruce guessed by this by-play that she did not approve of the violinist being with her daughter, and became more certain than ever that the romance he had conjectured existed. Zara had got rid of Bracken, it was evident, so as not to leave him in the company of her mother. Hence her mention that the violinist would show Spruce the smoking-room, and her suggestion of a walk for Bracken when the new guest refused the offer of tobacco. However, Madame now seeing that the two were parted, returned to her seat satisfied, and resumed her talk about Mr. Hench. "You must tell me of your old schoolfellow," she said graciously; "he is a young man I greatly admire. I study his character." "An admirable character," said Mrs. Tesk loftily. "I cannot help you, Madame, as I haven't seen Hench for years," said Spruce. "Ah indeed! You will find him very mysterious!" And she nodded significantly. CHAPTER II OLD SCHOOL-FELLOWS Mr. Spruce found The Home of the Muses less dull than he expected it to be, in spite of its ridiculous name. For six days he amused himself very tolerably in contemplating the novelty of his surroundings, and in getting what amusement he could out of the same. Desiring "something new," after the fashion of the Athenians, he explored Bethnal Green more or less thoroughly, and learned that the seamy side of life here exhibited had attractions for a keen-witted observer, as he truly was. People in the West End were always on the look-out for money with which to indulge their fancies; people in this neighbourhood hunted likewise for the nimble shilling, but used it when obtained to keep a roof over their heads and bread in their mouths. But the excitement of the money-chase was always the same, and Spruce watched the same with great interest. In fact he took part in the hunt for dollars himself, as he also had to live in such comfort as his depleted purse could command. That Destiny had not dealt lavishly with Spruce was due to his own crooked way of propitiating the whimsical goddess, since he disliked honest toil. On leaving college and entering the great world, he had enjoyed a fair fortune nursed for years by jealous guardians, which ought to have kept him in luxury for the whole of his useless life. But the Nut, thinking he possessed the purse of Fortunatus, dipped into it too freely, and like the earthen pot at once smashed when the brass pots dashed against him. He entered a fast set, fascinating and expensive, whose members gambled heavily, who flirted freely with free-lance ladies and who ran up bills on every occasion. A few years of this life reduced Spruce to living on his wits, and as these were sharp enough, he managed to scramble along somehow and keep his head above water. But not making money fast enough honestly, he attempted to cheat at cards, and therefore was expelled from his profligate paradise. For this reason he had come to rusticate in Bethnal Green, and intended to return as soon as he could make sure of being tolerated in his former haunts and by his former associates. But as he had committed the one crime which society, however rapid, will never condone, the prospect of his being whitewashed was not very promising. However, the little man knew that money covers a multitude of sins, and would go far to excuse the particular sin of cheating, which had ruined him. He therefore looked here, there and everywhere during his retirement in the hope of making money, so that he could return with full pockets to the West End. But it must be admitted that Bethnal Green was not exactly Tom Tiddler's ground, and little gold and silver did Spruce pick up. The Nut certainly won a certain amount of money from Madame Alpenny, who was a born gambler, and staked her jewellery when coin was wanting. She was always hard up, as she frankly informed Spruce when she came to know him better, and had long since turned what money she possessed into the costly ornaments she wore. Zara earned enough to keep her mother and herself at the boarding-house, but otherwise spent her earnings on herself, knowing, as she did, that Madame Alpenny would only gamble away what was given her. Therefore the old woman sometimes had to sell a brooch or a bracelet in order to get funds for her gambling. She was clever at cards, but scarcely so clever, and it may be added unscrupulous, as Spruce, so by the end of the week her person was not quite so lavishly decorated with jewellery as it had been when the Nut first set eyes on her. But in spite of her bad luck, the Hungarian lady always behaved amiably towards Spruce, as she took him at his own valuation and believed him to be a rich young man indulging in the fantastic whim of living in Mrs. Tesk's house. It did not take much time for the Nut to see that Madame Alpenny's agreeable demeanour was due to the hope she entertained that he would make love to Zara, and perhaps become her son-in-law. Spruce had about as much idea of courting the dancer as of flying, but he allowed the lady to think that he admired her daughter so that she might continue to gamble. Being quite deceived as to his real status and his real intentions, she did; so Spruce found himself much better off in pocket by the end of the week, and about the time when Owain Hench was expected back. The little man was waiting for Hench, as he greatly desired to see if any money could be made out of him. People who travelled about the world, as Hench apparently did, often found gold-mines, or knew of some hidden treasure, or had an idea of how to make money in large quantities. Spruce was very vague as to how he could exploit Hench to his own advantage, as he had not seen him for eight years and did not know his possibilities. However, he was assured that while residing under the same roof as Hench he would soon be able to learn if he was worth making a friend of, and so waited anxiously for the young man's return. Meanwhile he gambled with Madame Alpenny; made himself agreeable to the ex-school-mistress, whom he found a frightful bore; and went several times to the Bijou Music-hall to see Mademoiselle Zara dance. To his surprise he found that she was really a very brilliant artist, who was entirely thrown away on a Bethnal Green audience, and asked himself quite seriously if it would not be worth while to marry her and secure for her an engagement at the West End. If she made a success there--as he was sure she would do--then she could support him in luxury and the old woman could be got rid of somehow. Oh, Spruce found many ideas in The Home of the Muses which might result in the gain of money, although he saw plainly that to bring the same to fruition time was necessary. At all events, he was making a living out of Madame Alpenny; foresaw possibilities in Zara's dancing with the chance of profit to himself, and always kept in his scheming little mind that Hench might prove to be a valuable acquaintance. Therefore, the six days prior to the young man's return proved to be amusing and profitable and promising. As Spruce had become an adventurer and a picker-up of unconsidered trifles, after the fashion of Autolycus, he was quite content with the progress he had made so far in his new camping-ground. For that it was, since Spruce had no idea of having a home, and disliked domesticity. It was on Sunday afternoon that Hench returned. Madame Alpenny was lying down for a rest, as she always did on the seventh day; Zara had slipped out for a walk with Bracken; and Mrs. Tesk was laboriously reading a religious book, which she found extremely dull, but considered the correct thing to peruse on the Sabbath. Spruce being left very much to his own devices, had amused himself by sorting his wardrobe, and towards five o'clock was beginning to find time hang heavy on his hands. With a yawn he descended to the smoking-room to idle away an hour with a cigarette and the Sunday papers. In the bleak little apartment devoted to the goddess Nicotine--a goddess unknown to the Olympians, it may be remarked--he came suddenly upon a tall young man who was puffing his pipe and listlessly staring out of the window. Rather from intuition than from positive knowledge, the Nut guessed that this was the returned wanderer. "Hullo, Hench, and how are you?" was his greeting, and he advanced with a gracious smile and an outstretched hand. The young man rose slowly, looking very much astonished, but mechanically accepted the proferred grasp. Apparently he did not recognize that this resplendent being was his old schoolfellow, and hinted as much in a rough and ready fashion. "Who the deuce are you?" he demanded with a puzzled expression. "Cuthbert Spruce!" replied the Nut, nettled as a vain man would be by the want of recognition. "Cuthbert Spruce! Well?" Hench still appeared to be ignorant and waited for some light to be cast upon the subject of this hearty greeting. "Oh, come now, you are an ass, Hench. Don't you remember Winchester, and the day you picked me up when I got lost during the hare and hounds run?" Hench stared at the pink and white cherubic face and a smile broke over his face, as he shook the little man's hand heartily. "Of course. Little Spruce, isn't it?" "I have already said as much," retorted the mortified Nut dryly. "Well, I didn't see much of you at Winchester, you know," confessed the stalwart young man, sitting down for a chat; "you were in a different set, anyhow. And I don't fancy I cared much for your set, such as it was. H'm!" Hench stared hard at the other and pulled hard at his pipe. "Yes. Little Spruce, of course, commonly called The Cherub. And by gad, Spruce, you're a cherub still." "No one could call you so, Hench," said Spruce affably, sitting down and producing a dainty cigarette-case; "you are more like Hercules, big and stolid and dull and honest." "What a mixture of depreciation and compliment," said Hench coolly. "Well, I am glad to see you, in spite of your somewhat free speech. After all, one's heart warms to a chap from the old school." "Rather!" agreed the Nut, whose heart never warmed towards any one or anything. "It's queer meeting you here. Let's have a look at you." Hench laughed and shifted his position, so that the light from the window fell full upon him. A woman would have thought, as women did think, that he was well worth looking at, since he was tall and stalwart, undeniably handsome and possessed of great strength. With his well-built figure and upright carriage he looked more like a soldier than anything else. His hair, closely cropped, was brown, as were his eyes, and he had a full spade-shaped beard which added to his virile looks. The two men formed a marked contrast, and the small, dainty, over-dressed Nut looked like a doll beside the big, handsome, carelessly attired man. And it was on this attire that Spruce's eyes were fixed, as it hinted at many things. A well-worn blue-serge suit, a woollen shirt and mended brown boots did not suggest money, any more than the presence of Hench in this cheap boarding house intimated a good income. The Nut began to think that his dreams of making use of Hench were purely visionary. There was no wealth to be extracted from such an obvious pauper. Nevertheless, Spruce, who never threw away a chance, behaved very cordially and paid compliments. "But for that beard you are just the same as you were at Winchester," he remarked. "You were always big and heroic-looking. What are you doing here?" "Marking time!" said Hench laconically. "In the hopes of what?" "Of making my fortune." "Hum!" Spruce looked dissatisfied, as he did not care about meeting old schoolfellows who required help; "you do look down on your luck." "Not more than usual. I always make sufficient to keep my head above water by writing articles and stories for cheap newspapers and journals. But that is a poor state of things for a man of twenty-five." "There isn't much pie-crust about it, I admit, Hench. Why, I thought you were rich. I know at school the fellows always talked about your father being a Duke of sorts constantly on the move." "My father travelled a great deal on the Continent, certainly, and when I left school I joined him. But he died five or six years ago and left me with very little money. Since then I have been voyaging round the terrestrial globe to find money, and so far have not achieved success. But I say"--Hench broke off to re-fill his pipe--"why make me egotistical? My affairs don't interest you." "Oh yes, they do," Spruce protested, then baited his hook with a minnow to catch a possible whale. "And if you will allow me to be your banker----" "No! No! It's awfully good of you. But I have enough for my needs." "Well, when you haven't, come to me. Old schoolfellows, you know, should help one another at a pinch." "You're a good chap, Spruce," said the big man, gratefully. Spruce smiled graciously in response to the compliment, and privately considered that Hench was as trusting as he always had been, taking men at their own valuation, instead of putting a price on them himself. However, he had gained the good-will of the man by his delicate offer--which he by no means intended should be accepted--and therefore hoped, should Hench prove to be worth powder and shot, to benefit by his artful diplomacy. "Oh, that's all right, old fellow," he said airily and blowing rings of smoke; "since we're in the same galley we may as well renew our old friendship." "Begin a friendship, you mean," said Hench very directly. "We weren't pals at school, so far as I can recollect." "No! that's true enough. But you picked me up out of that ditch and played the part of a Good Samaritan, so I have reason to be friendly." "Thanks! I'm with you, Spruce. While we camp here I daresay we'll see a lot of one another, and I shan't forget your kind offer to help. I'm not quick to make friends, you know, as I find most people jolly well look after themselves to the exclusion of every one else." "I do, myself," said the Nut coolly. "Don't think that I go about playing the part of the Good Samaritan haphazard. But an old schoolfellow, you know----" "Yes! I understand. There's something in having been at the same desk, isn't there. But I say, Spruce, what are you doing here? Now that I cast my memory back, you were supposed to be very well off." "Oh, I am still," lied the Nut in a most brazen way; "that is I have enough money on which to live comfortably, although not a millionaire. But the fact is, I have literary ambitions, and wish to write a book. Some fellow said that Bethnal Green had never been written up since the time of the celebrated beggar, so I thought I'd come down and gather material. I spotted Mrs. Tesk's advertisement in the papers and the name of the house attracted me." Hench laughed. "The Home of the Muses! It's rather a queer title to give a house in this poverty-stricken neighbourhood; but then Mrs. Tesk, bless her, is queer herself. She's a good sort though, all the same. Well, you've come to the right place to get material for a sort of Charles Dickens book. We all live in Queer Street here, Spruce." "Queer Street, which, like Bohemia, is nowhere and yet is everywhere, Hench." "You are epigrammatic. That won't do for a book of the Dickens type." The Nut shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what sort of book I'll write, and that's a fact. In Queer Street, which I take it comprises the whole of Bethnal Green, there are many interesting people, for I have been walking about and have kept my eyes open. But those I find most interesting are under this roof." "Madame Alpenny?" "Yes! She's quite a character with her jewellery and her gambling. By the way, you won't find her so decked out Hindoo fashion as hitherto. During the week of my stay here, I have won two bracelets, several rings and a pair of ear-rings." Hench looked displeased. "You shouldn't encourage her love of gambling," he said strongly. "I'm not a saint, but it doesn't seem right for a well-to-do man such as you are to win Madame Alpenny's jewellery." "Why not? She has the same chance of winning my money. We play quite fairly, you know, Hench, and one must pass the time somehow. But I quite understand why you don't wish me to loot the lady." "Oh, do you." Hench grew red and smoothed his beard. "Well?" "I have listened and looked and questioned and considered while I have been here," explained the Nut coolly, "and by doing so I have found out your romance." "My romance!"--the big man bit his nether lip and thought that it was like the cheek of this finicky little devil to meddle with what did not in any way concern him--"what the deuce are you talking about?" "About your romance; about Bracken's romance; and about Mademoiselle Zara, who is the subject of both romances." "You are talking through your hat, Spruce." "By no means. I can give you chapter and verse for my surmises. Zara Alpenny is a handsome gipsy, although to my fancy she is a trifle gaunt and fierce, as any one can see. Her mother being poor, intends that her daughter shall be the wife of a wealthy man. You have fallen in love with this divinity of the Bijou Music-hall, and so has that bounder of a violinist. Madame Alpenny, knowing your circumstances, will have nothing to do with either of you as sons-in-law, preferring yours truly." "You!" Hench sat up and stared indignantly at the smooth speaker. "Now what the dickens do you mean by that rubbish?" "What I say. You understand King's English, I take it. But you need have no fear so far as I am concerned. Mademoiselle Zara is not my sort, and I have no intention of forwarding Madame Alpenny's matrimonial aims. But you----" Hench rose, looking considerably irritated. "I wish you would mind your own business," he said sharply. "You have found a mare's nest." "Oh, well," observed Spruce lazily, "if that is the case I may as well change my mind and become a suitor for Zara's hand." "You shall do nothing of the sort." "Why not? You don't love her, if I am to credit your mare's nest parable." Hench found that the Nut was too sharp for him and sat down with a defeated air. "I admire the girl, rather than love her," he admitted reluctantly. "She's a good sort and would make a good wife--something of a comrade, you know." "I don't think that fierce-eyed girl would care for a marriage of the comrade sort, Hench. She wants love of the most pronounced and romantic kind, and that kind she is getting from Bracken. He worships her, and will carry off the prize if all you can give is cautious admiration." "It's none of your business, anyway," fumed the big man. "No. I admit that! But suppose I make it my business by asking Madame Alpenny for her daughter's hand. She believes me to be rich and----" "And you are not. Come, be honest." Spruce saw that he had overshot the mark and retreated dexterously. "I have already been honest, as I told you that I was not a millionaire but only well off. Anyhow, I am a better husband for Zara so far as money is concerned than you or that bounder." "But hang it, man, you can't love her. You've only known her a week." "I never said that I did love her, or could possibly come to love her. Still, Zara is handsome and clever, so why shouldn't I make her my comrade-wife, since you suggested the same kind of half-baked alliance with yourself." "Look here, Spruce," stated the other very seriously, and irritated by the nimble wit of his schoolfellow, "you have proved yourself to be a decent sort by offering to help me. For that offer I thank you, and because of it I am willing that we should be friends. But if you make love to Zara we are sure to quarrel." "Aren't you rather a dog-in-the-manger, Hench?" "No. I admire the girl." "She wants love, which you evidently can't give her," retorted Spruce in an emphatic manner. "Now, if I can love her----" "You said that she wasn't your sort." "She isn't. Still, she is handsome, and one might pick up a worse wife." "But not a worse mother-in-law. So far as I am concerned it doesn't matter, as I have neither kith nor kin to my knowledge, and, moreover, I am a vagabond upon the face of the earth. But with your family connections and position and money, the marriage would not be a success, seeing that it entails your taking Madame Alpenny to the West End. There she would scarcely do you credit." Spruce rocked with laughter, and wondered what Hench would say if he knew the true position of affairs which had been so carefully withheld from him. "I give in, old fellow," he said, wiping his eyes with a mauve silk handkerchief and wafting a perfume about the room. "I was only codding you. I don't want to marry the girl. But Bracken does." "And so do I," rejoined Hench tartly. "H'm! I'm not so sure of that. Yours is a cold-blooded wooing. The girl asks you for the bread of love and you give her the stone of admiration." "She doesn't ask me for love," said the tall young man with a sigh. "I am not so blind but what I can see that she loves Bracken." "Then why don't you sheer off?" "I don't like any man to get the better of me." "There speaks the buccaneer, the cave-man, the prehistoric grabber. Lord! what a weird state of things, and how simple you are, Hench, to place all your cards on the table. I can teach you a thing or two." "I am quite sure you can," said Hench dryly, and disliking the wit of this effeminate little creature, which was so extremely keen; "but I go my own way, thank you, and dree my own weird. It is probable that I will ask Madame Alpenny if I can marry Zara, and if Zara is agreeable----" "Which by your own showing she won't be," put in Spruce parenthetically. "----I'll marry her. If not, I'll go away and let Bracken make her his wife." Spruce rose with a yawn. "I fancy Madame Alpenny will have a word or two to say to that, my dear fellow. Why don't you skip now?" "Because I admire Zara and mean to give her the chance of accepting or rejecting me," said Hench doggedly. "Also, I can't leave London for a few weeks, as I have to interview my father's lawyers." "What about?" "I can't tell you. My father left certain papers with his lawyers which were to be given to me when I attained the age of twenty-five. My birthday arrives shortly, and then I'll see what is to be done." "It sounds like a mystery," yawned Spruce, apparently in a listless manner, but secretly all agog to learn what the lawyers of his friend knew; "Madame Alpenny says you are a mystery." "Me!" Hench laughed scornfully; "why, there's nothing mysterious about me. As you said just now, I am a simple person who places all his cards on the table." "Yes"--Spruce nodded--"more fool you. Now, if you will only allow that old woman to think that there really is a mystery connected with you--and there seems to be so far as this legal interview is concerned--she may give you a chance of becoming her daughter's husband." "Perhaps! But why does she think me a mystery?" "I can't tell you. She was very vague about the matter. She declares that she has seen you somewhere and that you have a history." "History be hanged. My father had sufficient money to travel about and put me to school at Winchester. When I left I joined him, and we went through Europe to this place and that until he died and was buried in Paris. What mystery is there about that?" "None. But your family----?" "I haven't got any save my father, who is dead. And he told me very little about himself or his belongings. We are a Welsh family, I believe." "Hench isn't a Welsh name." "Owain is, anyhow, and the spelling is old Welsh," retorted the other. "True. We used to rag you about the spelling at school. Well, with such a name as that, you might find out the truth about your family." "I'm not curious." "You should be then, as I would be if I were in your shoes. For all you know there may be a title and money waiting for you." "Oh, rubbish! Well, you can tell Madame Alpenny what I have told you. No. On second thoughts, I'll tell her myself. She and her mystery, indeed!" and with a scornful nod Hench left the bleak smoking-room. Spruce reflected that Hench was a simpleton to be so frank about his private affairs, and had not changed, so far as trusting people went, since his school-days. "Also there is a mystery," he mused. "I'll search it out." CHAPTER III MAN PROPOSES Everyone, without exception, was glad that Hench had returned, for he appeared to be a favourite with all. And not the least pleased to see him was the boy Simon Jedd, commonly called "Bottles." He was a freckled, red-haired, laughing youngster of fifteen, with a wide mouth and a snub nose, not by any manner of means handsome, but genial and cheerful and extremely honest. He helped Amelia with the house-work, ran errands, waited at table, cleaned the boots of the paying guests, and earned his scanty wages by making himself uncommonly useful on all and every occasion. But being a restless youth, and much given at odd moments to reading books of highly-coloured adventure in the form of penny stories, he had a soul above his drudgery, and longed with all his heart to face dangers of the most pronounced kind. Such a lad was bound to have some sort of actual hero to worship and adore. In Hench, Bottles saw exactly the pioneering type, which was his ideal of perfect manhood, and he looked upon the young man as the model of all the virtues which most appealed to him. This being the case, he never could do enough to prove his devotion. No bed was so well made as that of Hench; no room was kept so spotlessly clean, and no boots were so highly polished. Half amused and half touched by this genuine hero-worship, Hench lent the boy books of travel, told him about his adventures in far lands, gave him odd shillings to patronize the local picture palace and music-hall, and generally treated him in a way which made the heart of the boy swell with pride. It was no wonder that Bottles adored him and could never do enough for him. On the morning after his return, Hench found his clothes well brushed, his bath ready, and a cup of tea at his elbow, while Bottles hovered round the room wondering what else he could do to show his rejoicing spirit. In his shabby patched clothes, and wearing an apron of green baize, Bottles grinned respectfully when Hench sat up in bed to drink his tea. He also supplied him with small-beer chronicles concerning events which had taken place in The Home of the Muses during his hero's absence. Hench cared very little for such gossip, but allowed Bottles to prattle on because it pleased the lad. And certainly Master Jedd might have been a detective, so full and clever was his report. In the course of his narrative he arrived at Spruce. Then Hench really did listen, for, simple as he was, he began to wonder if the Nut had given his true reason for this visit to Bethnal Green. "Such a swell as he is, ain't he?" babbled Bottles, who was now slipping links and studs into Hench's shirt. "I never did see a cove come with so many boxes, sir. Must be rich, I think, though he ain't free with his money. Says he knew you at school, sir, he does. True, ain't it?" "Quite true, Bottles!" replied Hench, nodding. "I haven't seen him for eight or more years." "And you don't like him now you do see him, do you, sir?" "Why should you say that?" "Well, sir"--Bottles scratched his scarlet poll--"he don't seem to me to be quite your style. There ain't no Buffalo Bill, Pathfinder business about him. If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I don't think it's cricket his winning all that foreign lady's jewellery at cards, nohow." "That's none of your business, Bottles." "Sorry, sir. But I can't help seeing and thinking when I do see. And what's a swell like him doing down here, I'd like to know?" "You'd better ask him." "And get a clip on the ears for my pains, sir. Not me. Though I dessay he ain't the cove to hit out." "Too kind-hearted?" asked Hench, amused. "Well," said Bottles slowly, "I shouldn't use them words myself. Mr. Spruce is the kind of feller who'd trip you up when you wasn't looking; but I don't think he'd meet any one's eye straight. Seems to me as he might have done a glide, if you take me, sir." "I don't take you, Bottles?" "Bolted, mizzled, cut away," explained the boy earnestly. "Swells don't come to this place for fun." "Don't be a fool, boy. Mr. Spruce has only come here to gather material for a book he is writing." "Oh, he says that, do he, sir? Well, I don't think! Ho! I'll keep my eye on all the illustrated papers and see if his picture's in 'em." "Why should his picture be in them?" Bottles shook his head mysteriously and skipped lightly towards the door. He saw that Hench did not approve of his groundless suspicions, so made up his mind to say no more. All the same, having got the idea that Spruce had "done something" into his head, which came from reading too many penny-dreadful romances, he made up his mind to watch the Nut. This he did not tell his hero lest he should be forbidden to "follow the trail," as he put it. Therefore he held his tongue and removed himself swiftly. While Hench took his bath and dressed slowly, he wondered if by chance the boy had hit the mark. It did appear to be strange that a well-to-do and fashionable young man should come and live amidst such sordid surroundings. Spruce's story of gathering material for a novel was plausible enough, yet somehow it did not ring true. Hench, as the Nut thought with some degree of truth, was a very simple and unsuspicious person, but he was not quite such a fool as Mr. Spruce imagined him to be. Affable as the young man had been, and pleased as he was with his old schoolfellow's offer of pecuniary aid, he could not bring himself to like the Cherub. His dandified dress, his mincing ways, his gorgeous array and use of perfume, irritated the rough-and-ready manhood of Hench. He sensed something poisonous about the little man, and resolved very rightly to be wary in his dealings with him. Moreover, Spruce was altogether too curious about matters which did not concern him, though why he should be so Hench was unable to say. The Nut had made himself acquainted with the affairs of every one in the house since his arrival, and knew much which could not possibly interest him. However, if he had come to Bethnal Green to plot and contrive, it would be a case of diamond cut diamond, for Hench guessed that Bottles would keep his eye on the little man's doings. And the eye of Bottles was sharp, while the brain of Bottles was keen; so the schemes of Mr. Spruce would be baffled in the end, always presuming that he really had any. "But it's all bosh," said Hench aloud to himself, as he made ready to go down to breakfast. "Spruce has come here to write a book, and it's silly of me to make a mountain out of a molehill. I daresay he'll grow tired of this dull life here and cut away back to the West End. Upon my word I shan't be sorry when he goes. Strange that Bottles should dislike him so thoroughly. He's a sharp lad, is Bottles, and doesn't usually make mistakes." Having unloaded his mind in this soliloquy, Hench descended to breakfast and enjoyed that meal all alone, as he was late and every one was out. Spruce, indeed, was having breakfast in his room, and of this Hench was glad, as he always liked to read the newspaper while drinking his coffee. This would have been impossible had such a chattering magpie as the Nut been present. But he did not escape the attentions of his old schoolfellow entirely, for Spruce made his appearance just as he finished eating. The Nut wore a suit of cream-coloured serge with a black necktie, black boots, black gloves, and a black hat of soft felt. Hench stared. "I say, you look like a negative," he remonstrated. "Don't go out in that get-up or you'll be mobbed." "Oh, no," said Spruce smoothly; "only pointed at. I'm accustomed to that, as I have put on a different suit every day since coming here. It must be a pleasure for these Bethnal Green rotters to see a well-dressed man." "I don't mind a fellow being well dressed," retorted Hench with emphasis, "but I do object to over-dressing." Spruce shrugged his shoulders. "You never did care to look decent." "I'm decent enough; confound your impudence!" "What with that shaggy beard and shabby clothes, and----" "There! There! Keep off the grass, Spruce. My clothes are well enough, although I do admit my beard is a trifle out of place. But when I returned from South America six months ago I never bothered to shave. Too much trouble." "Well, if I were a good-looking chap such as you are, I would pay more attention to my appearance. Coming out for a walk?" "No. Not with you in that get-up!" Spruce laughed. "Rum sort of chap you are to object to a fellow dressing decently. However, have it your own way. I'll see you this afternoon." Hench nodded absently and filled his pipe, while Spruce departed to delight the jeering inhabitants of Bethnal Green. And they did jeer, in what Spruce considered their coarse, common, vulgar way, but did not manage to upset him in the least. He was much too conceited to think that he could possibly be wrong in his selection of clothes. And it must be confessed that, as the day was hot even for July, he looked wonderfully cool and comfortable in his white garb. The men jeered, but for the most part the women admired him, and so long as he gained admiration from the fair sex Spruce was wholly content. So he screwed in his eye-glass and strutted and smiled, and made a progress through the main streets of Bethnal Green with a heroism worthy of a better cause. And it was heroism in a way to venture amongst the great unwashed in such fantastic clothes, although in Spruce it took the form of absolute vanity, and a certainty that he was "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever." As the day was warm and sunny the Nut did not return to luncheon, but enjoyed that meal in a City restaurant. He did not risk travelling beyond Fleet Street, lest he should stumble against some former friend who certainly would not be amiably disposed. Like the Peri, Spruce stood at the Gates of Paradise, but did not dare to venture in, so after a long look up the Strand, which was closed to him, he returned gloomily to Bethnal Green. But by the time he reached The Home of the Muses, he felt much better, as his nature was too shallow for him to be impressed strongly by any emotion--sorrowful or joyful. It was late in the afternoon when he entered the dingy drawing-room, and here he found Hench and Madame Alpenny enjoying the regulation tea. Zara, it appeared, was lying down to refresh herself for the evening's performance, and Bracken was attending a rehearsal. As for Mrs. Tesk, her mind was engaged with the approaching dinner, and she was consulting the cook in the kitchen. As soon as Bottles, who was attending to the meal, saw Spruce stepping in he became at once upon the alert, and devoured him with his light blue eyes. Hench, noticing this espionage, sent the lad away to get fresh tea, as he did not approve of Bottles watching and listening to what did not concern him. Madame Alpenny smiled blandly when Spruce entered and complimented him on his cool looks. She was hot herself, and this was little to be wondered at, as she wore her constant black dress with the orange spots, her picture hat and her heavy bead mantle. The Nut wondered if she had any other clothes, as she never seemed to wear another garb. "You are just in time, Mr. Spruce," said Madame Alpenny in her lively way, and after she had paid her compliment. "Tell me what you know of Mr. Hench here." Spruce stared. "Why do you ask me that?" "Indeed you may well ask," said Hench with a frown, "as you cannot answer the question. But Madame here will not permit me to pay attention to Mademoiselle Zara until she knows more about me." "I am a good mother, you see, and must consider my daughter's happiness," was the reply of the Hungarian lady, as she took the freshly filled teapot from Bottles and sent him out of the room again. "If that is the case," said Spruce politely, "then you must allow her to become Mrs. Bracken." "Certainly I shall not. Ah, but you are smiling." "Indeed, I think your daughter will only be happy with Bracken," insisted the Nut lightly. "He loves her, and I think that she loves him." "In that case," commented Madame with a shrug and glancing at Hench, "there is no chance for you." "I admire Mademoiselle Zara and wish to make her my wife," said Hench steadily. "I am young and strong, and will soon make a fortune." "So far you have been unsuccessful," she replied dryly; "and for my daughter I prefer a ready-made fortune." Her eyes rested on Spruce as she spoke. The little man did not take the hint, but chuckled softly in his hateful fashion, so she was obliged to go on. "Tell me, Mr. Spruce, what do you know of Mr. Hench?" "Only that he is the best fellow in the world." Hench frowned. "I don't see how you can swear to that, seeing we have not met for eight years." "Oh, you were always a good sort of chap," said Spruce gaily. "If you don't mind my saying so, you haven't enough brains to be wicked. It takes a clever person to sin properly." "Ah, but you will amuse yourself with this talk," broke in Madame, smiling. "I want a good man for my daughter." "Take Bracken, then. He's a bit of a bounder, but decent enough." The old woman pursed up her lips and shook her head. After a few moments of reflection she spoke freely. "My daughter must marry money, and neither you, Mr. Hench, nor Mr. Bracken have any money. I will not allow you to pay your addresses to her. Nor will Zara receive them. She is a good girl and loves her old mother." "Well, Hench," said Spruce, when this speech was ended, "now you know. Are you not heart-broken?" "No!" retorted Hench sharply. "Nor am I defeated. Zara will decide." "She will decide what I order her to decide!" cried Madame Alpenny furiously. "And my daughter is not for you, Mr. Hench!" "I should prefer to discuss that question privately," said the young man in a stiff, haughty way; "there is no need for Mr. Spruce to be present." "Oh, don't say that," chimed in the Nut reproachfully; "I may be able to help you, old fellow. You don't go the right way to work." "It's my own way," snapped Hench restlessly, and objecting to interference. "Then it's the wrong way," snapped Spruce in his turn. "Remember that Madame Alpenny thinks you are a mystery. Use that to help you." "In what way?" Hench opened his brown eyes. "Mysterious persons are always interesting, and if Madame here finds that you may turn out to be some one great, who knows but what she may change her mind?" "Are you something great?" asked the lady, addressing Hench quickly. "No. I am nobody, and will remain nobody. Why should you think that I am, what you call, a mystery?" "It is hard to say," she answered dreamily and staring hard at him. "I have seen eyes like yours somewhere. They are connected with a story--a kind of family mystery. But I can't remember to whom those eyes belonged." "Perhaps you have met our friend here before," suggested the Nut eagerly. "No!" said Madame positively, and Hench also shook his head. "I met him here for the first time. The person who had eyes like him I met--or I fancy I met--some twenty years ago. But it is all vague and uncertain. Yet I feel that the story I allude to is here"--she touched her forehead--"a mere word will bring it back to my memory." "Then let us try and find the magic word," cried the irrepressible Spruce. "I am desperately curious myself to fathom a mystery which the person concerned in it does not guess." "Meaning me," said Hench tartly. "You are talking rubbish." "Sense, sense, common-sense. When the mystery is discovered you may be able to marry Mademoiselle Zara." "There is no mystery about me, I tell you." "Well, I am not so sure of that," remarked the little man, in spite of his friend's frown. "You don't know anything about your family, as you admitted to me. Yet I dare swear that those papers you are to inspect at your lawyers' in a few weeks, when you arrive at the age of twenty-five, may contain a history which will astonish you." "Papers at your lawyers'," echoed Madame Alpenny, looking excited; "is that so?" Hench reluctantly admitted that such was the case. "But I don't suppose that anything I don't know will come to my knowledge." "Who knows," observed the old lady thoughtfully. "Mr. Spruce is right. This hint of mystery interests me in you and makes me more ready to entertain your proposal to marry Zara. If you turned out to be wealthy----" "I never will, I tell you," insisted Hench crossly. "Then why are these mysterious papers in existence? No! believe me, they have a story to tell. I am better disposed towards you because of those papers, as who knows to what they may lead. Mr. Spruce is right about a mystery interesting me, and I congratulate Mr. Spruce. He ought to be in the diplomatic service. His knowledge of human nature does him credit." Evidently both Madame and the Cherub were bent upon building a castle in the air, as Hench could not think that the papers in question were likely to make him a rich man. His father had never been rich, and knowing the sybaritism of his deceased parent, the young man was pretty certain that if there had been any money about, the elder Hench would have obtained it to waste. "You are both wrong," he said gloomily. "There is not likely to be a fortune waiting for me when I read those papers. My name is a commonplace one, and I have every reason to believe that my family is commonplace also. My father never gave me any information about his parents. All I know is that his name was Owain Hench, as mine is, and that he once or twice remarked that his youth had been passed in some Welsh place, called Rhaiadr!" The effect of this last word on Madame was astonishing. She turned quite pale with sudden emotion, her large dark eyes blazed into vivid life and she clapped her hands loudly. "Rhaiadr! Owain of Rhaiadr! The word means water tumbling over a rock--a waterfall. Ah, yes, and so they call a torrent in the barbarous country of Wales." Hench stared at her, not understanding this outburst, but Spruce, much more alive to what was meant, laughed and nodded. "We have hit upon the magic word, it seems," he observed, all on the alert for knowledge. "Tell us who was the owner of the eyes which were like those of Hench's, Madame?" "Your father had such eyes," said Madame, turning to the astonished man. "My father!"--Hench started to his feet--"you have never met my father. Why, he died about five years ago." Madame nodded complacently and signed that he should seat himself again. "Ah, is that so? He is dead, then. Oh, but I did meet him, Mr. Hench. Some twenty years back--it was in Buda Pesth. I remember it all"--she pressed her jewelled fingers to her forehead--"it all comes back to me." "Tell us about it, then," suggested Spruce eagerly. "Bah!" said Hench rather rudely, "it's all imagination." "Indeed it is not," protested Madame, gesticulating. "If it were so, how would I know that Rhaiadr meant a waterfall and was in Wales, a country I know nothing about? Owain of Rhaiadr!--that is what your father called himself." "Owain is my Christian name, and was my father's before me. But we don't live in the Middle Ages, when a man was known by his first name being connected with a town, or village, or county, or country. Owain Hench of Rhaiadr, if you like, Madame." The woman shook her head and her eyes sparkled like diamonds. "Ah, but it is not so. Owain of Rhaiadr was what your father said. I remember we were sitting on the terrace of the hotel, and feeling ill, he sought my sympathy. Ah, my friend, and more than my sympathy. He wished to marry me." "Marry you!" Hench stared at the withered old woman in amazement. "Why not? I was a handsome young widow in those days and had some money. Afterwards I lost it, being unlucky at cards." "Well, let us hope that to make up for your loss you were lucky in love," said Spruce affably. "No! I did not wish to marry again, as I was devoted to the memory of my English husband. But I liked your father, Mr. Hench, even though I refused to become his wife. He was not rich, you understand, so it was useless for me to marry a poor man. But I liked him because he was well-bred and sympathetic in many ways. How it all comes back to me. I told him of my daughter, who was with her nurse in the gardens below the terrace, and he informed me that he had a son of four or five, who was in England being looked after by strangers." "By strangers," echoed Hench bitterly; "that is true. All my life I have had to do with strangers." "Ah, but, my friend, it was not the fault of your good father," said Madame in a hurried tone. "His young wife--your mother--died early, and it was impossible for your father to travel about the Continent with a baby--as you were." "A baby of over four years old could have travelled well enough," said Hench in a sombre tone; "but my father never cared about me over-much. He----" here the young man checked himself, as he did not wish to discuss his father in the presence of Spruce, although he might have done so with Madame Alpenny, since he desired to marry her daughter. After a pause he continued: "Well, did my father tell you his family history?" It was quite one minute before the old lady answered this question. She reflected deeply, with her eyes searching his handsome face, then shook her head sadly. "No! We were not so confidential as that. We met several times again, but as I refused to marry him, your father went away to Paris. I never saw him again, but the memory of his eyes remained, and those same eyes you now use to look at me suggested my old romance." "They would not have done so but for the magic word Rhaiadr," said Spruce in brisk tones. "Well, Hench, you see that there is a mystery." "There is not," declared the young man sharply and much vexed. "Your mystery resolves itself into what Madame here calls her romance. My father asked her to marry him and she refused. Very wisely, I think," he added, as if to himself--"she would never have been happy." Madame overheard him, shrugged her shoulders, and rose, looking more shapeless in figure and more untidy in dress than ever. "In any case, I have never been happy," she said sadly, "so it does not matter. But I am now inclined to consider your proposal to pay attentions to Zara." "He is not yet rich, remember," put in Spruce, grinning. "Mind your own business," said Hench vehemently. "No"--Madame's tone was peculiar--"and perhaps he never may be rich. But if Zara likes you, I am not sure but what I will not allow you to marry her. No, I have not yet quite made up my mind. Give me time to think"--she moved ponderously towards the door. "Owain of Rhaiadr! Ah, if you were only able to call yourself that. Well, who knows," and with a mysterious nod she disappeared. "Queer thing, coming across an old flame of your father's in Queer Street," said the Nut affably. "What do you think?" "I think," said Hench in anything but an amiable tone, "that you had better mind your own damned business." Spruce was by no means offended. "As you will, although you should be sensible enough to use my brains to help you with your family mystery." "There is no mystery. How often am I to repeat that?" And Hench walked away fuming with rage at the little man's persistence. CHAPTER IV THE ADVERTISEMENT Hench felt annoyed with himself for talking so freely about his private affairs in the presence of Spruce, yet he could not see how he could have done otherwise. Madame Alpenny, disregarding the obvious fact that his proposal for her daughter's hand was not for public discussion, had appealed to the little man for information concerning the suitor, and in this way the Nut had been drawn into the conversation. If was not that Hench affected reticence, as he was a singularly frank man; or that there was anything to conceal in his past life, since that was free from punishable misdeeds. But it irritated him that Spruce should meddle, as the man appeared to have a finger in everybody's pie, and Hench saw no reason why he should have anything to do with this particular pastry. For this reason he gave his old schoolfellow the cold shoulder. Spruce objected to this, as it was his aim to ingratiate himself, with a view to possible happenings which would place him in possession of money. At the outset Hench's friendship had not appeared to be worth cultivating, as he was poor, aggressively honest, and not at all a man to be exploited by the unscrupulous. But after Hench's confidence regarding the papers at the lawyers', Spruce scented a mystery which might be profitable. His suspicions, which at the outset were of the very faintest description, received colour and were rendered more substantial by the knowledge that Madame Alpenny had been acquainted with the young man's father. Spruce had noted her hesitation in replying to the question concerning the telling of the family history, and was satisfied in his own mind that she knew more than she would admit. The fact that after the conversation in the drawing-room she was willing to consider the proposal of marriage to Zara, implied that there was something in the wind. Having regard to Madame Alpenny's poverty and to her desire that Zara should marry a wealthy man, that something undoubtedly had to do with money. As yet Spruce was very vague about the whole matter, as his information was not accurate enough to enable him to act. But the key to the mystery, whatever it might be, was in the possession of Madame Alpenny, therefore the Nut watched her carefully. If she was agreeable that Zara should become the wife of Hench, there was certainly money to be gained by her as the result of the marriage; and if Hench was likely to possess riches, Spruce made up his mind to share in the same. For this reason he ignored the young man's bearish manner and scant civility, which otherwise he would not have tolerated. Spruce was amiability itself, and went out of his way to amuse the paying guests, so that Mrs. Tesk looked upon him as quite an acquisition. He played the piano, he sang songs, he performed conjuring tricks, and made himself generally agreeable. Also he escorted Zara to the Bijou Music-hall and there became acquainted with the management, with the stage hands, and with the hangers-on of the profession. In a week he was quite at home behind the scenes, and even became friendly with Mrs. Jedd, who was the mother of Bottles, and the wardrobe mistress. In fact, he ingratiated himself with every one and was highly popular; meantime watching Madame Alpenny with the ardour of a cat at a mouse-hole, and giving his best attentions to Hench. These were so coldly received that finally he remonstrated in a most plaintive manner. "I don't see why you should be so confoundedly disagreeable," he said after seven days of hard work to be polite; "we are two gentlemen who are stranded here, and may as well chum up for the sake of company." "I don't wish to chum up, as you call it, with any one," retorted Hench coldly. "Not with Zara?" Spruce could not help giving his friend the dig. "That is my business." "I never suggested otherwise. But I would point out that Madame Alpenny's resolve to consider your marriage proposition favourably is due to me. Had I not guided the conversation as I did, she would never have remembered her meeting with your father. It is the romance of that which has inclined her to permit your wooing." "Madame Alpenny would have remembered without your help." "I think not. You have been here along with her for six months and have had endless conversations. But until I made a third----" "An inconvenient third." "Oh, as you will. But until I made a third, she did not recollect the adventure of her youth which has softened her towards you. This being the case, I don't see why you should hold me at arm's length." "I am not taking the trouble to consider you in any way," said Hench in his most freezing manner. "We were never chums at school, and I see nothing in you to make me more friendly now. It is true that you offered to help me with money, but as I don't require your help in that way, I lie under no obligation to you. Why the dickens can't you go back to the West End?" "I shall go back," lied Spruce, "when I gather sufficient material for my proposed book. Meanwhile, my friend----" "Meanwhile," repeated Hench, cutting him short, "suppose you mind your own business and leave mine alone." "Had I left your business alone, Madame Alpenny would not now be so agreeable to you, old fellow," said Spruce, persistently polite. "However, since you object, I shall meddle no more. All the same, if I can do you a good turn I am perfectly willing to do so." "Don't be worthy and pose as a bed-rock Christian!" "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," sighed the little man, who knew perfectly well what was implied; "but as you are bent upon making yourself disagreeable, you will be pleased to hear that I am returning to the West End to-morrow for a few days." "I hope you'll stay there," growled Hench wrathfully, and quite unable to get rid of this gadfly. "I prefer to be alone." "You will be more alone than you think," retorted Spruce tartly. "Madame Alpenny is going away also for a few days. She told Mrs. Tesk, who told me." "Just like you, to go interfering with other people's business, Spruce. Madame Alpenny can go away without the world coming to an end." He paused, then asked a question which he immediately regretted having put. "Where's she going?" "Ah!" Spruce chuckled cynically, "you are curious in spite of your pretended dislike to meddle with what doesn't concern you. Well, she is going to see if any West End manager will come to see Zara dancing at the Bijou Music-hall, with a view to getting her daughter a better engagement." "I hope she will succeed," said Hench heartily. "Zara is a rare dancer and well deserves better luck." "If she goes, you will be parted." "Oh, hang your interference!" cried Hench, and walked out of the smoking-room. "Better make hay while the sun shines," Spruce called out after him, and, after his usual manner, chuckled when the door banged by way of reply. There appeared to be a perfect exodus from The Home of the Muses, for Bracken also became conspicuous by his absence. He went to see his mother at Folkestone, who was a widow, as news came that her health was not what it might be. But the greatest surprise was when Bottles came to Hench on the morning of the exodus, dressed in his best clothes and smiling all over his freckled face. He was blushing also, which was a rare thing for the imp to do, and made a request which accounted for the same. "Would you mind, sir--I mean, am I asking too much--that is, if you won't think it sauce on my part," he stumbled amongst his words and blushed deeper. "Out with it, Bottles! What is it? Speak straight and to the point." Jedd did so and very bluntly. "I want you to lend me five shillings, sir. Oh, I'll pay it back out of my wages at sixpence a week, see if I don't"--the boy went through a pantomine--"that wet; that dry; cut my throat if I tell a lie." Hench, who had every reason to trust Bottles, and who considered him to be a lad with a future if clever wits went for anything, produced a couple of half-crowns from his slender resources. "There you are! You needn't pay me back." "Oh, but I will, sir, thanking you all the same," said Bottles, pocketing the cash. "Mother's brought me up proper, she has, and always told me never to borrer. But I can't help borrering this time; it's business." "What business?" "Private," said the lad stiffly; "but the five bob shall be paid back, honest, Mr. Hench." "Well, Bottles, I admire your principles and will accept the sixpence a week repayment. But why are you so excited and why this splendour of dress?" "I'm going down the country to see my brother, sir." "Your brother. I never knew you had a brother." "Oh, yes sir, please. We're twins, we are, and I'm the elder by half an hour, as mother always says. Peter's a page in a lady's house in the country, and Mrs. Tesk allows me to go and see him sometimes. I asked her if I could go to-day, and she said that as Mr. Spruce and Mr. Bracken and Madame Alpenny were away for a few days, and there wouldn't be much work, that she would let me go." "Well," said Hench with a good-natured laugh, "I hope you'll enjoy yourself, my lad. So you are Simon and your brother is Peter. Eh?" "Yes, sir. Called after the Chief Apostle, sir. Mother reads her Bible even though she's only looking after the clothes at the Bijour Music-hall. I'm going to stay away for two days, Mr. Hench, and p'raps three. But I won't waste my time; oh no, not much, you bet, sir." "What do you mean?" asked his patron, considerably mystified. "I'll tell you some day, sir, as you've a right to know." "Know what?" "What I've got up my sleeve. It may be rot, and it may be something else. All I can tell you, sir, is, that when the time comes, you'll know. S'elp me Bob, I'll tell you everything," and Bottles panted with excitement. "Bottles, you've muddled your brain with your adventure and detective penny-dreadful yarns. Well, go on your Sexton Blake errand, and mind you have a good time. I shall miss your attentions, though," ended Hench kindly. "I hope you won't miss 'em very much, sir. I've told Amelia to see as you get everything you want. She's only a gal, but she'll do her best for my sake, sir," ended Bottles grandly. "She and me's going to marry when we're rich." "Go away, you precocious imp, and don't talk nonsense." "There's many a true word spoke in nonsense, as mother says, sir. She's great on proverbs, is mother!" and with this parting shot Bottles rapidly disappeared, grinning amiably and very much excited. Hench wondered at the boy's mysterious hints and could not for the life of him see how they could have anything to do with his own affairs. However, thinking that Bottles was merely drawing on his imagination, he dismissed the matter from his mind. And, indeed, for the next few days, and until the return of the absent, the young man found his hands full enough. Zara being alone, with neither her mother nor Bracken at her elbow, Hench thought that he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to carry on an uninterrupted wooing. He escorted Zara to the music-hall and escorted her home again. He took her sundry walks, gave her sundry meals in restaurants, and provided her with cheap amusements in the form of cinematograph entertainments. Zara, who really liked Hench, was very grateful for his attentions, but she resolutely refused to allow him to make love to her. With the dexterity of a woman she managed to keep him at arm's length; but one evening while he conducted her to business the young man managed to get nearer to his divinity. Certainly the crowded streets, flaring with gas-lights, were unfit surroundings for love-making. But Hench had to carry on his romance as best he could, since Zara was so clever in throwing obstacles in his way. On this occasion, however, he broke through them. "You are very cruel to me," he remarked, after many minutes of desultory conversation, and seizing the opportunity when the pair turned down into a quiet side street, "very cruel indeed." The handsome girl was silent for a moment or so. "It's no use my pretending to misunderstand you, Mr. Hench," she said at length. "What's the time?" Rather surprised by the irrelevance of the question, Hench looked at his very cheap watch. "Eight o'clock." "Well, I'm not on until a quarter to nine, and although I do take a long time to dress, I can give you ten minutes." "Oh, thank you, Zara. You are----" "Don't make any mistake, Mr. Hench. I won't have those ten minutes spent in love-making, which would bore me and waste your time." "No time spent upon you is wasted, Zara." "There you are wrong. It is time we had an explanation. So long as mother objected to you as she does to Ned----" "To Ned?" "I mean to Mr. Bracken," said Zara, colouring and wincing. "Well then, so long as she was in that frame of mind, I let things slide. But now mother seems inclined to consider you as a possible son-in--law, and I must appeal to you." "Command me in any way." "Then don't worry me with attentions. Oh, I don't mind your behaving like a gentleman, as you have been doing, to pass the time while mother is away. I am very grateful to you for the amusement you have given me. But"--added the girl, leaning against the railings of a convenient dwelling-house--"I am not in love with you, no more than you are with me." "I do love you," said Hench, frowning; "what's the use of saying otherwise?" "You don't love me, I tell you," insisted Zara petulantly. "Trust a woman to understand the exact state of a man's heart. You like me, you admire me, you think me a good sort, but love"--she shook her head--"you don't understand love as Ned--I mean, Mr. Bracken--does." "Oh, call him Ned by all means," said Hench quietly. "I see you are friendly enough with him to do so." "I am engaged to him." "With your mother's consent?" "No. You know very well that mother wants me to marry a rich man, and Ned is poor, although he does hope to get a few hundred pounds now that his mother is dying. I love him and I intend somehow to marry him." "That is unpleasant hearing for me, Zara." "Indeed, it isn't, Mr. Hench. I know quite well what has led you to propose marriage to me----" "I never have proposed as yet," interpolated Hench quickly. "No. But you intended to. If I had not prevented you from going too far these last few days you would have proposed. Come now, isn't that the truth?" "Yes! And to make you understand me fully I ask you now to be my wife." "Then I refuse. I love Ned, and Ned only, even though he's but a poor violinist in the orchestra and earns little money. He loves me also, and in a way which you cannot comprehend." "Why not?" "Because your heart has never been touched either by me or by any other woman. It's no use your saying that it has been. I know you better than you do yourself, Mr. Hench." The young man felt slightly mortified. "You appear to have a bad opinion of me, Mademoiselle." "Indeed, I have a most excellent opinion of you. Make no mistake about that, Mr. Hench. You are an honourable gentleman; you are extremely kind-hearted and you will be an admirable husband--to the woman you love." "You are the woman, believe me!" cried Hench impetuously. Zara shook her proud head, smiling, and looked less fierce than usual. "Oh, what children men are. They want a toy and cry when they don't get it, yet break it when it is in their possession. I am the toy, Mr. Hench, and you are the child who wants it." "And if I got the toy I would break it. Eh?" "Yes," said the dancer frankly, and began to walk on slowly, as the ten minutes were nearly up, "and I'll tell you why. You are a lonely man, who has no home, no relations, no centre in life, if I may put it so. Having an intensely domestic nature--that nature which makes an admirable husband, a devoted father, and which is domestic in its essence--you want a wife to create a centre round which you can revolve. I happen to be passably good-looking, to have some good qualities, and to be an agreeable companion. Therefore, liking me, you mistake that liking for love, and offer me a respectable but dull future. Any other woman, decently kind and presentable, would suit you just as well as I would, and with her you would believe yourself to be in love as you think you are with me. But a happy marriage is not built up upon such a foundation, Mr. Hench, believe me. A woman wants love, she wants a heart. You can give me neither." "And Mr. Bracken can?" "Yes! Otherwise I wouldn't marry him. If mother is successful and can get me a West End engagement, I daresay I'll have plenty of men fluttering about me, and can pick and choose amongst lovers of higher rank and with more money than poor Ned has. But I won't find one who loves me as he does." "I don't quite understand the kind of love you mean," murmured Hench, perplexed. "Of course you don't, for the very simple reason that you require an explanation. True love comes from within and not from without. When you really feel the passion you require no explanation. Come and tell me when you really fall in love, Mr. Hench, if I am not right." "Where did you learn how to talk in this way?" asked Hench, who was beginning to see that she was right. "Experience has taught me, and experience is a great teacher. I am older than you think, Mr. Hench." "You are only three and twenty. Your mother told me so." "I am older in experience, for you know that a woman is always twice as old as a man in the ways of the world. However, here is the Bijou, and I must go in to get ready for my work. You understand what I mean, don't you?" "Yes. I daresay my love is of a very feeble quality." "Don't be bitter and don't pity yourself, Mr. Hench. Your liking for me is perfectly honourable, and I am sure you would make a kind husband. But love--you know nothing of love. I said that before, I fancy, and I say it again." She offered her gloved hand. "Come! Let us be friends, nothing nearer, nothing dearer. Otherwise you will make me unhappy." Round the corner of the music-hall, where no one was about, Hench bent over Zara's hand and kissed it. "Let it be as you say," he said firmly; "all the same, I envy Bracken his future wife." "You will meet a woman who will suit you better than I will," Zara assured him, and her great black eyes shone. "When you do, come and tell me how wholly correct I have been. And another thing, Mr. Hench, don't let mother bully me about you." "There's no chance. I am too poor to be your husband so far as Madame Alpenny is concerned, even though she likes me better than she did." Zara looked at him curiously. "Are you sure that you are poor?" she asked in an enigmatic tone, and then ran into the music-hall, through the dark stage door, before he could reply. Hench strolled home leisurely, wondering what she meant by her last speech. Of course he was poor. She knew it; so did Madame Alpenny; so did every one in the boarding-house. Yet she implied a doubt. Resolving to ask for an explanation when occasion served, the young man dismissed this particular matter from his mind, and thought of his misfortune in losing Zara. He had always admired her, and now that she had spoken to him so eloquently he admired her more than ever. Hitherto more or less silent, she had never displayed the common-sense qualities of her mind before. Therefore Hench saw that she was not only a handsome woman and an accomplished girl, but had considerable mental powers. Otherwise she could scarcely have placed the truth so plainly before him as she had done. And with a sigh the pseudo-lover confessed that it was the truth. What he felt was not love, for, although he regretted his dismissal from the wooing of a noble woman, he by no means felt broken-hearted, as Bracken would have done. Hench recognized that his desire for Zara was only a strong wish for a home and a wife and a family, and--as she put it--for a centre round which his life could revolve. Having arrived at this conclusion he decided to leave the girl alone, and wait until fortune brought him to the feet of his true mate. "And I must have some sort of mate in the world, anyhow," added Hench to himself, by way of comfort. Henceforth the relations of the two were much more unembarrassed, for it was a brother and sister connection--frank and markedly comfortable. During the remainder of Madame Alpenny's absence, Hench took Zara about as usual, and she confided in him her love for Bracken, her plans for the accomplishment of that love, and her many difficulties with her mother. Madame Alpenny, it seemed, was by no means an angel, as she possessed a furious temper, and wasted all her money in gambling. She was an ill woman to cross, since her nature was vindictive and eminently determined to have its own way. Zara gave Hench to understand that if she could marry Bracken and pension her mother she would be truly happy. At present she was very miserable, and only the hope of escaping from her mother's clutches in the manner described enabled her to endure trouble. Hench, in his new character of her brother, consoled her, and promised to do what he could to forward her aims. But he did not see at the present moment how he could do anything. Madame Alpenny returned on the third day, but the other absentees still remained away. The old woman looked very satisfied with herself, and hinted that she had done good business which would improve Zara's position. She was markedly civil to Hench, and encouraged him greatly to pay attentions to her daughter. As the two now understood one another, to do this was easy--both for Hench to pay them and for Zara to receive them--but Madame Alpenny remained in the dark as to the true meaning of their comedy. Then, on the second day after her return, a surprising thing happened, with which she had to do. What it was Hench learned while sitting at a lonely breakfast. Madame Alpenny, who always took that meal in her own room, came down unexpectedly arrayed in a greasy dressing-gown and flourishing a newspaper in her hand. "Rhaiadr! Rhaiadr!" she called out excitedly. "What does it mean?" Hench looked at her in surprise. "Tumbling water, you told me," he said, after an astonished pause. "Don't you remember----?" "No! No! I don't mean that." She clapped _The Express_ on the table before him, and pointed with one chubby finger at an advertisement. "I mean, what do you make of that? Rhaiadr! No one can have anything to do with that word but your father--and you." Hench, more puzzled than ever by her excitement, read the advertisement upon which her finger rested. "If Rhaiadr," he read aloud, "will come to the Gipsy Stile at Cookley, Essex, at eight o'clock on the 1st of July, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage." "There!" said Madame Alpenny triumphantly, and looking more shapeless than ever in her dressing-gown; "what do you think of that?" "It has nothing to do with me," said Hench, with a shrug. "Nothing to do with you!" she screamed. "Why, the name Rhaiadr shows that it has everything to do with you. Go there and see what it means. Ah, I always said that you were a mystery; now I am sure of it." And she rubbed her hands. CHAPTER V THE NEXT STEP Hench could not help admitting that the mention of the peculiar Welsh word "Rhaiadr" in the newspaper had something to do with him. Undoubtedly he was the person whom the unknown advertiser wished to meet; but the whole matter was so strange and unexpected that he determined to think it over carefully before taking any steps. For this reason he said little to the excited Hungarian lady, who was rather annoyed by his reticence. But he did not take any notice of her hints, and retired as speedily as possible to his own room. There he lighted his pipe, sat by the window and read the advertisement twice and thrice again, after which he laid down the newspaper so that he might think more freely. And his thoughts had to do with his past life when travelling with his father. The record of earlier days was bare enough, as Hench decided when he recalled the same. His father had paid strangers to look after him immediately after the death of Mrs. Hench, and when Owain was only five years of age. For years the lad saw very little of his parent, who was always moving from one place to another after the fashion of the Wandering Jew. Then came his education at a private school, and afterwards the wider training at Winchester. Later, Owain had expected to go to Oxford, but his father, finding the need of some one to lean upon in his old age, had summoned the boy to Berlin unexpectedly. Owain's mysterious parent proved to be an aristocratic-looking gentleman, perfectly dressed, perfectly acquainted with the motley Continental world, and perfectly heartless. Hench senior frankly acknowledged that he cared for no one but himself, and turned his son into a kind of superior servant. The two travelled all over Europe in moderately good style, as Mr. Hench always seemed to have enough to keep him in comfort if not in luxury. But this last he also obtained by gambling, as he frequently won large sums of money, which were always squandered in extravagant whims and fancies. If Owain had not possessed a sterling thoughtful nature he would have been ruined by this hand-to-mouth existence, which was distinguished by continual ups and downs. But the young man had his own views of leading a decent life, and when unhampered by his spendthrift father determined to carry them out. The opportunity did not come to him until he was twenty years of age, when Mr. Hench died in Paris and was buried without parade in Pere La Chaise. Cold-hearted and selfish to the end, he passed away without suggesting how his son, to whom he had given no profession, was to exist. He simply told him to go to Gilberry & Gilberry, solicitors, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, on his twenty-fifth birthday, when certain papers would be handed to him. Thus it can be seen that the young man had little reason to regret the demise of so egotistic a parent, who had been a curse rather than a blessing. What the papers in charge of Gilberry & Gilberry might contain, Owain could not guess, nor had his dying father enlightened him, but he fancied that they might have something to do with proving the identity of the dead man. Owain had always suspected, from the strict silence preserved by his father about his past, that Hench was an assumed name, and hoped that the mysterious documents might afford some clue to the family history. The sole clue which the young man had to guide him to knowledge of any sort or description was the mention of his father of Rhaiadr as the place where he had passed his youthful days. Yet the word had proved to be of some value, for its mention had evoked a memory of Madame Alpenny's early romance, although that story had proved to be more interesting than useful. Now it appeared that the talismanic word was being used to lure him to meet a stranger, who--as the advertisement put it--would tell him of something greatly to his advantage. Owain, having reached this point of his meditations, rose to pace the room and consider the position. He was of two minds about answering the summons, since an open-air meeting seemed scarcely business-like or even reasonable. Also it was now the last week in June, and the appointment was arranged for the first day of July. But on the tenth day of that month came Owain's birthday, when he would be placed in possession of the papers for which he had waited so long. The young man considered, prudently enough, that it would be just as well to curb his curiosity for nine days, as the documents might throw some light on the admittedly odd advertisement. If he obeyed the summons to the Gipsy Stile, Cookley, Essex, on the first of July, he would be at the disadvantage of being in the dark, since he would know nothing, while the person who met him would know much. The rough-and-tumble life which he had led since the death of his father inclined Owain to prudence, as he knew from dire experience what tricky people there were in the world. Therefore he determined to take no notice of the advertisement--at all events for the present, since he had a week to think over the matter--and calmly wait until he became possessed of the papers on his twenty-fifth birthday. Finally, he resolved to say nothing to Spruce, who, luckily, had not yet returned, and to ask Madame Alpenny to keep the Nut in ignorance of the advertisement. He certainly would have to be more or less frank with the Hungarian lady, since she had drawn his attention to the notice in _The Express_. Madame Alpenny was full of curiosity when she met Hench at afternoon tea, and, as they had the room to themselves, she immediately proceeded to ask questions. Hench baffled her as well as he could, but found it difficult to do so. She appeared to be certain that he was more of a mystery than ever, and insisted upon scenting a fortune in the same. Naturally, as Zara's mother, she was anxious to know if her belief was correct, as then Hench could make the girl his wife and supply a meritorious mother-in-law with ample funds. As usual, she wore her eternal orange-spotted dress, her shabby bead mantle and her flamboyant picture hat, looking quite a merry old blackguard of an adventuress. Hench had long since decided that she was such a one. "Of course you'll keep this appointment," said Madame Alpenny eagerly, when she handed Hench his tea. "I'm not sure. You see, I may not be the person wanted." "Pfui!" said the woman contemptuously, and her large, dark eyes sparkled. "Why, the word Rhaiadr proves conclusively that you are the person. It is strange, Mr. Hench," she continued with great vivacity, "that I should have heard the word from you only a few days before this advertisement appeared." "It's very strange," assented the young man, with his eyes searching her face. "You know nothing about the advertisement, I suppose?" "Eh, but why should I?" she asked in amazement. "Only by chance did I see the name Rhaiadr, and immediately brought the paper to you, remembering our conversation of some days back. I presume, sir," she went on, with a shrug, "that you do not think I put in the advertisement?" "Oh, no; by no means," said Owain hastily; "but you might have mentioned the Welsh name to some one else." "No," said Madame Alpenny decidedly. "That is, I mentioned it only to Zara, and she took little notice of what I mentioned. Of course, there was Mr. Spruce, who was in this room when we talked about my meeting with your father. But he is not likely to have asked you to meet him in Essex, when he can see you here any day; also he probably has not seen the advertisement." "Oh, I don't suspect Spruce, Madame; and that reminds me, it will be as well to say nothing to Spruce about the matter." "Am I a chatter-box, or a fool?" asked Madame fiercely, and with a lowering look on her face. "Certainly I will say nothing to Mr. Spruce. But you must tell me all that takes place when you meet whosoever you are to meet." "I am going to meet no one," retorted Hench resolutely; "there is no need for me to do so." "But, my friend, you will hear of something greatly to your advantage, as it said in the newspaper," expostulated the woman, frowning. "I mean to wait until I get the papers from my lawyers on the tenth of July, Madame. They may tell me of the something greatly to my advantage without my going on a wild-goose chase into Essex." "But I don't understand your objection." "It is this. If I go now, I am quite in ignorance of my family history with which this appointment has to do, as I shrewdly suspect. If I go after the tenth of July I will be in a better position to deal with the matter, as I think the papers at my lawyers' will tell me much about my father." Madame Alpenny nodded. "There is something in that. All the same, this advertisement concerns you and not your father, who is dead and buried." "It and the papers also concern my father's past life, and therefore concern my present," argued Hench seriously. "And I have waited so long for light to be thrown on the past that I can easily wait a few days longer." "You have made no attempt to get at the past up till now?" "Oh, yes. After my father's death I went to my lawyers"--Hench did not intend to tell Madame Alpenny the name of the firm--"and asked about the papers. They admitted that they had them, and promised to deliver them on my twenty-fifth birthday. Otherwise they would say nothing." "And you--what did you do?" "What could I do save go away and do my best to keep myself alive for five years. I went as a sailor on a tramp vessel and met with many adventures. I found that I had a talent for writing, and in San Francisco I managed to get a short story of mine accepted, printed and paid for. Then I went to Peru, and afterwards to the South Seas, coming back to England through Australia, China, India and Persia. Rather a roundabout way of progression, I admit. But I was like a leaf blown by the winds of fortune--and bitter winds they were. In one way and another, chiefly by writing short adventure tales, I managed to keep myself afloat. This year I came here, six months ago, to wait for the tenth of July. Here I met you----" "And Zara," said Madame quickly. Hench looked at her with a peculiar expression, and raked his brown beard with outspread fingers. It was on the tip of his tongue to relate how he had been refused by the girl, but on second thoughts he refrained. According to Zara her mother had a quick temper, and if all was told the girl might suffer from that temper. Also Madame Alpenny, being given a clue, might learn that Zara and Bracken were engaged, which knowledge would assuredly lead to trouble. On the whole, therefore, Hench decided to be silent, and replied evasively. "Ah, yes, I met your charming daughter, of course." "And admired her?" persisted Madame, not finding his speech sufficiently ardent in tone. "And admired her to the extent of asking your permission to propose to her. But, of course, when you refused me that, because I am poor, I have changed my mind. As a gentleman I can do no less." "As a lover you can do much more," retorted the old woman, with a look of annoyance. "And remember that I was favourable to your proposal when I learned that you were the son of the man who wished to marry me so long ago." "Yet I am still poor," said Hench ironically. "That has yet to be proved," rejoined Madame bluntly. "Oh, don't look so astonished, my friend. I am old and I am shrewd, and I have learned by experience that two and two make four. Those papers you mention, together with this advertisement which plainly refers to you, appear to me proof that you will inherit money." "I don't see that, Madame, unless, of course, my father gave you some hint that there was money in the family." "Mr. Hench gave me no hint," said the lady sharply and hastily. "He explained that he had a small income, and frequently won large sums at cards. On the whole, he gave me to understand that if I married him there would be no lack of money. But he never said a word about a fortune coming to him." "Then why should you think that a fortune is likely to come to me?" asked Hench very naturally. "I have intuition, my friend, and intuition tells me that those papers and that advertisement mean money." Madame Alpenny paused, and then continued after some thought: "You say that you had great difficulty in getting money after your father's death?" "That is so. I had to earn every penny." "Strange, when he had a sufficient income to keep him comfortable." "That was an annuity. He told me so shortly before he died." "And told you that the papers with your lawyers would place you in possession of money?" "No." Hench shook his head. "He never even hinted at such a thing." Madame Alpenny nursed her pointed chin and frowned at the carpet. "I am sure there is money," she mused, loud enough for the young man to overhear. "Your father gave you no profession or trade with which to earn money, and it is not likely that he would have behaved so unless he knew that the future held a fortune in store for you." Hench's lip curled. "I am sorry to destroy any illusion about my father," he said with a shrug; "but I don't think he cared two straws about my future." "Then why should he tell you about the papers?" asked Madame, as sharp as a needle. "Believe me, those papers refer to a fortune." "Well"--Hench rose and stretched himself--"I shall know all about that when I see the lawyers on the tenth of July." "Or when you meet this unknown person in Essex on the first of July." "I am not going to meet the person," said Hench coldly; "and I have given my reasons for not meeting him." "Him!" Madame Alpenny laughed. "It may be a woman, for all you know." Hench wheeled round to face her searchingly. "Why do you think it is a woman?" "Oh," she answered smoothly, "I only surmise. I don't say that the person is a woman, for I know no more about the matter than you do. All I do say is, that if you wish to marry my daughter you will have to learn about this fortune as quickly as possible. I hope that I have managed to get an engagement for Zara in the West End, and there she may meet with some one wealthy who will make her his wife." "You don't appear to take Mademoiselle Zara's feelings into consideration." "Feelings!" echoed Madame Alpenny vehemently. "What are feelings of any sort compared with poverty? I have little money myself, and what I have is all in these things." She touched her rings, bracelets and brooches. "Zara does not earn what her talents demand. We want money, and the sole way in which we can get it is for her to marry money. Failing you there are others." "Quite so," said Hench, thinking of Bracken, and smiling slightly. "But a man who has no wealth may wish to marry her." "Referring to yourself, I suppose," said Madame Alpenny dryly, and quite mistaking his meaning. "Well, you won't marry her unless you prove through those papers and that advertisement to be possessed of a fortune. Until then, I hope you will be circumspect with regard to Zara. Don't be too attentive to her, and turn the poor child's head." "There is no fear of my doing that," said Hench equally dryly, "but to make things safe I propose to remove myself from temptation. To-morrow I shall leave this place." "For how long?" "For ever." "Oh,"--Madame Alpenny looked as black as thunder, as this proposal by no means suited her scheme of getting a rich son-in-law,--"don't do that." "Why not? After all, there is nothing to keep me here." "Zara!" "But you will not let me pay attention to Zara with a view to matrimony." Madame Alpenny looked uneasy and puzzled. "You place me on the horns of a dilemma, Mr. Hench. I can't let you become engaged to my daughter until I am sure you have money. But of course"--she brightened up--"if what I suspect is true, and money comes, you can return and marry her." This frank suggestion placed Hench on the horns of a dilemma, but he managed to evade binding himself in a most dexterous way. "If Mademoiselle Zara is really able to return my love, and thinks that she will be happy as my wife, I shall certainly return and renew my suit. But remember, Madame, she must become my wife of her own free will, and not because you insist." "Oh, that's all right," said the old lady easily. "Zara is a good girl and will obey her mother to whom she owes so much." "That is the very thing I don't wish her to do," insisted Hench, sharply; "it is no question of filial obedience. If she accepts me of her own free will, and without coercion from you, I marry her; otherwise I will not." "I am not in the habit of coercing my daughter," said Madame Alpenny loftily, and, as usual, evading the main point; "and I shall expect you to return with all information about your family. Then we can talk. I look upon you as a man of honour, Mr. Hench, so much so that I do not even ask you to give me any address. If you get money you will marry Zara." "And if I do not?" Madame Alpenny shrugged her fat shoulders. "In that case she will marry another person who has money." "You are very business-like," said Hench, highly disapproving of this mercantile way of looking at things. "I always am," she assured him coolly; "it saves trouble!" Owain said no more at the moment, nor did he have any conversation on the subject again with the Hungarian lady prior to his departure. Madame Alpenny evidently had full confidence in his love for her daughter, and believed that Zara's beauty would lure him back again with gold in his pockets. Had she had any idea of the interview between the two young people, and the new relationship of brother and sister which that interview had suggested, she might have been less easy in her scheming mind. But Hench held his tongue and so did Zara, therefore Madame Alpenny was kept in a kind of fool's paradise. The young man reported the conversation hurriedly to the girl, and being clever, she knew exactly how to act so as to keep her mother in ignorance, until such time as she could declare her own mind and choose her own mate. Meanwhile; Hench got to work expeditiously and packed his scanty luggage, after paying Mrs. Tesk what he owed her. The ex-school-mistress was very sorry to lose him, not only from a financial point of view but because she really had a regard for him. Still, as she intimated, they were both leaves floating on the river of life, and the currents of circumstances were parting them. She hoped that he would enjoy himself and prosper wherever he was going, but if Fortune proved unkind, he was to remember that a refined abode always waited for him as a haven in adversity. All this and much more said Mrs. Tesk, who had a warm heart and hospitable nature. Hench was quite sorry to leave her, as he liked the quaint old lady and her odd ways. And just when Owain finished his business in her sanctum he emerged to run against Spruce, who looked more like a fashion-plate and less like a man than ever. "Just got back," said the Nut airily; "had a topping time. Wish you had been with me, instead of wasting your sweetness on the desert air hereabouts." "I was not going to waste it any longer," said Hench dryly. "I am leaving this house this afternoon." "Oh, I say,"--Spruce looked disappointed and uneasy,--"for how long?" "For ever! There is nothing to keep me here that I know of, and as I told you long ago, I am more or less of a bird of passage." "What about Mademoiselle Zara?" "Oh, that's all right; and may I remind you it's none of your business?" "Well, don't get in a wax," protested Spruce amiably. "I never saw such a chap for jumping on a fellow." "If you think so, you must be glad that I am going away." "No, I'm not," confessed the Nut frankly. "You're a gentleman and so am I, and in this hole you're the only chap I can chum up with." "We have not chummed up, as you put it," said Hench frigidly. "Well, that isn't my fault. I am always willing to be friendly, and if you won't be it's your loss, not mine. Where are you going?" "That, again, is my business. I may be going abroad, or I may stay in London, or I may be going to the moon." "You're crazy enough for that last, anyhow, if lunatics live there as some one said," fumed Spruce, who was growing angry. "And you're silly to make an enemy of me, you know." "I don't want you as a friend, and I don't care if you are my enemy five times over," said Hench very straightly. "What the deuce do you mean by that threat? What harm can you do me?" "I never said that I could or would do you any harm," protested Spruce, feeling uncomfortable; "but some day I may be able to do you a good turn." Hench looked at the spic and span little man, and felt rather sorry for him, as he seemed to mean well, in spite of his irritating curiosity. "Let us part friends," he said, holding out his hand. "After all, you are an old schoolfellow and have got your good points. But oil and water don't mix. See?" Spruce gave the extended hand a feeble shake and dropped it. "I can't help seeing, when you put things so straightly. It's a difference of temperament, I suppose--you're clay and I'm china. But I tell you what," cried Spruce, with his pale blue eyes flashing maliciously, "you'll be glad enough some day for me to come and help you!" "I always make a point of seeking no one's assistance," said Hench coldly, and walked up to his room, wondering what Spruce meant, since there was a significance in his tone which intimated that he quite expected to meet his enemy again. Spruce looked after the tall, straight form of the young man, and bit his nether lip with anything but an amiable look. He greatly regretted that Hench should go away thus suddenly, as the unexpected departure upset his plans for making money out of him. He still clung to the idea that the mysterious papers at the lawyers' had something to do with a fortune, and determined not to lose sight of Hench, come what may. Therefore he also retired to his own room to plot and plan and devise schemes whereby he could entangle his prey in invisible nets. But this he could not do without the aid of Madame Alpenny, since she was the mother of Zara, whom Hench loved. So to Madame Alpenny the Nut went and had quite a long conversation with her, which conversation resulted in his quitting the house at the hour of Hench's departure. Owain was relieved when the time came for him to go to find that Spruce was not at his elbow with his disagreeable civilities. He never could bring himself to like Spruce. It was Bottles who helped the taxi-cab driver to carry down the trunk and portmanteau which formed his hero's luggage. The boy had returned on the morning of the day when Hench departed and was desperately sorry to hear of the exit. Hench gave him a sovereign and comforted him with a promise that on some future occasion they would meet again. Then Bottles proffered a request that Hench would give him some address to write to, and strange to say, the young man supplied him with the information he asked for. He felt that he could wholly trust Bottles. "But you won't have anything to write to me about," he said, when the written address was handed over. Bottles looked up with a shrewd smile on his freckled face. "The mouse helped the lion, sir, as mother told me, and I may help you." "What do you mean by that? How can you help me?" "Least said is soonest mended, as mother says," retorted Bottles wisely. "And it ain't for nothing as I've read detective stories. I won't give any one the address, sir. I'm yours till death!" and he folded his arms with a noble air. Hench drove away rather bewildered. "The boy is mad," he said. But the boy was not. CHAPTER VI SEEKING TROUBLE It was for two reasons that Hench left The Home of the Muses and vanished--so far as the paying guests were concerned--into the unknown. In the first place, he wished to render Zara's position more easy; in the second he desired to have nothing more to do with Madame Alpenny; and also there was a third and less important reason, which had to do with Cuthbert Spruce. While Owain drove westward in the taxi, he amused himself by surveying his position. With regard to the girl, Hench was beginning to grasp the fact that he really did not love her, or he would have been more moved by her frank confession of love for Bracken. What she had said was quite true, as he now acknowledged. He admired her, and being lonely, wished for a companion, so as to make a centre in life round which he could revolve. It was an odd comparison but a very true one. Any other woman, handsome, kind-hearted and affectionate, would have done as well as Zara to bring about the desired end, and Owain confessed to himself that to propose such a business-like scheme to a girl was rather a cold-blooded way of looking at love. She was--he confessed this also--quite right to refuse him, and to accept the offer of a man who adored her. This being the case, Hench decided that it only remained for him to go away, since his presence would more or less embarrass her, in spite of the brother-and-sister compact. Finally, being very human, Owain felt that it was impossible to stay, and witnessing Bracken triumphing where he had failed. On the whole, therefore, he was well pleased to escape from Bethnal Green, and his feelings suffered very little from the exile. The second reason, which had Madame Alpenny for its excuse, was also connected more or less indirectly with Zara's refusal. Since the idea of money coming to him had occurred to the Hungarian lady, she had been more amiably disposed towards Hench with regard to his half-hearted wooing of her daughter. Yet, as she was still uncertain that Owain would be rich, she had not--according to the slang phrase--forced the pace. But if fancy became fact and the mysterious papers really did place him in possession of a fortune, Hench felt tolerably convinced that Madame Alpenny would worry him and worry Zara until she brought about the marriage. Under the circumstances this was not to be thought of, as apart from the fact of his readjusted relations with the girl, Madame Alpenny was by no means desirable as a mother-in-law. She was poor, inquisitive, scheming and decidedly dangerous; always on the alert to make what she could out of others, and--as Hench believed--unscrupulous in her methods of gaining what she desired. Already he had told her more about his private affairs than was altogether wise, more or less against his will, as it would seem, since she had wormed her way into his confidence with remarkable dexterity. It struck him forcibly that he was wise to avoid her by leaving the boarding-house, and he congratulated himself on his promptitude in dealing with the situation. And as he had done so judiciously, it was unlikely that Madame Alpenny would ever trouble him again. It was when the taxi was sweeping down a quiet street near the British Museum that Owain came to the third and minor reason, which concerned Spruce. The Nut, also, was much too curious about affairs which nothing to do with him in any way, and seemed to take a pleasure in meddling. He was just the kind of person to read other people's letters, give unasked advice and take a thousand liberties out of pretended good-nature. All the same, Hench firmly believed that all this interference was intended, in the end, to benefit Spruce himself. But Owain could not see how his old school-friend could in any way make capital out of him. Nevertheless, instinct warned him to avoid the man as something dangerous. By leaving Mrs. Tesk's establishment he had avoided him, and he was as unlikely to meet him again as he was to meet with Madame Alpenny. Taking everything into consideration, Hench alighted at his new abode with the conviction that he had escaped from some danger--he could not put a name to it--just in time. Owing to some unexpected good fortune in connection with gold-mining shares, Hench possessed quite one hundred pounds, which was sufficient to keep him in comfort and even in luxury until he could call on Gilberry & Gilberry. That visit he expected would result in throwing light on his somewhat dark path, and perhaps would bring him wealth. Yet, being cautious, he husbanded his resources lest his expectations should be disappointed. Therefore the hotel he came to was a quiet and cheap hostel in Burney Street, Bloomsbury, chiefly patronized by country people. It was a much better class establishment than that of Mrs. Tesk, and Hench found it very comfortable. He had been there on a former occasion when in England, and found very little change. The manageress was the same, the staff had not been altered, and on the whole Owain felt that the place was more home-like than any he had been in. Also, having risen out of the submerged tenth, the young man brushed up his apparel, had his hair cut and his beard trimmed, and got out his scarcely-worn suit of dress clothes. For the next week he amused himself in a quiet way, generally sauntering in the Park, exploring the Museum, enjoying the theatres and music-halls, and taking what quiet inexpensive pleasures came in his way. All he wished to do was to pass the time pleasantly until his twenty-fifth birthday, when he intended to call on Gilberry & Gilberry. Then he would learn his fate, and his future career would be ordained by the contents of the papers. But all the time Hench was haunted by an uneasy feeling regarding the advertisement brought to his notice by Madame Alpenny. Had he stayed at the boarding-house, he assuredly would not have obeyed the request for a meeting, as the woman would have become aware that he had done so. This he did not wish her to do, since he regarded her as dangerous, and did not know what the result of his errand to Cookley would be. But now that Madame Alpenny belonged to the past, Owain was inclined out of sheer curiosity to keep the appointment for the 1st of July, and learn why the word "Rhaiadr" had been used. Of course, as he had already recognized, the papers at Gilberry & Gilberry's might place him in possession of details which would enable him to deal more openly with the person who wished to meet him at the Gipsy Stile. But it wanted ten days to his birthday, and by brooding over the advertisement Hench became so curious that he finally decided to take the journey into Essex. There was a spice of adventure about the matter, which appealed to his pioneering spirit, and, moreover, as he had nothing to do, he thought that he might as well employ his mind and time in satisfying his curiosity. According to Dr. Watts, "Satan finds some mischief still, for idle hands to do," and never was the line so exemplified as by Hench's action. Although he did not know it, he was going out to seek trouble, when he left the hotel for Liverpool Street Station. Besides being haunted by the advertisement, Hench during his week in Bloomsbury had been also haunted by a feeling that Madame Alpenny was somewhere in his vicinity. Twice or thrice he had fancied she was at his elbow, and had as many times made sure that he had caught a glimpse in the distance of her orange-spotted frock, her bead mantle and picture hat. As he walked to the railway station this feeling was insistently strong, and Hench found himself searching the crowds here, there and everywhere for the sinister face and red hair of the old woman. But he saw no one who resembled her, until he was descending the stairs after taking his ticket to Cookley. Then he was positive that in the throng moving below he recognized her shabby garb. Of course, he did not find her when he mingled with the mob, and laughed at the trick which his eyesight had played him. Why he should be so haunted by the woman--in his thoughts that is, as he did not believe that there was any ground for his suspicions--he could not say. But it was not until he was seated in a third-class smoking compartment that he shook off the feeling of her near presence. It was all a case of nerves, he assured himself, and by the time he was well on his journey he thoroughly convinced himself of this fact. At all events, as the train gradually left London behind, Owain quite got rid of his nightmare. Cookley is slightly over thirty miles from the metropolis, so Hench, having left the latter at five o'clock, arrived at his destination somewhere about half-past six o'clock. The appointment at the Gipsy Stile was precisely at eight, So he had an hour and a half to wait. This time he employed in learning the whereabouts of the rendezvous, as he had not the least idea of the direction in which it lay. As there was no hurry, he took things easy and sauntered leisurely out of the local station and down the long road which led to the village. After a lengthy period spent in a smoky city, the pure air and rural sights of the country were exceedingly pleasant. The village was not large, but decidedly picturesque, being one of those somnolent old-world hamlets beloved of artists and wondered at by tourists. Formerly no strangers came near it, but since the advent of the ubiquitous motor-car it had become quite a centre of interest. This was mainly owing to its squared-towered Norman church, a venerable and stately structure, which was much too large for so small a place. Also there was a Saxon cross on the village green and sundry Roman remains in an adjacent field. Archæologists and antiquarians, together with tourists, chiefly American, frequently came to inspect these objects of interest, and artists often took up their quarters in the Bull Inn to paint the church, the ancient cottages and the surrounding country. It was quite the nook which a student would have loved, but much too quiet for a restless young man such as Owain Hench assuredly was. The quicksilver in his veins never allowed him to remain long in one place, yet even he confessed to feeling the charm of Cookley. No one took much notice of him, for which slight he was thankful. In his shabby suit of blue serge, his woollen shirt and ragged Panama hat, he looked like an ordinary tramp, and those gentry of the road were much too common in Cookley to be even glanced at. Also the night was closing in, and in the soft warm twilight the young man passed almost unheeded, a fact upon which he afterwards had reason to congratulate himself. After wandering through several crooked streets, he emerged into the gracious spaces of the village green and made for the Bull Inn--easily recognized by its gigantic sign--where he treated himself to a tankard of beer in the tap-room. Owain really did not require the drink, but ordered it so as to give some excuse for his questions. The ancients of the village were already gathered for their evening symposium, and the room was filled with the blue haze of tobacco-smoke. It was none too well lighted by a solitary oil lamp, and Hench sat down in a secluded corner to enjoy his briar and sip his ale. Also, when occasion served, he asked the buxom wench who attended to thirsty customers where the Gipsy Stile was to be found. She looked at him in surprise. "Why, every one hereabouts knows where that be." "I am a stranger here." "One of them tramps, ain't you?" said the girl, tossing her head. "Well, you can't miss the Gipsy Stile. There's a path leading out of the churchyard, across the meadows, and that takes you into the heart of the wood, where you'll find it right in your way." "Oh, it's in a wood, is it?" questioned Owain, secretly wondering again, as he had wondered before, why such a rendezvous had been chosen. "Why, yes. Parley Wood, it is called, and lies long-side Squire Evans' old house. There's only a red brick wall divides the wood from the park." "Thank you," said Hench politely, and attended to his beer and pipe, while the villagers talked politics and crops and local gossip, and he amused himself by listening to their crude views. In the old days and before Cookley had been brought into near contact with the outer world, the stranger would have been more closely observed and the conversation would have been listened to. But so many tourists now came to the village that the inhabitants paid little attention to them. In his dark corner Owain sat for close upon an hour, wondering at the narrow limits of the Cookley intellect. Still, he was interested in the old-fashioned views of the labourers, and time passed quicker than he noticed. A glance at his watch showed him to his surprise that it was a few minutes to eight, so he rose hastily to seek his destination. As he had already paid for his beer, there was nothing to detain him, and he was speedily passing through the green on his way to the square tower of the church, which stood up blackly in the luminous twilight. So far as Owain could guess there was no danger of his losing his way. A narrow lane, sloping slightly upward to the lychgate, conducted him to the churchyard, and he soon found himself surrounded by tombstones old and new, dotted irregularly amongst the long grass of the enclosure. Keeping to the gravelled path, he made a circuit of the vast church, and finally came to a stile set in the stone wall girdling the place. On climbing over this, he found his feet treading a well-defined path, which meandered across a wide meadow to enter into Parley Wood, which was visible some distance away. Owain, with the aid of a match, found that it was eight o'clock, and the chimes of the church again assured him of the fact. Fearing lest he should be late, he hurried quickly, and his long legs soon took him under the shade of ancient trees. Here it was somewhat dark, but Hench had eyes like a cat, and could very easily follow the path, which wound deviously through the woodland. Around him, in the fragrant dark, life was stirring, and he heard the piercing song of the nightingale, the occasional hoot of an owl, and became aware that sundry creatures were moving more or less noiselessly amongst the undergrowth. At times he moved across a dell where the light was stronger, and then again he would plunge into the gloom of the trees. The young man enjoyed the adventure apart from the reason which had led him to undertake it, as he had a great love of Nature, and enjoyed her beauty. At length he emerged into a wide clearing across which ran a ragged fence of time-stained wood overgrown with woodbine and more or less buried in nettles, darnels, shrubs and young trees. In the centre of this there was an old-fashioned stile, which Owain took to be the place of meeting. Beyond the open ground stretched for some distance, and faintly in the warm twilight he could see a tall wall and beyond it the thick foliage of oaks, beeches and elms. This was undoubtedly the place, as he remembered how the girl at the Bull Inn had assured him that the wood lay long-side the park of the squire, and no great distance from a red brick wall. Therefore Owain walked briskly up to the stile, taking off his straw hat for the sake of coolness, and looked all round the place to see if the person who had advertised was waiting. He saw no one. A glance at his watch after lighting a match showed him that he had been fifteen minutes walking from the church to the stile, so he wondered if the person had grown tired of waiting. But that was unlikely, since he was not so very much behind his time. The man--he presumed that it was a man--who had advertised would certainly wait longer when he had taken so much trouble to bring about the meeting. Hench therefore believed that something had detained the person in question, and sat down on the stile to wait. Already the moon was well up in the cloudless sky and her silver radiance flooded the whole solemn woodland. Owain admired the mingled beauty of light and shade, listened to the distant nightingale singing triumphantly, and stared every now and then round about to make sure that he would not miss his man, since he did not know from which quarter he would appear. Then came a surprise, and a highly unpleasant one. In the course of his glancing here, there and everywhere, he became aware that in the long grass some distance beyond the stile, and some distance away from the meandering path, lay a dark object. At first Hench thought it was merely the trunk of a tree, but as the moonlight grew stronger and the outlines of the object more distinct, he began to believe that it was a man. Doubtless, as he concluded hastily, some tramp had thrown himself down to sleep in the safe cover of the wood, where no policeman would rouse him from his slumbers. But Hench knew that it was scarcely wise to sleep in the moonbeams, so clambered over the stile and walked towards the man with the intention of awakening him. Shortly he was bending over the presumably sleeping tramp, and then became aware with a shock of surprise that the man was clothed in evening-dress, over which a dark, loose cloak had been thrown. With a vivid feeling of fear Hench turned the man over--he was lying on his face--and started back with an ejaculation of horror. The stiff white shirt-front was red with blood, and in the man's heart was buried a knife with a horn handle. Owain struck a match to assure himself of the truth, although the moonlight was so strong that he scarcely needed to take such trouble. But while he held the match with shaking hand over the dead face, its wavering light showed him very plainly that he was right. The man was dead--the man had been murdered--and there he lay mysteriously done to death in the heart of a lonely wood. Of course, Hench's first impulse, which was the impulse of an ordinary human being when brought face to face with crime, was to run back to Cookley village and give the alarm. But even as he turned to fly, he halted, struck with a sudden thought which made the blood freeze in his young veins. He had been lured to this place by means of the advertisement, and here he found the dead body of a man not long stabbed to the heart. Was it a trap? Had he been brought to this solitary spot to be entangled in a crime? It seemed very like it, and swiftly thinking over the matter, Hench did not see how he could exonerate himself should he give the alarm. With a feeling of absolute terror, he bent over the dead so as to make himself acquainted with the appearance of the poor creature. There was no doubt that the man was a gentleman, since he was in evening-dress and was wearing studs and sleeve-links of gold, together with a silk-lined overcoat, or rather cloak. His face was clean-shaven, with an aquiline nose and thin compressed lips, decidedly that of a handsome man. From his lined countenance and white hair, Owain took him to be about sixty years of age, although being dead there was an astonishing look of youth about him. Even as Hench stared, the lines on the old face seemed to fade away and leave it young and smooth. Yes, he was a gentleman, as was apparent from the well-bred, disdainful face. It did not need the evening-dress, the silk-lined cloak, the silk socks or the patent-leather shoes to show the man's station in the world. Here, as it occurred to Owain, was a gentleman, who had strolled into the wood after dinner, there to meet with a terrible death at the hands of some unknown person. Starting to his feet, the young man remembered how the girl at the inn had talked of Squire Evans' estate lying long-side the wood and divided therefrom by a brick wall. Here was the wood, yonder the wall in question; so it came strongly into Hench's mind that the dead man was Squire Evans. But who had killed him and why had he been killed? Hench looked round searchingly into the shadow of the trees, but could see no lurking form. Whosoever had struck the blow had done so shortly before Hench arrived, as the body was still warm and still supple. After all, the man was dead, sure enough, and it would be useless to run to the village for succour. In fact it would be dangerous, as Owain thought with fear knocking at his heart, for how could he prove his innocence of the crime. There was no motive for him to kill this unknown man, certainly; not even the motive of robbery, as the studs and sleeve-links had not been taken by the assassin. Hench wavered between a desire to consult his own safety by flight and a wish to rouse the village and hunt hot-footed for the murderer. For two long, long minutes he pondered over the horrible situation, then, without a backward glance, raced at top speed along the unknown path leading into the further recesses of the wood. And while he ran his heart beat tumultuously, the perspiration beaded his forehead, and his body shivered with cold, in spite of the warm night. Safety was what he made for, and he tore onward as if the officers of justice were already on his track. An innocent man--yes, he was an innocent man--yet the circumstantial evidence might hang him in spite of that same innocence. Instinct led Hench to avoid returning to London by passing through the village and boarding the train at Cookley Station. Already--and he thought of the possibility with terror--his face and figure might be remembered by some keen-sighted yokel. There was the conversation with the girl in the tap-room. He had talked long enough with her to be remembered, even though the atmosphere, hazy with smoke, had only been illuminated by one dingy lamp. Then, again, he had spoken about the Gipsy Stile; he had asked where it was, and at the Gipsy Stile the murder had taken place. Then there was the advertisement; the police would be sure to find that out, and if there was any reward offered, Madame Alpenny might speak to the authorities about the same. Then he would be linked with the crime, and run the risk of arrest. When confronted with the girl at the inn, she would probably recognize him. Then what possible defence could he make to an accusation of murder? These and many other thoughts buzzed like distracting bees through Owain's brain as he fled from that awful place. All his idea was to get away, to reach some other railway station, to hide in London, and remain quiet until he saw what the police would do. But on the face of it, he would be safe nowhere; yet with the instinct of self-preservation he plunged onward through the wood in the hope of escape. Hench was a brave man, and had faced many dangers, but to be hanged for a crime which he had not committed, to be entangled in circumstances over which he had no control, made him choose the least of two evils. Once or twice he halted in his headlong flight wondering if it would not be best to return and give himself up to the village policeman, as, after all, he had no motive to kill the man and moreover could produce the advertisement. But the resolution was momentary. He simply could not face the trouble, even though he did his best to screw up his courage to the sticking point. Wiping his forehead, he drew a long breath and strode onward. It was too late now to think of returning, as the body might already have been found. All he could do was to walk on and on and on, in the hope of leaving terror behind. After leaving the wood, Hench found himself traversing other meadows similar to that near Cookley church, These bordered a narrow lane, into which a stile afforded him access. From this lane he gained the high-road, and from a sign-post learned that it would conduct him to London. At first Owain intended to walk on until he arrived at the nearest railway station, for there was yet time to catch a late train to town. But on reflection he decided to use his legs, as there would be less danger in solitary pedestrianism than in venturing to ask for a ticket at a local station, where his appearance might be observed. Also the night was warm, the moon gave her full light, and the journey to London would be more pleasurable on foot than it would be were he cooped up in a train. Besides, he was much too agitated by what he had gone through to sit quiet under the gaze of fellow-travellers. Innocent though he was, conscience made a coward of him, and he knew that every careless eye cast upon him would make him wince. He was safer to walk, so walk he did. Owain never forgot that thirty odd miles tramp through the lovely summer night, when--as the saying goes--he saw a bird in every bush. Certainly he was guiltless of any crime, yet fate had connected him with one, and he felt like Cain, so strong was the power of his imagination. Again and again he asked himself if it would not have been wiser to dare the worst, trusting in God's justice and his own innocence. But again and again came the reply that innocent men have been hanged ere now on purely circumstantial evidence, and that he had done right to fly the danger of a judicial death. Hench cursed himself for not having waited until his twenty-fifth birthday. Had he taken no notice of the advertisement, as he originally intended to do, he would not now be in this plight. But it was too late to blame himself now. He had come to the rendezvous, he had found a dead body, he had fled like a true criminal from the spot, so it was no use crying over spilt milk. Whatever was in store for him he would have to face it. As he had sown, so would he have to reap. CHAPTER VII AN AMAZING DISCOVERY Owain reached his hotel in the early hours of the morning, and finding no one about but the sleepy night-porter, who was just leaving, had no difficulty in getting to his bedroom almost unobserved. Once in that haven he drew a long breath of relief, and wearied by his long tramp, threw himself on his bed without undressing. Notwithstanding his anxiety, which had increased instead of lessening, he speedily fell fast asleep into a heavy dreamless slumber, which resembled lethargy rather than natural repose. It was high noon when he woke, feeling much refreshed and as hungry as the proverbial hunter. Considering the trouble in which he was involved, it was fortunate that travel had steadied his nerves to face the worst, if needs be. The result of his experience of danger led him to prepare for possibilities. He therefore took a cold bath to brace himself, dressed more carefully than usual with great deliberation, and went down to make an excellent breakfast. As yet the hue and cry was not out against him, so he had ample time to consider his position. Over a pipe in the smoking-room, he glanced at several of the daily papers, but naturally found therein nothing about the murder in Parley Wood at Cookley. It was more than probable that the evening news would contain an account of the finding of the body, and--for all Hench knew--a description of himself as the criminal. Of this, however, he was uncertain, since he had not been noticed closely in the twilight, and his conversation with the girl of the Bull Inn had taken place in a darkish and smoky room, dimly lighted by a solitary lamp. Of course the girl would say that a man had asked her where the Gipsy Stile was to be found, and the person she had conversed with would be suspected. But the questioner assuredly could not be described, unless the serving-wench was sharper than Owain gave her credit for being. Only a very inquisitive and observant person would have examined him closely enough to give a fair word-picture of him to the authorities. And Owain's experience led him to believe that few people ever did observe with much degree of accuracy. So far as the girl at the inn and the inhabitants of Cookley were concerned he felt tolerably safe. But there was another person to consider in connection with his adventure, and that was Madame Alpenny. The Hungarian lady certainly knew that he was the man required to meet the advertiser at Cookley, as the use of the word "Rhaiadr" had enlightened her on that point. Therefore it was probable that, when the details of the murder were made public, she would inform the police about the matter. But the woman did not know that he had kept the appointment, as he had given her to understand very plainly that he did not intend to do so. Assuredly the feeling that she was at his elbow had haunted him when he had set forth on his errand, and he had fancied that she had been lurking about Liverpool Street Station. But even then he had set down the faint belief to imagination, so there was no reason why he should conclude that she actually had been spying on him. In fact he did not see how she possibly could have done so, since he had not given her his address. Only Bottles knew that, and Bottles--as Hench felt sure--was to be thoroughly trusted. So far the young man could see no cause for alarm, but an hour's reflection made him resolve to make things doubly sure against discovery. Thanks to the twilight and the dimly-lighted tap-room, Hench made sure that any description given of his appearance would be more or less vague, and was not likely to be recognized by any one in the hotel when it appeared in the newspapers. Nevertheless, so as to place the matter beyond all doubt, he paid his bill, packed his luggage and took his departure late in the afternoon for Victoria Station. Here he left his box and portmanteau in the cloak-room, and went down to South Kensington in search of quiet lodgings. But before venturing to inquire for the same, Owain sought out a barber's shop in Brampton Road and had his heavy brown beard removed. He would rather have shaved himself, so as to do away with the possibility of the barber noticing any description in the newspapers, even though the same was vague and inaccurate. But to do this was impossible. He could not change his appearance before leaving the Bloomsbury Hotel without exciting remark, and he did not wish to present himself at his new lodgings in any degree like his old self, as it was known to the paying guests of Mrs. Tesk's establishment. Therefore he was obliged to risk a barber's razor and a barber's curiosity. One thing was certain, that when he emerged from the shop, no one would have recognized him for the man who had entered. The removal of his beard altered him wonderfully, making him look years younger, and improving his good looks in a marked degree. Owain sat in the barber's chair a bearded colonist of the type dear to penny fiction, he rose from it looking like the Hermes of the Vatican. Even the hairdresser exclaimed at the extraordinary transformation and complimented him on his improved appearance. Hench was rather annoyed that the man should take so much notice, and paying him hurriedly, departed as swiftly as he could without exciting suspicion. Then he walked down the Brompton Road and sought out a quiet side street in South Kensington, where he knew there were rooms to be let. The place was already known to him, during the last six months, as under the same roof lived an old school-friend, with whom Hench had kept up a correspondence. On returning to England he had looked up this friend, and they had renewed their acquaintanceship with uncommon fervour. Therefore Owain deemed it best to live near him, so that he might make use of him should any trouble ensue from his adventure. It may be remarked that the friend was a barrister, and as such--so Hench considered--would be able to attend to legal details if necessary. The rooms in question were still to be had, as a voluble landlady assured Mr. Hench, so he engaged them for a month, paying the rent in advance. Then he left a message for his friend, and returned to get his luggage from the cloak-room in Victoria Station. By seven o'clock, Owain was installed in a tolerably comfortable bedroom and sitting-room, and was dawdling over a hurriedly provided meal. His friend, he was informed, was not expected back until nine o'clock, so Hench passed the time in reading the evening papers. These he had bought at the railway station when getting his luggage, and in two of them he found what he sought. The account of the Parley Wood crime was necessarily meagre, as so short a time had elapsed since the discovery of the body that the police were not in possession of much information. It appeared, from the scanty details, that the dead man was--as Hench suspected--Squire Madoc Evans, the Lord of the Manor and the owner of Cookley Grange. He had gone for a stroll in the woods shortly after dinner, and not having returned, search had been made, with the result that the poor old gentleman was found stabbed to the heart near the Gipsy Stile. The weapon used to execute the murder was a common carving-knife with a horn handle, and the medical examination showed that Evans had met with his violent death about half-past seven. The account ended with the information that the police were making all inquiries in the hope of tracing the criminal, but as yet had been unsuccessful. Owain breathed more freely, as there was no word of the girl at the Bull Inn or of her conversation with himself. Still, it was early days yet, and the young man felt very sure that shortly she would speak out. An account of the man who had inquired where the Gipsy Stile was to be found would assuredly appear in print; then it would depend entirely upon the memory and acuteness of the girl whether he would be traced. And, of course, if Madame Alpenny became suspicious--and Owain was positive that she would become so--her story to the police would certainly result in his arrest. Then, when confronted with the girl of the inn, there would be small chance of denying his identity with the tramp who had made those fatal inquiries. Hench felt extremely uncomfortable in spite of his innocence, and longed to have some one to whom he could talk freely. Later on in the evening, and while gloomily smoking in an armchair, the young man thought that he could trust his old school-friend. James Vane was quite a different man to Spruce, who also had been at the same school, and was as true as the Nut was false. After much reflection and some hesitation, Hench decided to unbosom himself to the barrister, since the dangers which environed him were so great that he could not deal with them unaided. At nine o'clock precisely, a sharp knock came to the door of the sitting-room, and Hench sprang up to greet his visitor. Vane was a tall, slim man, with a lean, hatchet face, keen dark eyes, and thin dark hair, touched already with grey although he was only thirty years of age. He was perfectly dressed and perfectly well-groomed, quick in his movements and a trifle saturnine in his manner. Some people were rather afraid of him, as he was always cold and cautious. But Owain knew that this frigid exterior concealed a truly warm heart, and that--as the saying goes--Vane's bark was worse than his bite. To his old school-chum he showed himself as he really was, and few would have recognized the chilly barrister in the smiling friend. It was as though ice had melted on a mountain-top to reveal a green sward. "Well, I am glad to see you again, Owain," said Vane, after shaking hands warmly; "it is quite six months since I set eyes on you. Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing with yourself? And where is that patriarchal beard which made you look like Abraham? H'm! You're in love." Hench stared and made his friend comfortable in an armchair. "What on earth makes you say that?" he inquired with a puzzled look. "No girl could possibly love a man with a beard which made him look one hundred and ten years old. You have met with a girl--with _the_ girl--and are in love. Therefore have you shaved your chin, reduced your age, and made yourself look like a young Greek god." "I don't feel like a Greek god, Jim," said Hench, taking a seat and glancing round to see that windows and doors were closed. "I'm worried." "Poor old chap," said Vane with quick sympathy; "rely on me to help. We always were pals at school, you know. Is it money?" "No. I have enough to keep me going. By the way, your mention of our being pals at school reminds me that I met another chap who was with us at Winchester ages ago." "Don't make us out to be as old as the hills, Owain. We're young yet, and the wine of life still sparkles in the bowl. Who is this chap?" "Spruce. He is----" "Oh Lord!" Vane removed his cigarette from his thin lips with an air of disgust. "I know what he is; you needn't tell me anything about him. You don't mean to say that you look upon him as a pal?" "No! He wanted me to but I couldn't stomach him and his dandified airs. If you want my opinion of him," continued Hench frankly, "he's a sickening little beast, as arrogant as they make them." "He's all that and more--one of the Gadarene swine. Where did you meet him?" "At a boarding-house in Bethnal Green." "Oh! That's the fox's hole, is it. I thought he would go further afield." "Has he any reason to go afield at all?" asked Hench, staring. "You bet he has, old fellow. Mr. Cuthbert Spruce has been a man on the market for quite a long time." "What is a man on the market?" "A chap who gets his living by his wits," explained the barrister leisurely, "and Spruce has been at that sort of game for ever so long. He started with a decent income but got rid of it at cards. Cards queered his pitch ultimately, as he was caught cheating and had to clear out. H'm! He's ruralizing at Bethnal Green, is he? I expect he will stay there until his little bad wind blows away. Then he'll try and return. But it's all of no use, Owain, as no one will have the little beast at any price." "He told me quite a different story." "Oh, he would, naturally. Spruce is very good at telling stories. He ought to be a novelist by rights." "That's exactly what he claims to be," retorted Owain, opening his eyes widely. "He said that he had come to Bethnal Green to gather material for a yarn." "Pretty thin," commented Vane, with a shrug, "considering he can't write a single paragraph of King's English without a dozen mistakes. I credited him with sufficient imagination to manufacture a better lie. However, it's useless for us to waste time over Spruce and his shady doings. Cheating at cards has finished him, and now he'll go under altogether. R.I.P. and be hanged to him. But what were you doing at Bethnal Green, old son?" "I thought that a cheap boarding-house down there would suit my pocket." "H'm! You explained that much before, even though I offered to share my pennies with you." "Very good of you, Jim," said Hench hastily and colouring, "but I don't care about shoving my burden on to another man's shoulders. However, a gold mine I had a few shares in turned up trumps, and I have a hundred pounds more or less at my back." "And for that reason you have come West?" "Well, not exactly. If you don't mind being bored with my----" "Nothing you tell me will ever bore me, Owain," interrupted Vane quickly. "It's a girl, I swear. Come, be honest." "Well, there was a girl, but there isn't now," confessed Owain, and while Vane chuckled at his own perspicuity he related what had taken place at The Home of the Muses in connection with Zara, Bracken, Madame Alpenny and Spruce. Vane listened intently, and when Hench ended made his first remark in connection with the Nut, for whom he seemed to have no great love. "The sordid little animal wished to make money out of you, Owain," he said in his shrewd way, "and for that reason made up to you and kept his eye on you." "But he knew that I had no money," protested Hench, puzzled. "These papers at the lawyers' may mean money," retorted the barrister. "I am inclined to agree with that old lady you mention so far. Well, it's only about nine days until your birthday, so you haven't long to wait. And now that you've cut the place--very wisely, I think--Spruce won't be able to line his pockets at your expense. As to the girl--you never did love her." "Well, perhaps you are right. But I admired her." "That's nothing. I admire scores of girls, but that doesn't mean matrimony, my son. You are at that age, Owain, when any woman could collar you. I'm glad that this Zara girl had enough sense to cotton to the other man. Madame Alpenny----" Hench rose restlessly. "I'm afraid of her," he interrupted bluntly. "Pooh! Why should you be? She can't force you to marry her daughter." "No." Owain spoke slowly. "It's not that. But the advertisement----" "Well, it had to do with you, certainly, going by the mention of the place where your father passed his youth. But you told her that you did not intend to keep the appointment." "Yes. All the same, I did keep the appointment." "The deuce!" Vane looked surprised. "Well?" "I'm coming to my trouble now," said Hench, picking up one of the newspapers nervously; "read that paragraph." Vane looked at his friend in surprise, and then swiftly made himself acquainted with the information about the Parley Wood murder. He started when he first grasped what the paragraph was about, but afterwards read on slowly to the end. When he knew all about the matter he threw aside the newspaper and looked inquiringly at Hench. "Well?" "Well," repeated Owain, sitting down with his hands in his pockets, "can't you see, Jim? I went to the Gipsy Stile and----" "And murdered this man," finished Vane derisively. "Do you expect me to believe that, you fool?" "No. I'm not given to behaving in that way. But I kept the appointment and I found the corpse." "Oh, the devil!" Vane sat up. "So I said at the time," remarked Hench dryly. "And when Madame Alpenny reads about the crime, she will put two and two together." "They won't make four in her calculations," said Vane swiftly. "After all, you are innocent. She can't prove you to be guilty." "Well, I don't know. The circumstantial evidence is rather strong." "The circumstantial evidence!" Vane stared and reflected. "You had a beard when I saw you last, now----" "I shaved to-day, so that there might be no chance of my being discovered by any description that girl at the Bull Inn might give." "Girl at the Bull Inn? What do you mean?" Hench lost no time but promptly gave a full account of his adventures from the time he left Liverpool Street Station to the moment that he sat down to dinner in the very room in which the two were speaking. Vane interrupted him frequently, and his face grew grave as he recognized that Hench was in a woeful plight. "Of course, I've acted like an ass," confessed Owain in a rueful manner; "but how would you have acted, Jim?" "Sitting in this chair and being wise after the event, I should have faced the thing out," said Vane slowly. "But had I been in your shoes in that wood I should probably have run away as you did." He paused, shook his head, stared at the carpet. "Damn!" he muttered emphatically. "I thought it best to speak to you," murmured Owain anxiously. Vane nodded. "Quite right. What's the use of a pal if he doesn't rise to the occasion. After all, if Madame Alpenny does speak to the police she can't prove you to be guilty. You had no motive to murder this Evans. He was quite a stranger to you." "Quite. All the same----" "All the same, hold your confounded tongue!" insisted the barrister. "My advice to you is to sit tight and wait events." "Madame Alpenny?" "Exactly. If she is the old adventuress you think she is, and which from your description she certainly appears to be, I don't think you need have any fear for the moment." "Why not?" "Because she will wait until you are in possession of those papers on your twenty-fifth birthday. If they place you in possession of money she will be silent on condition that you marry her daughter." "I won't. Nothing would induce me to marry a girl who loves another man." "Oh, I don't say that you would marry her, but that Madame Alpenny would try and make you marry her. Until all hope fails in that direction she'll say nothing about the advertisement. Of course, if there is no money the old hag will split, especially if there is a reward. As this Squire Evans seems to be a landowner and a rich man, I expect there will be a reward." "I see. Then the best thing for me to do is to wait." "Exactly. I'll support you, and you can talk your heart out to me." "You're a good fellow, Jim. Why, I half believed you would think me----" "Don't talk bosh!" Vane jumped up irritably. "Why, you're the whitest man I know, and my old school-pal. I'd as soon believe myself guilty as you. Now I'm off to bed; go thou and do likewise and don't worry." After which speech he shook hands with Hench and the two parted for the night. For the next nine days they had many such talks, and kept themselves well informed of the progress which the case was making so far as they could learn in print. Of course, the girl at the Bull Inn _did_ tell the police about the interview in the tap-room, and of course great capital was made out of this. But as Owain had suspected, the girl being inobservant, and not having seen him very clearly in the smoky dimly-lighted atmosphere, gave a most incoherent account of his appearance. All she could say was that the questioner was a rough-looking tramp with a bushy black beard, who spoke civilly enough, but who was not a gentleman. Vane chuckled when he read this unflattering description, which was sufficiently wrong and vague to preserve Hench from suspicions. And, indeed, if the girl had been confronted with Hench she would never have recognized in this handsome clean-shaven young gentleman, fashionably dressed, the rough tramp who had drank his beer in the tap-room. It was Vane who made Owain dress fashionably, so as to make him look as unlike his old bearded self as possible. He took him to his tailor, to his haberdasher, to his bootmaker, and to various other tradesmen, with the result that Owain's new wardrobe did full justice to his handsome looks. Hench, being of the pioneering legion, rather kicked against being thus civilized, but he recognized that Vane was right to insist upon the transformation. Whatever Madame Alpenny might have thought she did not put her thoughts into action, for nothing appeared in the papers likely to show that Hench was suspected by the police. The inquest on Squire Madoc Evans' body was duly held, and the verdict was brought in of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," although every one was pretty certain that the shabby tramp who had inquired the way to the Gipsy Stile was the culprit. But he had vanished, and--thanks to Madame Alpenny's silence--no word came to the police suggesting his identity with Owain Hench. The funeral took place in due time, and it gave Owain a thrill when he read that the body had been taken to Rhaiadr in Wales for burial. It was said that Evans came from that place, and that all his ancestors were buried there. Incidentally, it was mentioned that the dead man had left a daughter who inherited Cookley Grange, and by her father's death became the Lady of the Manor. "I think it's all right now," said Vane when matters reached this pitch. "After the nine days' wonder the excitement will gradually die away. And, by Jupiter!" cried the barrister, "it is exactly nine days. Owain, old son, this is your birthday. Off with you and call on Gilberry & Gilberry." "Won't you come also, Jim?" "No, I won't. You can't get into trouble in a respectable legal office, and you are so changed that no one is likely to spot you as the man who is wanted for Squire Madoc Evans' death." Owain was content to go alone, although he felt slightly nervous. His strongest card, should anything come out, was that he had not known Evans, and therefore had no reason to kill him. And by this time he was growing used to the situation, since Madame Alpenny was holding her tongue. Why she acted in this kind way he could not understand, but accepted the explanation provided by Vane. However, if he came into money she probably would find him out and move in the matter. Therefore it was with some reluctance that Hench went to Gilberry & Gilberry's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and was unwilling to become rich, as by doing so he would certainly bring Madame Alpenny down on his head. All the same, Hench felt very curious when he faced the white-headed old gentleman who was the head of the firm, and was rather astonished by the warmth of the greeting he received. "I am glad to see you," said Mr. Gilberry heartily. "You come in the nick of time, my dear young friend." "To do what, sir?" "To inherit ten thousand a year." "What?" Owain became pale with amazement. Gilberry chuckled. "Oh yes. It is as I say, Mr. Evans." "What?" cried Owain again, and this time louder, with a quavering voice. "Of course; of course," the old man chuckled once more. "You think that your name is Hench. Not so; not so. You are Owain Evans of Rhaiadr, the heir of Squire Madoc Evans, of Cookley Grange, in Essex." "And--and--what relation am I to--to--to----" "Oh, yes. You don't know. Why, my dear sir, Madoc Evans was your uncle." Owain gasped, and turned as white as the corpse he had seen in Parley Wood. CHAPTER VIII FAMILY HISTORY Like M. Jourdain in Moliere's comedy, Vane was only surprised when he found virtue in unexpected places, but he certainly was astonished in another direction when Hench stumbled into his chambers white-faced, wild-eyed and trembling. The barrister hastily arose and supported his friend to a chair, and as hastily produced a glass of brandy to hold to his lips. "Drink this, Owain," he commanded, wondering what had happened to put his visitor in such a state. "Don't say a word until you feel better." Hench drank the whole glassful of fiery liquor, and the colour began to return to his wan cheeks. He did not speak, as requested, but sat in the chair with a broken-down look, which startled Vane more than he showed. Looking anxiously at his friend he came to the sole conclusion he could come to, seeing what he knew in connection with Hench's adventure. "Madame Alpenny has found you out?" Hench shook his head. "It's worse than that," he muttered faintly. "Then the worse it is the better you should brace yourself up to face it," was Vane's irritable retort. "Have another glass of brandy, although I don't approve of Dutch courage myself." "No. No more brandy. Wait a bit. I'll soon pull round." Vane nodded approvingly, and turned his back so as to give the man time to recover himself. He went to the window and looked at the busy traffic of Chancery Lane, in which thoroughfare his chambers were situated. The same were directly opposite that gateway which leads into Lincoln's Inn Fields, through the highways and byeways of pleasant grounds sacred to the goddess Themis. Hench had evidently come straight in this way from the offices of Gilberry & Gilberry. Vane wondered how he had managed to arrive without attracting observation and being stopped, so wild had been his looks when he entered the chambers. The journey was very short, truly, but the appearance of the man was sufficient to warrant interference. Evidently the unexpected had happened to throw Hench into this abnormal state, and with a shrug of his shoulders Vane turned to see how he was getting on. Hench smiled faintly as he met the inquiring gaze of the barrister and wiped his forehead, which was wet with perspiration. Then he essayed to speak and apologize, succeeding after one or two desperate attempts. "Sorry, Jim, but I couldn't help myself." "Seems like it," snapped Vane, trying to bully him into calmness. He had never before seen Hench so upset, as the man was usually very quiet and self-controlled. Something very bad must have happened to unnerve him in this way. "I should like to know what is the meaning of all this," went on Vane crossly. "Upon my Sam, Owain, if I didn't know you were a sober chap I should have believed that you were drunk when you came in. I wonder some policeman didn't run you in between here and Lincoln's Inn Fields." "I did see people staring at me," replied Hench in a stronger voice, as the brandy had done its work and he was rapidly recovering his balance. "Perhaps if I had come by a longer way I might have got into trouble. But you see, Jim, the distance----" "Yes! Yes!" Vane dropped into his own favourite chair. "I know all about that, old son. Come to the point. What's up?" "I've had a shock." "Oh Lord! as if the most stupid person--which I am not--couldn't see as much. I can only conclude that Madame Alpenny has told the police and you are in danger of arrest. Yet you deny that such is the case." "I do. Madame Alpenny has nothing to do with this particular matter. Yes, I have had a shock, but I'm all right now." Hench shook himself like a dog coming out of a pond and drew a long breath, then continued to talk calmly. His first remark was a question. "If I did get arrested, Jim, I suppose my best line of defence would be to say that, not knowing the dead man, I had no motive to kill him." "That is my opinion," admitted the barrister. "Well?" "Well, there is no chance of my taking up that line of defence." "Why not? You told me that you did not know Squire Evans." "I did. I don't contradict my admission." "Then why can't you defend yourself, if necessary, on that score?" "I'll answer that question by asking you another? Who am I?" Vane stared and looked wholly bewildered. "Owain Hench!" "So I thought. Now I learn from Gilberry & Gilberry that I am Owain Evans." "What?" Vane uttered the ejaculation in as astonished a tone as Hench had done in the solicitor's office. "Are you a relative of the dead man?" "Yes. I am his nephew." "Well, the unexpected is always happening," commented Vane, after a pause of sheer surprise. "But even so, as you did not know your uncle and never met him, you can still say, if necessary, that you had no motive to murder him." "I can't." Owain rose and began to pace the room. "I can't; and that's the worst of it, Jim. As you say, I did not know him and I never met him, but evil tongues might give me the lie, seeing what I stood to gain." "What did you stand to gain?" "Ten thousand a year." "Ten thousand a year!" Vane echoed the words with a gasp of astonishment. "I say, Owain, those mysterious papers left by your father did mean a fortune after all, as Madame Alpenny suspected?" Hench nodded, and sat down again with a disconsolate air. "It is a dangerous position that I am in. Owain Evans of Rhaiadr with ten thousand a year, which comes to me now that Uncle Madoc is dead----that is who I am." "But you knew nothing about such an inheritance?" "Who will believe that?" asked Owain derisively. "Already, as the tramp who asked the way to the Gipsy Stile, I am accused of the crime. Should the truth of my keeping that appointment become known, the motive of gaining ten thousand a year will be imputed to me as an excuse for committing the deed." "Don't go too fast, Owain," said Vane sharply; "remember only Gilberry & Gilberry had this information. They can prove that you knew nothing about the same on the first of July when the man was murdered." "True enough. All the same I kept the appointment," persisted Hench stubbornly. "Who is to prove that I did not have a long interview with my uncle in Parley Wood; who is to declare that he did not admit I was his heir and that his death would place me in possession of so large an income? And, remember, Jim, that I am poor. A man would do much to gain ten thousand a year." "A man like you, Owain, would do nothing mean or dishonourable or cruel to gain double the sum," said Vane sharply. "Don't be a fool." "Am I a fool? You know me, Jim, but other people don't. Supposing Madame Alpenny tells what she knows to the police and sets them on my track----" "She doesn't know your address. You told me so." "I told you truly. She doesn't. But seeing that I have given my usual name both at the hotel I stayed at and to the landlady of my lodgings in South Kensington, there won't be much difficulty in the police finding me. People will talk, you know. I have shaved off my beard too, and that might be quoted against me as a sign of my guilt." "It might," assented Vane restlessly, for he recognized that the position was a dangerous one. "But it all depends upon Madame Alpenny. So far she has made no move, and now that you really are rich she will hold her tongue." "Provided I marry her daughter, I suppose?" inquired Owain dryly. "Of course. The woman is an adventuress, as you say, and means to make money out of you. Marry her daughter and supply her with funds, and you will place yourself in the power of a possible blackmailer." Hench's face became dour and obstinate in its looks. "Even if Madame Alpenny placed me in the dock at the New Bailey, I won't marry Zara, or give the old woman a single penny." "I'm with you, old son." Vane leaned forward and shook his friend's hand. "You can depend upon me to do all I can to pull you through." "You're a good sort, Jim, to stand by me," said Hench, much moved. "Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! I take a right view of friendship, that's all," said Vane cheerfully. "Come, old man, let us discuss the situation. We have ample time, as Madame Alpenny will hold her tongue until you openly refuse the demands she is sure to make. Who gains time, gains everything, and lots of things may happen before she can place your neck in a noose." "I am in a dangerous position." "You are. I don't wish to minimize the risk, or undervalue Madame Alpenny as an enemy. But remember, Owain, that she is not your enemy until you give her cause to be so by declining to marry the girl and pension Madame. Thus the police will learn nothing for many a long day, and meantime we can act." "In what way?" "Why, in trying to learn who really did murder your uncle." Vane drew a long breath. "By Jupiter, old son, I don't wonder you were knocked all of a heap by the information that you had a new relative and ten thousand a year." "Oh, it wasn't that which upset me," explained Hench with a shrug, "but the knowledge that my uncle was the dead man I found in Parley Wood." "Gilberry & Gilberry don't know that, I suppose?" "Of course not. I kept that information to myself. They didn't even, so far as I could gather, know anything about the advertisement, or they would have spoken about it. I said nothing." "Very wise of you. I wonder," mused the barrister, "why your uncle put in that advertisement?" "To make you understand, Jim, it will be necessary to repeat my family history as Mr. Gilberry told it to me." "That is what I have been wishing you to do for the last fifteen minutes, old boy. Here, take a cigarette and make yourself comfortable. When I am in possession of facts I shall be in a better position to advise you." "I need advice," sighed Hench, lighting up. "Well, don't shed tears over it, sonny. Fire away." Vane's banter and anxious desire to cheer him up did Hench good, and he produced a large blue envelope out of his pocket which contained several papers. The young man glanced at these doubtfully, then laid them on the table. "You can examine them at your leisure," he said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I'll tell you the story instead of reading it." "That will be best," assented Vane brightly. "Begin, Scheherazade." "My grandfather," said Hench conversationally, "lived at Rhaiadr in South Wales, where his family had resided for centuries. They were minor princes, I believe, before the first Edward conquered the country, but dwindled in importance as the centuries went by. When the family estates came to my grandfather, all he had was considerable property in Rhaiadr and a tumbledown family seat. He was called Mynydd Evans----" "Curious Christian name," commented Vane, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Yes! Gilberry, who seems to know something of the Welsh language, told me that it means 'Great.' So my grandfather was really Great Evans, so called because he was the chief person in Rhaiadr, and because he was a stout, bulky man, over six feet three in height. He was discontented with his lot, as he wanted money and power and position, and the deuce knows what." "Rather a grabber, Owain, considering that he was the Lord of Rhaiadr--and that's another queer name." "It means water tumbling over a rock--a waterfall, in fact," said Hench, with a nod. "My father mentioned the word to Madame Alpenny and gave her the translation. Well, to continue. Mynydd Evans collected what money he could and came to London. There he set up as a merchant, and being clever, in a wonderfully short space of time he made a large fortune." "He must have done so considering he could leave your uncle ten thousand a year," said Vane emphatically. "But why didn't he return to Rhaiadr?" "Mr. Gilberry couldn't explain that. I expect the old man found the Welsh parish of his ancestors too narrow for his ambition, and perhaps too far from London and his place of business. He bought the Lordship of the Manor of Cookley, in Essex, and took up his abode in the old Grange. There he died." "And your Uncle Madoc, as the eldest son, became the heir?" "Now, that is exactly what did not happen. Mynydd Evans had two sons--my father, Owain, and Madoc--and my father was the elder of the two. He was"--Hench wriggled uneasily--"he was a rotter, and I'm breaking the fifth commandment in saying so, Jim." "Well," said the barrister coolly, "from what you told me of your father when we met six months ago, I rather think he was a bad lot." "Unfortunately, yes," said Hench hastily. "But he is dead, so let us say as little about him as possible. Anyhow, he contrived so mortally to offend my grandfather with his doings that he was cut out of the will." "What did he do particularly shady?" "I can't tell you," said Hench, with a shrug. "From what Gilberry said I gathered that it wasn't one shady deed, but the culmination of many that induced Mynydd Evans to give the estate to my Uncle Madoc. He was the good boy of the family, and Mynydd Evans knew that his hard-earned fortune would not be dissipated in his hands. My father was allowed five or six hundred a year, and told to keep away from England. He did so and afterwards married abroad--an English governess, my mother. She died in due time and I was sent to England to board with strangers. Then I went to a private school, afterwards to Winchester, where we met, Jim." "Yes, I know all that. Afterwards your father sent for you and ultimately died in Paris. You told me about your life since, when you came back six months ago. But why didn't your father relate your family history to you? Why did he keep you in the dark?" "Really, Jim, I can't say, unless it was that he felt ashamed of his doings. He would have had to tell me that he was not straight, to account for his being cut out of the will, you know. Anyhow, he saw Gilberry & Gilberry and left with them those papers, which include my birth certificate and my baptismal one--things which are necessary to prove my identity, you know. Gilberry & Gilberry were my father's lawyers and the lawyers of my uncle and grandfather. They saw that my school fees were paid and kept an eye on me while my father was in exile. So I had no difficulty in proving who I was. In fact old Gilberry knew me from my likeness to my father the moment I entered the office. It's all right so far." "But if the money was left to your uncle, how do you inherit?" "Well, it seems that Mynydd Evans always had some qualms about cutting off the direct line, and, I suppose, hoped that the third generation would be better than the second, as represented by my father. Anyhow, he made a will excluding my father, save for the five or six hundred a year allowance, and left the whole eleven thousand pounds per annum he was worth to Uncle Madoc." "You said it was ten thousand." "Yes. But of the extra thousand, five hundred went to my father during his life and the remaining five hundred--or it might be four with six to my father, as I'm not quite clear about the exact amounts--to Gwen Evans, my first cousin, Uncle Madoc's daughter." "Oh! There's a girl, then?" "Yes, and if old Gilberry is to be believed, she is a very pretty girl. I understand that she is about twenty years of age. We can talk of her later, Jim. Anyhow, you must understand that Uncle Madoc only had the income and the Grange for life. Afterwards it was to go to the offspring of my father, who was the true heir. I am the sole offspring, so I inherit." "I see," pondered Vane. "Well, all that seems clear and reasonable enough. Only I should like to know why your uncle didn't find you out and treat you as his heir. He could have done so through Gilberry & Gilberry, who--as you say--kept their eye on you all the time." "According to Mr. Gilberry, my uncle hated my father fervently, and did not at all approve of Mynydd Evans' will, which left the property to the son of the brother he detested. He made no inquiries, I understand, and was quite content to enjoy the property and let the deluge in the shape of myself come after him. Of course he would rather, as Mr. Gilberry said, have had Gwen get the property, but he could not, as the will of my grandfather was too clear." "Well, I can understand that the brothers did not love one another," said Vane, after a pause; "family feuds are unfortunately too common. But what made the old man put in that advertisement?" "As I didn't mention the advertisement to Mr. Gilberry for obvious reasons, I could obtain no information on that point," explained Owain, looking somewhat perplexed. "And why he sought me out in that peculiar way at the eleventh hour, I can't say. He might as well have done the thing straight through the family lawyers. Anyhow, I suppose he thought that the mention of the name Rhaiadr would show me that I was wanted, although I can't understand why he worded the advertisement so obscurely. But that my father mentioned the place of his family to me, I wouldn't have bothered about the matter. Let alone the fact," concluded Hench after a pause, "that I wouldn't have seen the advertisement at all but for Madame Alpenny. It was queer, wasn't it, Jim, that the advertisement should have appeared with the name Rhaiadr just after she remembered meeting my father over twenty years ago?" "So queer," said Vane dryly, "that I wonder if Madame Alpenny had anything to do with the insertion of the advertisement." "Oh, that's rubbish, Jim. She never met my uncle, and couldn't have put in the advertisement on her own, as she didn't know the ropes. My uncle put it in sure enough, or he would not have been in the wood to meet me. But why the deuce he should choose out-of-doors as a meeting place instead of asking me into his own house, I can't understand." "He was evidently an original," said the barrister, with a shrug. "By the way, if you died, or if you had never been born, who would inherit the estate?" "Gwen, my cousin, of course. The will left the property to the offspring of the eldest son, and failing such offspring, to the children of the second son. Why do you ask that, Jim?" "Well, it occurs to me that the cautiously worded advertisement and the appointment of so lonely a place to meet in, suggests foul play on the part of your beloved uncle." "Foul play?" Hench stared. "What the deuce do you mean?" "Madoc might have intended to murder you so that his daughter might inherit." "Oh, rot!" "Not at all. We must look at all possibilities. Madoc hated your father and doubtless hated you also as the son of your father. If he could have done you out of the inheritance by murdering you, I don't see why he should have held his hand." "But you don't know the man's character," protested Hench. "He may have been a very harmless person." "A very cunning and plotting person, anyhow," said Vane quickly. "Else, why the carefully worded advertisement and the strange place chosen for the meeting. No, Owain, my conjecture may be wild, but there is some truth in it, I am sure. Madoc intended to get rid of you, and your lucky stars led some one to get rid of him, before you appeared on the scene." "My lucky stars," said Hench, rising. "How can you say that, when I am in danger of being arrested for his death?" "There is no danger just now, until Madame Alpenny moves. And when she does move we may be able to counterplot her." "She will move as soon as I enter into my inheritance." "I know that. Therefore, if I were you, I should not take up my inheritance just yet." "How can I prevent that? Gilberry & Gilberry will take immediate steps to place me in possession, and the business is sure to get into the newspapers. Then Madame Alpenny will see that I am rich and come to bother me." "Of course. But you can tell Gilberry & Gilberry to hold over action until you learn who murdered your uncle. Once you find the true assassin you will be safe from the malice of Madame Alpenny and all other people." "Oh, there is no one can spot me but Madame Alpenny," said Owain confidentially. "Not even Spruce?" asked Vane significantly. "Certainly not. He knows nothing about my affairs." "You told me that he knew about the papers you were to see on your twenty-fifth birthday?" "Oh, yes. But those papers won't connect me with Uncle Madoc's death. Only the advertisement can do that, and I don't suppose Spruce has set eyes on it." "Let us hope not," said Vane uneasily. "But since he heard the name Rhaiadr when the meeting with your father was explained by Madame Alpenny, he certainly might put two and two together if he did see the advertisement. And if the old woman saw it, why shouldn't Spruce see it?" "My dear Jim, why manufacture trouble, when we have enough to deal with as things stand? If Spruce does get on the trail, I shall deal with him very promptly, I assure you. I'm not afraid of that little rat." "Rats can be dangerous, Owain, and Spruce is a meddlesome animal always on the make. You with your ten thousand a year would be a god-send to him. Now, if you will take my advice----" "What is it?" "This. Tell Gilberry & Gilberry to let things remain as they are, until you tell them to place you legally in possession of your property. They can look after the ten thousand odd pounds coming to you and allow your cousin the four or five hundred a year to which she is entitled. Then go down to Cookley as Owain Hench and look about for any possible person who might have knifed your uncle." "But Gilberry & Gilberry will think it queer." "What the devil does it matter what they think? So long as they get their fees all they have to do is to execute your orders. And if you like, you can make a romance out of the business and tell them that you are going down to Cookley to see your cousin under your false name, so as to find out what she is like. Of course, you can hint that you may fall in love----" "Oh, rats!" interrupted Hench inelegantly. "I'm not likely to fall in love. I don't believe that I understand what love is, seeing what a hash I made of my attentions to Zara." "You made a hash because you didn't love her, old son. But you may fall in love with your cousin." "Don't anticipate the worst," said Owain dryly. "Anyhow, your advice is good, Jim. I shall tell Gilberry & Gilberry to hold over and will give them to understand that I wish to see the beautiful heiress I have dispossessed. As Hench, I shall go to Cookley and look round for the criminal. With my changed appearance I don't suppose I'll be spotted." "No, I think you are safe so far," said Vane, looking at his friend in a critical manner, "but don't risk seeing that girl at the Bull Inn. She may recognize your voice. And I'll tell you what, Owain, I'll give you an introduction to an old aunt of mine, Mrs. Perage, who is a great swell in those parts. Her respectability may help you to hold your own amongst the very suspicious, narrow-minded people one finds in the country." "Jim, you're a brick." "Oh, fudge! I'll loot you when you enter into your kingdom," and Vane laughed uproariously at his small joke. "See if I don't make you pay up!" CHAPTER IX GWEN Naturally, Gilberry & Gilberry were extremely astonished when the heir to Cookley Grange refused to enter into his kingdom immediately. Such a wonderful reluctance to enjoy a large income and a splendid position had never before come under their notice. Fortunately, however, Mr. Samuel Gilberry, the senior partner, who attended particularly to the business of the estate, was of a romantic turn of mind, unusual in a lawyer, and Owain's suggestion of acting the part of a disguised prince rather appealed to him. Adopting Vane's suggestion, Hench--as he persisted in calling himself for the time being--artfully pointed out that it would be just as well to make the acquaintance of his cousin as a stranger before revealing himself. He did not wish her, as he put it, to be biassed by the fact that he was the son of his father. "For you see, sir," he said to the old gentleman, who was a white-bearded benevolent person, somewhat like the traditional Father Christmas, "so far as I can gather from the papers which my father left behind him, these brothers, who are the parents of Gwen and myself, were not friends." "They hated one another fervently, if you don't mind my saying so," was the emphatic response of the old lawyer, as he took a pinch of snuff. "I don't mind your stating the truth, Mr. Gilberry, which is what I want to get at," replied Hench readily. "Well then, admitting that the two hated one another, it is more than likely that Uncle Madoc had no great love for me." "He had not, my young friend. I pointed out to him frequently that as he had never set eyes on you, he could scarcely form any judgment, good, bad or indifferent. But he declared that you were the son of your father and that no good could come out of Nazareth." "Quite so. And doubtless he passed on his opinion to his daughter." "I think it is extremely likely, although I cannot speak positively, Mr. Owain," said the solicitor. "By the way, I may as well call you by that name, since you refuse to take your proper appellation, and I don't like to call you Mr. Hench." "I don't mind what you call me," Owain assured him, "so long as you don't let the cat out of the bag. My cousin is sure to have a bad opinion of me, since her father was so bitter. This being the case, I shall have no chance of becoming friendly with her if I present myself as her cousin. I do not wish to carry on the feud, so it is necessary for me to gain Gwen's good opinion. Therefore, under the name my father adopted, I shall make her acquaintance as a stranger, and win her friendship entirely on my own merits." "It is rather a fantastical way of acting, and is scarcely business-like," was Gilberry's reply. "All the same the idea is not without merit. I am quite ready to help you, and can do so, by saying that you are abroad." "I don't think it is even necessary to say as much. Let Gwen know that I have communicated with you, and have decided to wait for a time before taking over the estate. She can put it down to eccentricity, or to my late father's influence, if she likes. Anyhow, I don't suppose she will trouble to search very deeply into the matter, and will probably be pleased that I don't take possession of Cookley Grange immediately. She can continue to live there until I give her notice to quit." Gilberry laughed and shook his head. "Miss Evans is a very decided young lady, Mr. Owain," he remarked in a judicial manner, "and having her own income of five hundred a year, she has already quitted the Grange." "Because she expected me to take possession?" "Yes." "There!" cried Hench triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you that she was biassed by her father. Has she left Cookley?" "No. She has gone to stay with a very charming old lady in the neighbourhood, called Mrs. Perage." "Better and better. That will enable me to make her acquaintance without unduly forcing myself upon her. My friend, Mr. Vane, who is a barrister----" "Yes! Yes! I know the name. I have heard that he is clever. Well?" "Well, he has given me a letter of introduction to Mrs. Perage, who is his aunt." Mr. Samuel Gilberry rubbed his hands and chuckled. "Very good--very good indeed, my young friend. It is quite a romance. Now, to carry the same to a proper conclusion, may I suggest that you should fall in love with Miss Evans?" Hench shook his head doubtfully. "Private feelings can't be ordered about like private soldiers," he remarked dryly. "I am not the kind of man to fall in love, Mr. Gilberry." "Pooh! Pooh! A handsome young fellow like you is sure to experience the grand passion. And let me tell you that Miss Evans is a beautiful girl, both clever and sensible. If you could manage to marry her," went on the lawyer coaxingly, "think how delightfully you would end the family feud. And after all, poor girl, it is rather hard for her to be reduced to five hundred a year after enjoying, through her father, ten thousand per annum." "Oh, as to that," said Owain promptly, "you can allow her two or three thousand out of my income." "She wouldn't take it, seeing that your consent is necessary." "Yet you talk about my marrying her," was Hench's retort. "I have about as much chance of doing that as the man in the moon. However, I shall make her acquaintance as Hench, and see what comes of it. By the way, doesn't she know the name my father took in place of Evans?" "No. Your late uncle never mentioned it. As Owain Hench you are quite safe in making her acquaintance. She will never think that you are her cousin, unless you let her see how you spell your Christian name. The Welsh spelling may give her a hint, and she is very sharp, remember." "If I have occasion to write it, I shall spell the name in the English way. I don't suppose that will be necessary, anyhow. Well, that's all right. Act as we have decided and I shall go down to Cookley to carry out my romance, as you call it, Mr. Gilberry. One question I should like to ask you, however, before leaving." "And that is, Mr. Owain---?" "Who murdered my uncle?" Mr. Gilberry took a pinch of snuff and shook his venerable head. "Really, it is hard to say, unless it was that tramp who asked the way to the Gipsy Stile, Mr. Owain. I suppose you saw all about that in the papers?" Hench winced, but recovered himself immediately. "Yes, I did, Mr. Gilberry. But what reason could that tramp have had to murder my uncle. Not robbery, if the report of the inquest is to be believed, for then it was said that neither the money, nor the watch, nor the jewellery had been taken." "Exactly. So far as I can see, there was no reason why this man should have murdered Mr. Evans." Mr. Gilberry knitted his brows and looked perplexed. "Maybe it was revenge," he concluded doubtfully. "Revenge. Then my uncle had enemies?" "Dozens, I should think," said the lawyer coolly. "Mr. Madoc Evans was a very cantankerous person. I may say that much ill of the dead. He quarrelled with many people, and, moreover, was very severe on poaching both as a magistrate and as a landowner. This tramp, for all I know, may have been a poacher who had a grudge against him." "Do the police think so?" "The police say nothing, because they have no evidence to go upon," said the lawyer sharply. "The sole person they suspect is the tramp who came to the Bull Inn. But he has disappeared, and they can't find him. However, in the village it is said that the tramp was a poacher, who murdered the Squire out of revenge. You can take or leave that opinion, as you like. The whole thing is a mystery to me, Mr. Owain." "And to me," said Hench, in all good faith. "I shall never be satisfied until I learn who murdered my uncle." "That wish does you credit, Mr. Owain," said Mr. Gilberry approvingly, and again the young man winced. "Considering how unfriendly the late Squire was towards your father." "Well, my father was just as unfriendly towards him," returned Hench with a shrug. "And, as I say, I don't wish to carry on the feud. Good-bye, Mr. Gilberry. When I am settled in Cookley I shall let you know my address and will write you if necessary. You are sure that no one knows my name of Hench as having anything to do with the family at the Grange?" "I am quite sure, although I don't call one solitary girl a family," chuckled the old man, walking with his client towards the door. "Good-bye, good-bye. I hope--I sincerely hope--that the feud will be ended by your marriage to my late friend's daughter." "You might as well expect water to run up hill," retorted Hench sceptically, and went on his way, certain that he was not likely to lose his heart. Consequent on the necessity of preserving the secret of his identity carefully, Hench requested Vane to introduce him by letter to Mrs. Perage as Mr. Hench, suppressing the Christian name, which might have given Gwen a clue, if only from the oddness of the spelling. Vane, on learning that the girl had gone to stay with his aunt, quite approved of this, and both in his letter of introduction and his private epistle to the old lady made all things safe. As Mr. Hench, the young man went down to Cookley, and if he was forced to state what his Christian name was, he resolved to spell it in the English way. That would provoke no remark from Gwen, as "Owen" was not a particularly unusual designation. All the same, Hench felt that he was treading on thin ice. He determined to stay at Cookley as short a time as possible, and to see no more of his cousin than he could help. After all he was going down not to meet her, as Mr. Gilberry believed, but to learn if possible who had murdered the unfortunate Squire. While reading a newspaper entitled _The Setting Sun_ in the train, Hench received a distinct shock, although by this time he was growing accustomed to being startled. Some amateur detective had written a letter to the editor of this halfpenny evening journal, drawing attention to the advertisement in _The Express_ with reference to the meeting at the Gipsy Stile. Of the name "Rhaiadr" nothing was said, as such was Greek to the writer of the letter. But the fact that some one was invited to meet Squire Evans at the very place and on the very evening when he was murdered was largely commented upon. The very officious person who wrote suggested that the police should try and learn to whom the advertisement was addressed, "when without doubt"--the letter went on to say--"the assassin will be captured." Although it was rather like asking the authorities to look for a needle in a bottle of hay, seeing that there were eight million people in London to any one of whom the advertisement might have been addressed, Owain felt cold water running down his spine. Not on account of the Hungarian lady, because he agreed with Vane that she would not give information to the police until she learned if he was prepared to marry her daughter. It was Spruce he feared--the little rat who was meddlesome and secretive, and unscrupulous, and who could do much mischief once he got on the trail. From what Vane had said, it was plain that the Nut had rendered his position in the West End untenable owing to his cheating, and the sole chance he had of becoming even tolerable to his former associates--and perhaps not even then--was to return with his pockets full of money. Then, for the sake of winning the same, they might overlook his fault. Probably they would not, but Hench was quite sure that Spruce believed that money would do anything. Naturally, he would do much to get money, being anything but an honourable man as had been ample proved. In Bethnal Green there were few opportunities of making a fortune, and Spruce was not sufficiently clever to take advantage even of what chances there were. Consequently, he would be quite prepared--Hench was certain of this--to get what he could by blackmail. Already he believed that there was some mystery about Hench, and if he saw the advertisement, or the letter which had drawn attention to the same, he would be certain to get at the truth. Having been present at the conversation between Hench and Madame Alpenny when the woman's meeting with his father--Hench's father that is--had been discussed, the word "Rhaiadr" would certainly come again into his mind. Connecting the same with Hench, the young man was convinced that Spruce would venture to accuse him of keeping the appointment and murdering the advertiser. Then if it came out that the dead man was Hench's uncle, so strong a motive was provided that arrest would certainly follow. It was a very uncomfortable journey for Owain, and he alighted at Cookley Station with the firm idea that he was about to have a trying time. Madame Alpenny was dangerous and so was Spruce, as both wanted cash and both were wholly unscrupulous. However, if either went to the police they were not likely to get what they wanted, so Hench comforted himself with the idea that before taking any action they would find him out and offer to treat. On what he discovered at Cookley would depend his attitude, as if he could only get at the truth he could place the matter in the hands of the police without danger to himself. On the other hand, if he made no discovery likely to prove who was the assassin, it would be necessary to come to some arrangement or risk the consequence. And Hench could not disguise from himself that on the face of it his defence was weak, since the strongest point--that of being a stranger to the dead man--was removed. Certainly, as he had never met Squire Evans, the deceased _was_ a stranger to him, but the fact that the dead man was his uncle, whose demise would give him ten thousand five hundred a year, assuredly provided a strong motive for the commission of the crime. It was all puzzling and difficult, and dangerous and highly unpleasant. All that Hench could do was to wait and see what Madame Alpenny, and possibly Spruce, would do. Any one who has experienced suspense will understand what agonies this unfortunate young man underwent. It required all his courage and all his nerve to endure the anxiety of the next few days. And to make matters worse, Vane was not at hand to relieve the tension by listening to Owain's fears. It was with an odd feeling, and not one of safety, that Hench again set foot in Cookley. As he walked down the crooked street he noted how many eyes of both men and women followed his movements, and for the moment believed that he was recognized. But that was impossible, considering the contrast between the rough-bearded tramp who had visited the Bull Inn and the smart, fashionable, clean-shaven young gentleman now strolling complacently through the little town. What the people looked at, especially the women, were his handsome face and distinguished appearance. From a muttered remark or so which his ear caught, Owain understood that they took him for a tourist, who had come to see the lions of the place. Therefore, in this character the young man asked one or two where he could find lodgings. Of course he was at once directed to the inn, but here, for obvious reasons, he did not wish to go. With the idea of finding quiet rooms he had left his portmanteau at the railway station, so as to seek the same unhampered by luggage. For some time he was unsuccessful in his search, until on the outskirts of the village and no great distance from the church he saw a notice in a cottage window of "Apartments to Let." At once he knocked at the door, since the place seemed clean and quiet. A delicate, slender little woman answered his inquiries by stating that she was called Mrs. Bell and had rooms to let. An inspection of these satisfied the young man, although they were rather poorly furnished and decidedly small. At once he took them at the very moderate sum demanded, and Mrs. Bell at his request sent her nephew to the station to get her new lodger's portmanteau. The little woman, who was meek and fragile, at once took a great interest in Hench, as he had kind eyes and a gentle manner. In a short time the two were good friends, and Mrs. Bell congratulated herself that for one month she had such a pleasant-spoken gentleman under her homely roof. She said as much to her big burly nephew when he returned with the portmanteau on his shoulder, and her nephew thoroughly agreed with her, which was natural, seeing that the new lodger had given him half a crown for his trouble. So Hench was made very comfortable by the two, who approved of him more and more every day. Mrs. Bell was a busy bee in the way of looking after household affairs, and Giles her nephew, who was a labourer, brushed Owain's boots and clothes for him. Also--and this was a great point--Mrs. Bell was no gossip and kept very much to herself, so the neighbours heard little about Hench from her. On the whole, the young man decided that he was very well placed. Hench did not present his letter of introduction to Mrs. Perage straight away, but busied himself in learning what he could of the geography of Cookley. He examined the church, explored the village,--never going into the Bull Inn, by the way,--and even ventured to look at the Gipsy Stile. It gave him a qualm when he found himself on the well-remembered spot, and saw beyond the old brick wall the picturesque Grange, which was now his property. Mrs. Bell, who knew everything about the place and talked freely enough when asked, although she was no scandal-monger, told him how Miss Evans had gone to stay with Mrs. Perage since the death of her father. "And they do say," said Mrs. Bell, who always prefaced her remarks with this phrase, "that she ain't going to rest until she finds out who killed him." "Is there any clue?" asked Owain, keeping his face turned away. "No, there ain't, sir, unless you can call that tramp a clue. He did ask Betsy Jane at the Bull where the Gipsy Stile was, and the old Squire was found there some hours later as dead as mutton. But since then no one's clapped eyes on him, and I don't suppose, sir, as any one ever will." "Do you think the tramp murdered the Squire?" "Lord, sir, how do I know!" cried Mrs. Bell in a panic. "I hev enough to do in the house without thinking of murders. But they do say as Squire Evans was a hard man on poachers, as Giles knows, he having got into trouble over a pheasant. It might be, sir, as that tramp was one of them poachers, and done for the Squire. Though to be sure," added the woman, rubbing her nose in a perplexed way, "if he was a poacher hereabouts some one would hev knowed him, and he wouldn't hev had to ask Betsy Jane of the Bull where the stile was. It's my opinion, that for all Miss Gwen's trying she'll never find out who killed her father. And they do say as if the murderer ain't found it won't be any great grief to them as knowed old Mr. Evans." "What kind of a girl is Miss Evans?" asked Hench irrelevantly. "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bell, nursing her hands under her apron. "Now they do say, sir, as I knows myself, as she's as nice a young lady as you ever set eyes on. Lovely I call her, and small like me, though quite a lady, which I ain't. She's as loved as her father was hated, and they do say as that's saying a great deal. I do assure you, sir, as we'd rather hev Miss Gwen for the head of the place than this new young Squire, as comes from no one knows where!" Hench had many conversations about these matters with Mrs. Bell, and gradually came to know a great deal during the next few days. His uncle, it appeared, had been very unpopular, while Gwen was the reverse. Generally, it was quite believed amongst the ancients of the village that the Squire had been murdered by the unknown tramp, who was a poacher, and the verdict was that it served the dead man right, because he was always so hard on the poor. Owain was tolerably sure that the Cookley people would have been quite sorry had the presumed criminal been arrested. But as he was the person in question, he was glad that they had not been troubled to mourn in this way. All the same, in spite of all his questioning, he was unable to learn anything likely to show who had met Squire Evans in Parley Wood. So far his mission to Cookley had proved a complete failure. Then Destiny intervened to conduct him a step further on the dark path, which was leading him he knew not where. Towards the end of the week, and when he was beginning to feel safer and more at home in the village, he had an adventure, the consequences of which were far-reaching. Owain had gone for a long walk into the surrounding country, and was returning leisurely under the many-coloured glories of the sunset. The weather was warm, the road was dusty, and he paused by a stile to remove his straw hat and allow the breeze to cool his heated brow. Before him was the church, round the square ivy-clothed tower of which the jackdaws were flying; to the right was the road, melting almost imperceptibly into the narrow village street, while to the left ran the same road curving abruptly round a corner into the agricultural lands. So dangerous was this bend in the highway that it was marked with one of those red triangles elevated on a post to warn motorists and cyclists not to move at too great a pace. The injunction was very much needed, and never more so than in the present instance. Hench leaned idling against the stile enjoying the beauty of the evening and the picturesque character of the landscape. He could not see very far, as the place was muffled with hawthorn hedges and tall trees, but there was a quiet domestic loveliness about the prospect which soothed his tormented soul. Suddenly his eye was caught by a moving figure in the porch of the church, which was under the west window. It was that of a slender girl, not very tall, but singularly graceful. As she came down the path towards the lychgate, he saw that she had a beautiful face, aristocratic in its looks and rather pensive in its expression. Arrayed in white, and with a white sunshade, she stepped daintily through the gate and out on to the dusty road, turning her face towards the village, whither she was evidently going. But scarcely had she taken three steps when a motor-car, without warning, swept swiftly round the dangerous corner. The girl was directly in his path, and although Hench shouted at once, she did not step aside. In fact she seemed to be puzzled by his cry, until the noise of the approaching machine struck her ear. Then she wheeled suddenly and stood where she was, paralysed with fright. Hench saw that in a second she would be cut down and be crushed under those cruel wheels, so plunged suddenly forward and dashed across the roadway to thrust her out of the way. So impetuous was his onset that she was tumbled back into the hedge girdling the churchyard, and Hench himself fell sprawling in the dust. With a whirr, the motor passed and he felt a sharp pain in his ankle. The next moment the car was buzzing at top-speed through the village, its driver evidently afraid of prosecution for neglecting to sound his horn. Meanwhile the girl gathered herself up out of the hedge, and Owain lay still on the highway. The whole event lasted less than a minute--the girl being saved, the man being hurt in the twinkling of an eye. And in the same twinkling of an eye the car had vanished into the unknown. "Oh!" The young lady hurried towards her preserver. "Are you hurt?" "My ankle," gasped Hench, sitting up with an effort; "it's giving me a warm time--a wheel went over it, I think--probably it is broken!" and he winced with the pain. "You have saved my life!" "Oh, that's all right," replied the young man, speaking with difficulty, for the suffering was great. "You can repay me by helping me home, or by getting assistance. I can't walk by myself." "Give me your hand," said the girl quickly, quite cool and mistress of herself. "There! Can you get on to your feet?" "On to one foot, anyhow," gasped Hench, smiling to reassure her, and managed to stand upright. "But my ankle is not so very bad. I don't think it is broken--only crushed." "That's bad enough. Lean on me. Where do you live?" "At Mrs. Bell's." "That's not far away. Come. What a hero you are to save me. My name is Evans." "Evans!" repeated Owain, and then knew that he had at last met his cousin. CHAPTER X VANE'S AUNT "I should have been killed to a certainty but for the way in which he got me out of the way," said Gwen to Mrs. Perage, when recounting her adventure, and speaking rather incoherently, for the same had shaken her nerves. Mrs. Perage growled. She was a gaunt, dark-brewed old lady, with a formidable frown and a very determined character. "All's well that ends well," she said in a deep contralto voice, which suggested that of a man. "It might have been worse but for this hero of yours. Did you take the number of the car?" "My goodness!" cried the girl pettishly. "How could I, when I was lying on my back in the ditch under the churchyard hedge? The car passed like a flash." "Daresay," sniffed Mrs. Perage aggressively. "Having done wrong, the chauffeur got out of the way. We'll make inquiries and prosecute. I'd hang every one of those road-hogs if I had my way." "Oh, I don't think it is worth making a fuss about," said Gwen quickly. "I am all right, and his ankle will soon be quite well. I fetched the doctor as soon as I got him to Mrs. Bell's, and there are no bones broken. He will be out and about in a few days." "His--him--he," said Mrs. Perage sharply. "How indefinite you are. What's the name of your Achilles?" "Hench. Mr. Hench. So Mrs. Bell told me, and he's been with her for nearly a whole week." "Hench!" Mrs. Perage rubbed her beaky nose and reflected. "Why, that's the name of Jim's friend he wrote me about. There was a letter of introduction given. Hum! And he's been a week in Cookley without calling. That doesn't look as if he wished to make my acquaintance, Gwen." "Perhaps he's down here on business," suggested the girl, "and did not wish to call on any one until he was free." "Well, if he doesn't call on me, I'll call on him," said the old dame grimly; "if only to thank him for saving your life. Hum! Quite romantic the way in which the man's come into your little world, my dear. Quite romantic, I call it." Then, being very much the woman, in spite of her masculine appearance, Mrs. Perage asked a leading question. "Good-looking?" "Oh!" Gwen clasped her hands. "He's a Greek god." "So was Vulcan. Anything like that heavenly blacksmith?" "No. He's tall and splendidly built, with brown hair and brown eyes; clean-shaven with clearly-cut features." "Hum!" Mrs. Perage brought out the ejaculation with a boom. "You examined him pretty closely, young lady." "Well, I had plenty of time to do so," retorted Miss Evans pertly. "I helped him to hobble to Mrs. Bell's house, and saw him again to thank him after the doctor had examined his poor ankle. I'm sure you will like him." "That has yet to be seen. I don't like many people. However, Jim says that Mr. Hench is a thoroughly good fellow, and----" "I'm sure he is. He saved my life." "Consequently you intend to tumble head over heels in love with him?" Gwen grew red. "I certainly don't. All the same he's very nice, and I'm sorry he's suffering pain." "Pity is akin to love," quoted Mrs. Perage, apparently to the ceiling. The girl laughed and shook her head. "In spite of your matter-of-fact ways and the common-sense you pride yourself upon, you have an imaginative vein, Mrs. Perage. I am sure you see in this accident the beginning of a romance." "If the young man is handsome, as you say, and a good sort as Jim Vane says, why not?" asked the old lady, smiling. "Besides, I don't believe in chance, as everything is ordained by Providence. I shouldn't be at all surprised if, in the long run, it was proved that Mr. Hench tumbled out of the clouds to be your husband. However, it's early days yet to talk. Wait and see!" As the result of long experience, dating from the time when she was a small child in short frocks, Gwen knew that it was useless to argue with Mrs. Perage, so she left the room and went upstairs to change her dress. And as a matter of fact, she had been extremely struck with Hench's good looks, as a woman naturally would be. Also, he seemed to be excessively agreeable, and likewise she owed him her life, not forgetting that she was just at that age when girls begin to dream of marriage. Poor Gwen had not passed a very happy time with her cantankerous father, and was not averse to having a pleasant home and an aggressively devoted lover. So she looked at herself in the glass, pondering over Mrs. Perage's remarks, and blushed crimson to find that Hench was taking up much more of her thoughts than she considered altogether proper. That it was a case of love at first sight she would not admit, but on the whole her feelings had a great deal to do with the oft-quoted proverb. On his side, Owain had no doubts whatever on the subject, strange as it may seem, considering that hitherto he had never been in love. His cousin's lovely face, her sympathetic kindness, together with the undeniable fact that he had saved her life, created in him a number of tumultuous feelings, which he spent the night in analysing. To be sure, he told himself that he did so because the pain of his ankle kept him wide awake, and because thoughts in this direction took his mind off his aching bones. But when the dawn came, he was tolerably certain that he was in love. The feeling he now experienced was wholly different to that with which he had regarded Zara. He had admired the dancer in a cool, reflective, judicious way, seeing that she had faults as well as virtues. But in Gwen he could see no faults, and never paused to consider that he could scarcely know her character from the little he had seen of her. Sensible as Hench usually was, some power--he presumed it was the power of love---swept him off his feet, and he credited the girl with all the virtues of the angels, and with their beauty also. He was glad that he had saved her, as she would be grateful; he was glad that he had hurt himself, as she would pity him; and he was decidedly glad that he had concealed the relationship. Now, at least, there was every chance that he would be able to make a friend of her. Not that he wanted to halt at friendship. He was now firmly bent upon making her his wife, and thus would be able to fulfil Mr. Gilberry's prophecy and end the family feud in quite an agreeable and romantic way. All the night Owain was building castles in the air, and when the dawn came they were still firm. Only on the arrival of the doctor to examine his ankle did the young man descend from these Olympian heights. Then, with a sudden and very natural reaction, he began to think that he had been too premature in his building. The result of this was disastrous to Gwen. She called at mid-day to see how he was getting on, and he received her coldly, while lying on the slippery horse-hair sofa in Mrs. Bell's tiny sitting-room. The girl, flushed with the romance of the whole adventure and struck anew with the splendid looks of her preserver, felt chilled by his calm politeness. The two talked in a more or less formal way and parted very soon. Gwen went back to tell Mrs. Perage that her hero was horrid, and her hero remained on his sofa trying to assure himself that he had rescued only an ordinary girl. But it was all of no use, for Nature would have her way. During the next few days the two met under the chaperonage of the widow Bell, and gradually became aware that the feelings they entertained towards one another were more than those of mere friendship. Of course this knowledge made them more stiff and formal than ever in their intercourse, as their conversation was confined to commonplace subjects, not likely to awaken emotion. Hench was anxious to ask his cousin about her father, but as she said nothing, he did not venture to broach the matter. Still, remembering that she had been clothed in white on the day of the accident, and seeing that her frocks since, beyond black ribbons, did not suggest mourning in any great degree, he came to the conclusion that she had not been particularly attached to her father, although he could not be quite sure. But all doubts on this question were set aside by Mrs. Perage, who placed matters very plainly before him, according to her somewhat grim custom. The old lady did not call for a few days, although she sent creams and jellies, books and flowers, by the hands of Gwen. Owain was very grateful for these kind attentions, and asked Miss Evans to take back his letter of introduction, which she did. Etiquette thus having been complied with, one day, instead of the fairy vision of Gwen, the patient beheld a tall and lean old dame stalk into his room. By this time he was able to get about with a crutch, and rose to greet her, upon which she thrust him back into his armchair with a pair of very capable hands. "Not so," said Mrs. Perage, when he was again seated and taking a chair opposite, where she kilted her black stuff dress to show a pair of large boots. "Stay where you are, young man. Hum! You look better than I expected." "I'm quite well now, thank you, Mrs. Perage. And I must apologise for not having presented Jim's letter before." "Jim sent another letter, and I know all about you," said the old lady sharply. "Oh, I don't think you do," said Hench, rather alarmed, as he feared that Vane might have been indiscreet. "Why not?" Mrs. Perage bent her sharp old eyes on his perturbed face, the good looks of which she secretly approved of. "There's nothing wrong about you, I hope and trust?" "Not what you would call wrong," said Hench evasively. "Pooh, young man. How do you know anything about my standard of morality. I don't suppose it's what you'd call a high one," added Mrs. Perage, rubbing her nose. "I always make allowance for fools, and most of those who dwell in this world, which is much too good for them, are fools." Hench laughed. He liked Mrs. Perage, who was quite a character. In her young days she had been a great beauty, although she was now old and weather-beaten, careless of her attire, and quite manly in her manner. Since the death of her husband, some thirty years ago, she had managed her estates herself, for being childless she had little else to do, and had long since outgrown the toys which amuse Society. For a woman she was uncommonly tall, and with her aquiline nose, her swart complexion and dark eyes, she resembled a gipsy. In spite of her coarse dress so carelessly worn, there was an air of good-breeding about her, and also a shrewd look on her fierce face. Owain stared hard at her Amazonian looks, considering that here was a woman who should have been the mother of heroes to gird armour on them and send them forth to the fray. She was quite out of place in a peaceful community. "Well, young man," said Mrs. Perage roughly, "you'll know me again, I daresay, if staring goes for anything. What are your thoughts?" Hench told them and suggested how unfit she was for a peaceful world where a policeman stands at every corner. "I can't see you anywhere, Mrs. Perage, but in some Norse hall, worshipping Odin and urging men to battle." "Perhaps going to battle myself," said the old dame grimly, yet very pleased with the strange compliment. "Hum! You are right, the world is tame now-a-day, and a long life has bored me with the petty concerns of baby folk. You seem to have ideas in your head, Master Owain." Hench stared and fear clutched at his heart. If she knew this much, she might know more. "Who told you my Christian name?" he faltered. "My own common sense, man alive! I have lived here all my life and knew your grandfather, Mynydd Evans, aye and your father, and Madoc also. Hench was the name Owain took when he was outlawed. See, my boy, how naturally I use the Norse word, after your suggestions of my being a modern Valkyrie." "Does my cousin know who I am?" asked the young man anxiously. "No. I wanted to see you first before I told her." "Don't tell her, Mrs. Perage." "Why not. Hum!"--her eyes were as piercing as spears--"there is some reason for you masquerading as Hench." "Hench was the name adopted by my father, and until a few days ago I quite believed that it was my true name. But certain papers which he left with our family lawyers explained matters." "Did they explain that you inherit Cookley Grange and ten thousand a year?" "Yes." "Hum!"--Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose again and looked puzzled. "Then, knowing that you were the heir, why did you not come and see your uncle after the death of your father? I know he died in Paris five years ago, as Madoc told me." "I did not know that I was the heir until my twenty-fifth birthday on the tenth day of this month. My father left instructions with Gilberry & Gilberry that they were not to give the papers to me until then. I have already told you, Mrs. Perage, that only lately did I learn my true name." The old dame nodded absently, thinking deeply for a few minutes. "I think your father was wise to keep you thus in ignorance until you were older and had some experience of the world. A man of twenty-five could have managed Madoc better than a boy of twenty. Yes, Owain was wise, knowing Madoc's character." "The late Squire does not appear to have had a very good one," remarked Hench dryly. "He was unpopular, I am told by Mrs. Bell." "He was a wicked, selfish, greedy, miserly old scoundrel," retorted Mrs. Perage, aggressively blunt. "And if that's speaking evil of the dead, I don't care. I am quite sure that Madoc fed your grandfather's anger when it was directed towards Owain, who, after all, was not so very evil, although selfish enough. Still, your father would never have been cut out of the will but for Madoc. And if Madoc had met you, young man, he would have tried to settle your hash in some way, you may be certain." "Oh!" Hench started, and was on the point of revealing the story of the advertisement and his adventure, when he checked himself prudently and made quite a different remark. "But if Uncle Madoc was such a rotter, why is Gwen such a nice girl, and I am sure a good girl?" "She is all that," endorsed Mrs. Perage heartily. "And if your father was such a selfish profligate--I don't wish to hurt your filial feelings, but he was--why are you such a nice young man?" Hench coloured at the compliment. "I may be a profligate also." "Pooh!" said Mrs. Perage with supreme contempt, "don't you think that I am able to read faces? Yours is a good one and so is Gwen's. The decency of you both comes in each case from the mother's side, I expect, for both your fathers were--what they were. Children of Old Nick, I call them. You had a bad time with that father of yours, I'll be bound?" "Well"--Hench winced--"he was not a very amiable parent, I must admit, although I wouldn't say that to any one save you." Mrs. Perage bent her keen old eyes on him, read between the lines, and laughed in a short rasping manner after the style of a fox barking. "Just as I thought, young man. Owain was a selfish, cruel animal, and so was Madoc. He gave you as bad a time as Madoc did Gwen." "I rather gathered from Gwen's absence of mourning that she had no great love for her father," remarked Hench musingly. "Your powers of observation are great, Owain. Gwen and her father got on about as well together as a ferret and a rabbit; she being the last and he the first. But for me I don't know what the poor girl would have done. She would have run away from home, I expect. However, she always came to me when her father was particularly trying, and now she has come to me altogether. With me she will stay, until you take her away." Hench raised himself on his elbow and blushed in a delightfully youthful manner. "What makes you say that?" he asked confusedly. "Am I a fool?" queried Mrs. Perage grimly. "Doesn't a cat love cream, and is not a young man likely to fall in love with one whose life he has saved, provided that one is charming and good. Go to, my boy." She spoke quite in the style of her nephew Jim. "I can see through a brick wall, I suppose. But all this doesn't explain why you are masquerading here under your father's false name. Come now, tell me all about it." Hench did not do as she asked him, even though she was such a sensible old lady, for he thought that the time was not yet ripe for him to speak freely about his Gipsy Stile adventure. Therefore he told her the same story that he had told to Mr. Gilberry. "And you see I was right to meet my cousin under a feigned name," he concluded, "for had I come as Owain Evans she would have been prejudiced against me." "Well, I don't know." Mrs. Perage again rubbed her nose thoughtfully. "As you may guess, Madoc always spoke ill of you, saying you were the true son of your wicked father, which was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I rather think. But, you see, Madoc hated the idea of your getting the property." "He wanted Gwen to get it?" "Not a bit. So long as you didn't succeed he would have been content to let an hospital have it. He cared nothing for his daughter, and being such a bad father she naturally disbelieved anything he said. Far from thinking you the rascal Madoc said you were, Gwen fancied that you were quite a nice agreeable young man, which you are. I think she would have welcomed Owain Evans just as kindly as she has welcomed Owain Hench. All the same, if you win her heart as a disguised prince the romance of it will appeal to her when she learns the delightful truth." Hench laughed, feeling greatly relieved. "Mrs. Perage, I don't believe you are a Norse goddess. You are much too romantic." "Perhaps, young man. I am an old fool." "You are one of the most charming people I have ever met," said Hench warmly. "Pooh!" retorted Mrs. Perage, pleased with the compliment. "Don't make love to me, or you'll break Gwen's heart." "Has she a heart to break--on my account, that is?" "Young man,"--Mrs. Perage rose until her head nearly touched the low ceiling, and she assumed her grand manner,--"you don't expect one woman to tell the secrets of another woman. All the same, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. And you are blind, being in love." "Am I in love?" "Something tells me that you are--and with Gwen. But if you are already engaged, or if there is any other girl in the question, I tell you, young man, that I won't have it. Gwen is much too good a girl to be trifled with." "Oh, I assure you, I am not going to trifle with her." "Good. If you do, you'll have me to reckon with," said the old woman grimly. "I am quite Norse enough to twist your neck if you repeat in your own person the very objectionable character of your father. Tell me plump and plain, if you please: do you love Gwen?" "I think so." "Think so! Then you don't love her. No man worth a woman's affection can be in doubt on that point." "Well, you see, I'm a bit of an ass as regards women," confessed Hench, flustered by her imperious insistence. "I have never been in love before." "All the better!" cried Mrs. Perage sharply. "But I thought I was." "Hum! Well, and why not; one must gain experience. How many times?" "Once only. I admired this girl but she loved another man, so I went away." "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage once more. "Is your heart broken?" "Oh Lord, no. I soon got over it." "Then you haven't been in love. But with regard to Gwen"--Mrs. Perage suddenly sat down and laughed heartily--"aren't we rather silly to talk in this way? We are only weaving ropes of sand, for I know nothing certain about the state of your affections or those of Gwen. I think I had better let you two manage things in your own way, and as Mother Nature--who has a large experience--dictates. All I say is, act honestly towards the girl, or you'll have me to deal with. Understand?" "I understand." Hench laughed. "You can trust me." Mrs. Perage went away very well satisfied with the state of affairs. At heart she was romantic like every woman, and like every woman she was quite a matchmaker. There was no young man in Cookley worthy of Gwen, so far as she knew, and this swain--so her thoughts ran--had been brought by Providence in the nick of time to save the girl from being an old maid. She longed to speak as freely to Miss Evans as she had spoken to her cousin, but did not dare to do so, lest she should frighten her into banishing the dawning feeling of love. Mrs. Perage had seen much harm come from meddling, so decided to refrain from throwing the young people too violently at one another's heads. But she certainly threw them gently, for when Hench was nearly all right a few days later, she sent him an invitation to dinner. This he accepted with great delight, and the more eagerly as Gwen had ceased her visits since he became convalescent. At the dinner he would have a chance of seeing her again, and perhaps an opportunity of hinting at his feelings. For by this time he had proved the truth of the saying that "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," and was very sure that he really and truly loved her with all the power that was in him. And this was the genuine passion of man for woman--not the counterfeit one which had led him to seek Zara Alpenny. By this time, since the Hungarian lady was not making trouble, Hench began to think that she would leave him alone altogether. Surely, he thought, if she intended to scheme for her daughter's marriage with him, she would have made some advance before now. Her silence lifted a weight off his mind, and he arrayed himself in purple and fine linen for the dinner, feeling that the sun of prosperity was beaming on him. He went to Mrs. Perage's house, believing that the fine weather would continue, and quite forgot the adage about the treacherous calm before the storm. But when he got to the door, and the door was opened by a small smart page with a freckled face and red hair, he was reminded that it did not do to trust wholly to appearance. The sight of the boy gave him quite a shock, and an uncomfortable one, reminding him as he did of Bethnal Green. "Bottles!" he said, stepping into the hall and staring at the lad. "No, sir; no, Mr. Hench. I'm Peter!" grinned the boy, and began to help Hench off with his overcoat. Then Owain remembered how Simon Jedd had told him he had a brother in service in the country--the same he had gone to see. But he never expected to find that brother in Cookley and in the service of Mrs. Perage. "You know my name?" he said hesitatingly, and wondering if the imp was to be trusted. "Oh yes, sir. Simon has spoken heaps heaps of times to me about you, saying how kind you were to him. Knew your name, sir, the minute Miss Gwen said as you'd saved her life." "Simon came down to see you some weeks ago?" "Yes, sir!" Peter spoke eagerly, and was evidently about to say much, when he suddenly shut his wide mouth and said no more than the two words. Hench settled his coat and his tie, pondering over the situation. The sight of the boy, who was connected with Bottles, revived his anxiety, and he feared lest the lad should write to London and say where he was. In that case Madame Alpenny might find him out, and then there would be trouble. But then Simon, if he did write, would do so to his brother, and Bottles was entirely to be trusted. Still, Hench would have liked to give this page a hint, yet could not do so, as it would be undignified. Peter noted his lingering and hesitation. "Simon wants to see you, sir. It's all right." "What's all right?" asked Hench sharply. The page wriggled uneasily. "Simon will tell you, sir. I don't know nothing, I don't, Mr. Hench." Owain felt uneasy at the implied mystery, but judged it wise to affect careless confidence. "Simon can come and see me when he likes," he said, and entered the drawing-room, considerably annoyed by the encounter. CHAPTER XI MACBETH'S BANQUET The house of Mrs. Perage was quaint and old-fashioned, being so delightfully reminiscent of gracious antiquity that Hench was charmed with his surroundings. As a very modern young man, who had wandered largely in new lands where civilization was still raw, he was pleasantly impressed by the panelled room with the low ceiling. The furniture was Chippendale and Sheraton of the powder and puff epoch, while carpet and curtains were mellowed by age into restful colours, comfortable to the eye. An odour of dried rose leaves scented the air, mingling with the more living perfume of countless blossoms. Mrs. Perage had the happy taste to be extremely fond of flowers, it would seem, for the room was filled with colour and fragrance, even to the fireplace, which bloomed like a garden with white buds and green leaves. Even though the curtains were not yet drawn, and the luminous summer twilight stole in through the wide windows, the many lamps were lighted. And the radiance of these, diffused through rose-tinted shades, bathed the whole room in the delicate hues of dawn. This was a haven of rest, a bower of joy, a paradise of delight, and Hench drew a long breath of sheer pleasure on its threshold. "What a charming room," he said, advancing to greet his hostess. "Charming!" "Blunderer!" retorted that lady in her contralto voice, which boomed like the buzz of a bee in a fox glove bell. "You should say, what charming ladies." "You would think me too bold if I put my thoughts into words." "Very cleverly turned, young man. But women never think men are too bold when they pay compliments." Hench laughed and smiled in a friendly way at Gwen, who was smiling in a friendly way at him. She looked wonderfully fresh, attractively delightful, as delicate as Titania and wholly as fascinating. Her dress of plain white silk adorned with black ribbons, hinting at mourning, became her well in its dainty simplicity, and Owain felt again that queer heart-throb which informed him very distinctly that this was the one girl in the world for him. No woman could be lovely unless she had golden hair and blue eyes and a complexion of cream and roses. He wondered how he ever could have admired Zara, who did not possess these necessary charms. But when he was attracted by the dancer he was a fool, now he intended to be a wise man and lay his heart at Gwen's feet. Whether she would pick it up had yet to be seen, for she gave no intimation of her feelings. "When you two finish grinning at one another like a couple of Chinese dolls, perhaps you will remember that I am present. Sit down, young man. Are you very hungry? I have a very good dinner for you." "Splendid! I'm not hungry, Mrs. Perage, but I am greedy." "Pooh! That joke is as old as the hills. Be more original." "That's difficult. How can I be original, Miss Evans?" Hench asked the question with ceremonious courtesy, which made Mrs. Perage smile, knowing what she did know. "I think you are original," said Gwen brightly. "You saved my life!" "Hum!" came the boom of Mrs. Perage, "and that's originality, is it?" "Well, I don't make a practice of saving lives," laughed Hench lightly. "And I don't think I ever saved any one before. So I _am_ original, you see." The old dame smiled grimly, as she relished the young man's flippant conversation. "One grows so tired of common-sense," she murmured, following her own thoughts. "Why, you are always commending common-sense," exclaimed Gwen, lifting her eyebrows and laughing. "In its place, child, in its place. To-night you and Mr. Hench can talk nonsense, as it will make me feel young." "You _are_ young, Mrs. Perage," said Owain seriously. "Your heart is in its spring-time. You are one whom the gods love." "Ta! Ta! Ta! young Chesterfield. Don't make me blush, as I have long since forgotten how to do so. You and your compliments, indeed! Not but what I wear tolerably well, although a trifle time-worn," which final sentence showed that Mrs. Perage had her little vanities. And she was right in having them, for having stepped out of her rough day-clothes into sumptuous evening dress, she looked wonderfully stately. Amber satin, black lace and diamonds, oddly enough, seemed as natural to her as the more or less masculine dress which she affected during her business hours. Mrs. Perage always called looking after her farms and attending to her accounts business, which it assuredly was, and business moreover which required a clear head. In the day-time she was like one of her labourers in appearance, and her clothes might have graced a scarecrow, but when evening came she always appeared as a fine lady. This change, which reminded Hench somewhat of Miss Hardcastle in Goldsmith's comedy, amused the young man. He liked Mrs. Perage. "I wrote and asked Jim Vane to come down to dinner," went on Mrs. Perage, after a pause. "As I thought that I could amuse myself with his wit while you attended to Gwen here. But he wrote saying that he could not come, as he was exploring Bethnal Green." "Bethnal Green," echoed Hench with a start. "What the deuce--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Perage---but what is Jim doing there?" "He did not explain. Why do you ask?" "Oh, nothing, nothing!" "What an irrelevant reply." "Well, I was only thinking that Jim usually prefers the West End to the quarters of the poor," said Hench guardedly. He was not quite certain if he had mentioned his sojourn at Bethnal Green to Mrs. Perage, and resolved to do so now, as--so far as he was able--he wished to be quite straight and above-board with the keen old lady. "I stayed there for six months." "In Bethnal Green?" said Gwen, amazed. "And what were you doing in such a horrible place, Mr. Hench?" "Well, as Jim would put it, I was doing a perish. I am a poor man, Miss Evans, and have lived for many years in Queer Street." "Queer Street?" Gwen looked puzzled. "It is the name given to the locality where those unsuccessful people who are trying for what they can't get live in penury." Gwen looked at Hench's well-cut suit of evening clothes, at his well-bred face, and considered his general debonair appearance. "You don't look poor." "There is poverty and poverty," said Mrs. Perage gruffly. "Mr. Hench is not yet in the workhouse, Gwen. For my part I think 'a perish,' as you say Jim calls it, is not a bad thing for a young man. It gives him experience of life----" "Of the seamy side of life, Mrs. Perage," interpolated the young man. "And what is more picturesque than that. Here we are all respectable and eminently dull. There's the gong." She rose with a well-managed sweep of her skirts. "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." "Or diet," said Hench, holding the door open for the ladies. "Pooh! nonsense!" said the Amazon vigorously. "Young men shouldn't know the meaning of such a word. I'm sure I don't. I have a strong digestion and a hard heart." "Not that last," said Gwen quickly; "as I know." "What imagination you have, child," retorted Mrs. Perage, and took her position at the head of a small table, while Gwen and Hench sat on either side. "And I hope you don't mind our straggling into the dining-room in this free and easy way," she added to the young man; "but I couldn't take your arm as Gwen would have felt out of it, and I wasn't going to let you give Gwen your arm lest you should lack reverence for my age." And she laughed in her deep, hearty fashion, evidently desirous of making her guest feel quite at home. The dining-room was a small apartment decorated and furnished in the Jacobean style. But Hench could not see much of it, as there were only candles in sconces here and there. The most powerful illumination was that thrown by a large lamp with a green shade, which hung low over the table. In its light the white napery, the old silver, the crystal glasses and the many flowers, looked peculiarly attractive. And the table not being over large, the three seated at it could converse with one another very much at their ease. A deft maid and Peter waited dexterously, and everything ran smoothly during the meal. "This is my hour of relaxation," explained Mrs. Perage briskly. "I am ominously fond of my creature comforts and this is my favourite soup." "Why ominously?" "Silly questioner. Doesn't devotion to eating show that one is growing old?" "Then I must have been born old," said Hench gaily, "for I have always had a good appetite since I was a boy, and have always liked nice things." His eyes rested, perhaps inadvertently, on Gwen as he spoke. "Ah!" Mrs. Perage had noticed the look, and spoke significantly. "You are one of those lucky people who will always get the nice things." "I haven't had much luck so far, Mrs. Perage." "Ungrateful! What do you call this?" "Paradise!" said Hench briefly. "With you as Adam, Gwen as Eve, and myself as the Serpent." "Aren't you talking dreadful nonsense?" observed the girl seriously. "Not at all," retorted the old lady coolly. "It is common-sense to chatter amusingly. Enjoy yourself, child, and when trouble comes you will be able to remember at least one happy hour." "Trouble has come, and severe trouble, too," replied Gwen softly, and with a gloomy air. "Now, not another word!" Mrs. Perage spoke sharply. "We can talk of that afterwards in the drawing-room." "Talk of what?" asked Hench innocently, for he was surprised by Gwen's gloom and Mrs. Perage's sharpness. The old dame rubbed her nose in a vexed way. "Gwen has something to ask you this evening," she observed. "I think it is nonsense myself. No! I won't tell you what it is just now, neither will Gwen. Let us enjoy our meal without the discussion of horrors." This was all very well, but how was Hench to enjoy his meal when Care stood like a waiter behind his chair? The presence of Peter reminded him of Bottles, and that memory brought to his recollection The Home of the Muses in Bethnal Green, where, for all he knew, Madame Alpenny might be plotting. Then he wondered what had taken Jim to the house, for there he must have gone, as it was unlikely he would journey to such a district for any other purpose. Perhaps the Hungarian lady was already weaving her nets to snare him--the thinker-either as a husband for Zara, or as a criminal. It was very uncomfortable thinking. And being so alarmed, Hench did his best to talk brightly and amusingly. For the time being he was "fey," as the Scotch say, and roused his cousin out of her gloom by his sallies. Mrs. Perage seconded him admirably, as she quite enjoyed a contest of wits, which was rare to come by in Cookley. The food was good, the wine was excellent, the company interesting. All the same Hench felt that this meal was like Macbeth's banquet, and behind the revelry lurked the grim figure of Tragedy with her bowl and dagger. At any moment Banquo in the person of Madame Alpenny might appear. Of course such a supposition was nonsense, as the Hungarian lady did not know where he was. But the feeling became so real to Hench that he cast several uneasy looks behind his chair. Gwen noticed this and remarked on the same nervously. "Why do you look over your shoulder?" she asked petulantly. "For the Kill-joy," said Hench in a blunt way. "You know, Miss Evans, man is never permitted to be entirely happy. There is always the Kill-joy." "Gwen will provide you with all the Kill-joy you are needing," said Mrs. Perage significantly. "Wait until we go to the drawing-room. Meantime go on scintillating, young man. Talk your heart out." "To whom?" asked Hench audaciously. "To me, sir. You can flirt with Gwen to-morrow; to-night old age must have its turn. Here are some very excellent cigarettes. Light up and talk." "You remind me of the lady who asked Sydney Smith when he was going to be funny," said Hench dryly. "It is not easy to talk when so ordered. As to Miss Evans, she never flirts." "Ah, you don't know my capabilities," retorted Gwen, with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes. "I have many sides to my character." "And all charming, I am sure," answered the young man courteously. And so the conversation went on, all frothy, all about nothings--mere spume and spindrift of the mind. And the lighter it became the more certain did Hench become sure that Banquo's ghost was haunting the room. He felt quite relieved when Mrs. Perage conducted himself and Gwen into the drawing-room, for there the psychic atmosphere was less oppressive. The girl, however, appeared to feel it otherwise, for after playing on the piano for a few minutes she began to wander restlessly round the room. Mrs. Perage attempted to frown her into sitting down, but as this proved to be an impossible task she accepted the situation with grim resignation. "You may as well enlist Mr. Hench as your champion, child. You will never be quiet until you do." "Enlist me as your champion!" echoed Hench, glancing at Gwen. The girl grew flushed. "That is Mrs. Perage's pretty way of putting things," was her reply, as she sat down near the hostess. "But I do wish you to help me, Mr. Hench. I'm not quite sure if I am right in doing so, and perhaps you will think it is presumption on my part. But, somehow, your having saved my life has made you more than a friend." "More than a friend?" "I mean"--Gwen became even more crimson than she already was, as she became aware that she had spoken more freely than was necessary--"more familiar than most of my friends." "Who are usually mere acquaintances," observed Mrs. Perage quietly. "Why beat about the bush, Gwen? You know that Mr. Hench is clever and kind-hearted, and you are anxious that he should do you a favour. That is the situation." "Any favour I can do you, Miss Evans----" began the young man eagerly, when the girl stopped him. "Don't say another word until you know what the favour is," she said in an abrupt manner; "to do what I want may be unpleasant. In a word I want you to try and find out who murdered my father." "That's about a dozen words, more or less," sighed Mrs. Perage, but Hench took no notice of her flippant remark. He was too much taken aback to do so, and remained silent. Gwen misunderstood his silence, and looked mortified "You won't help me?" "I was thinking," said the young man gravely. "Of course I have read all about the death of your father in the newspapers, Miss Evans, and I can quite understand your desire to avenge him. Anything I can do shall be done with the very greatest pleasure. How do matters stand?" "As they stood after the inquest," explained Gwen with a shrug. "The jury brought in an open verdict, but the general opinion is that my father was murdered by the man who spoke to the girl in the tap-room of the Bull Inn." Hench winced. Every one appeared to be agreed that the tramp was the culprit, and he guessed that if discovered the tramp would have little chance of escaping a most uncomfortable trial. Even if he proved his innocence the experience would be unpleasant. Wondering what Mrs. Perage and the girl would say if he were to acknowledge that he was the man referred to, he began to ask questions in a grave voice. "Do you think that this tramp is the guilty person?" "It looks like it," rejoined Gwen promptly. "The man asked the way to the Gipsy Stile and evidently went there. Afterwards my father was found dead near the stile." "Had this tramp any motive to murder your father?" "How can I tell that?" said the girl irritably. "I am only taking what evidence suggests his guilt. Why should he come to Cookley and ask the way to the very place where my father was afterwards found dead?" "But the fact that the man asked the way to the stile shows that he was a stranger in Cookley. Would a stranger come here to murder your father?" "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage suddenly. "Madoc Evans had many enemies!" "Can you name any of them?" "Every one in the neighbourhood, I should say," snapped the old lady cynically. "Exactly. Every one in the neighbourhood. But this tramp was a stranger." "He might have been hired by some one to murder the Squire," said Mrs. Perage vaguely. "In that case the some one would have explained how this bravo was to get to the stile," said Hench coolly. And then he wondered if Gwen knew anything about the advertisement. "Also," he continued, "the some one must have known that Squire Evans would be at the stile at that particular time. Now, Miss Evans, can you tell me if your father made any appointment?" Gwen shook her head. "I can't say. My father did many things about which he told me nothing. Often in summer he walked out after dinner, as he did on the night he was murdered, but where he went I can't say. We searched the park when we missed him, and afterwards the woods on chance." "Was your father agitated on that night?" "He was agitated from the time the woman came to see him," said Gwen quickly. Hench sat up, and a thrill passed through him. "A woman?" "Yes! Some time in June a woman called one afternoon and had an interview with my father in the library. She was with him for two hours, and when she went away he was very much upset. I asked him who she was and why the visit annoyed him--as it plainly did." "And he told you to mind your own business, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Perage with a grim smile, for she knew Evans thoroughly. "Yes, he did. But from the time this woman called my father was silent and morose and irritable. I hope you won't think that I am undutiful, Mr. Hench, when I say that my father was not a pleasant-tempered man. But after the interview he became unbearable." "I never knew him when he was otherwise," cried the old lady, determined that Hench should know everything. "Madoc Evans was without doubt the most disagreeable person I have ever met. A bear would have had a more amiable temper." "Well, my father is dead," said Gwen coldly, "so it's no use calling him names." "Oh, I'll be a very tombstone for lying about the dead, if you like, my dear Gwen. But if Mr. Hench is to help he must know that your father was one of those uncomfortable men who never had a friend, and who never wanted one, so far as I know." "My father was eccentric," said Gwen, her colour coming and going as she explained herself to the young man. "And certainly he did not get on well with people. He quarrelled with my grandfather and with his brother Owain." "And with every one else," said Mrs. Perage. "After all Mynydd Evans would have done better to leave the money to Owain"--she stole a glance at Hench as she spoke. "He was a better man than Madoc." "Madoc was my father," said Gwen impatiently, "so please say as little bad of him as possible. And, after all, the estate has gone to my cousin, Owain's son, though I don't know why he doesn't come and take possession. What do you think is the reason, Mr. Hench?" "How can I tell the reason?" asked Hench awkwardly, and aware that Mrs. Perage was looking at him significantly. "Let us leave that fact alone for the present and talk of this woman who evidently upset your father. Who was she, Miss Evans?" "I have told you that my father refused to say." "Did you see her?" "I caught a glimpse of her when she went away from the Grange, as I happened to be looking out of the drawing-room window." "What was she like to look at?" "I didn't see her face. Her back was turned towards me, as she was going down the avenue." "Oh," said Hench disappointed, "that's a pity." "But I remember how she was dressed." "That's better. Well?" "She looked an untidy old thing," said Gwen, after a pause to recollect the appearance of this important stranger. "Very fat and unshapely. She wore a black dress spotted with orange dots, a black velvet mantle trimmed with jet beads, and a hat much too large for her, and----" She broke off. "What's the matter, Mr. Hench?" Owain's sudden change of colour and sudden start at this vivid description of Madame Alpenny betrayed him immediately, and he looked confused, not very well knowing how to excuse himself. For obvious reasons he did not wish to admit that he recognized the costume described. Therefore he took refuge in a white lie, and told the first one that occurred to him. "An idea struck me, Miss Evans, that your father might have been murdered by gipsies." "Hum!" cried Mrs. Perage, quite taken in by this plausible untruth. "That isn't at all unlikely. Madoc was hard on gipsies, especially when they poached." "But why do you suggest gipsies?" Gwen asked Owain, without attending to her hostess. "Well," he said, with an affected shrug, "that queer dress of the untidy old woman hints at a gipsy. Perhaps it's only a fancy on my part." "It's a very good fancy," said Mrs. Perage emphatically. "If this tramp is innocent, which he may be for all I know, the gipsies may have something to do with the crime. Why, Gwen, don't you remember how your father turned a whole gang of them off Parley Common a year ago because they were robbing the hen-roosts? And an orange spotted dress is just what a gipsy would wear." "But you don't think, Mrs. Perage, that this woman murdered my father?" "My dear, I don't suggest anything because I don't know anything. All I say is, that Mr. Hench's chance shot may have hit the bull's-eye." Gwen looked down thoughtfully at the carpet. "My father certainly was very much worried after his interview with this woman, and his worry lasted up to the time of his death. Gipsies--if this woman was a gipsy--might have something to do with the matter." "It's only my idea, of course," said Owain hastily, for he did not wish Madame Alpenny to be run to earth immediately. "Don't let us jump to conclusions. We must think. I shall be here for a few weeks, and during that time, Miss Evans, I am wholly at your disposal." "You will help me to learn who murdered my father?" "Yes. I'll do my best to find out," said Hench earnestly. "Hum!" boomed Mrs. Perage. "Easier said than done. How do you intend to begin?" "Well," remarked Hench, after a pause. "I think it will be a good start if Miss Evans takes me over Cookley Grange and into Parley Wood where the corpse was found. Then we can talk over the matter." Gwen looked doubtful. "Do you think my cousin would mind if I went over the Grange and took Mr. Hench?" she asked her hostess. Mrs. Perage stole a sly glance at Owain. "No, I don't think he would. Why should he, if you come to that?" "Well, his father and my father didn't get on well together." "That is no reason why their son and daughter shouldn't," retorted Mrs. Perage. "You can take Mr. Hench to the Grange to-morrow at noon. Now, young man,"--she rose to the full height of her lofty stature,----"you can depart. I keep early hours here, as it is necessary that I should have my beauty sleep." "As if you needed it!" said Owain jestingly, and this agreeable visit ended as it had begun--with badinage and frivolity. CHAPTER XII CUPID'S GARDEN That night Hench awoke during the small hours of the morning with the conviction that he knew all about the mystery in which he was involved. He had fallen asleep much exercised in his mind so far as the visit of Madame Alpenny to Cookley Grange was concerned. He remembered that about the time mentioned by Gwen the Hungarian lady had gone away from Bethnal Green, presumably to procure an engagement for Zara in a West End music-hall. Certainly that might have been one very good reason why she had remained absent for a few days, but now it appeared that there was another, which had to do with Madoc Evans. When unconsciousness came Owain was still wrestling with the problem, and somehow it seemed that the same was solved during slumber. But with the working of his physical brain the scheme broke up, and he was only able to retain fragments. These he proceeded to piece together while staring at the ceiling through the faint twilight of the already dawning day. It was rather a difficult task to put two and two together. The young man recollected that Madame Alpenny had denied all knowledge of the elder Hench's family history, but recollected also that she had done so with a certain amount of hesitation. It now was borne in forcibly upon him that his father had told the woman much more about his past than she would admit. Probably he had informed her of the quarrel with the grandfather, and of his dislike for the brother, explaining also that Madoc enjoyed Cookley Grange and the large income for life. The word "Rhaiadr" had brought back the interview clearly to Madame Alpenny's mind, and it was more than probable that she knew Owain would inherit the estate. For that reason she had been agreeable to his paying attentions to her daughter, and for that reason she had paid her visit to Cookley Grange. Hench now quite understood how she had come to see the advertisement and to draw his attention to it. Without the least hesitation he concluded that she had learned from his father where Cookley Grange was situated, and thither she had gone to tell Madoc of her meeting with his pauper nephew. Why his uncle should have put in the queer advertisement and have appointed so strange a meeting-place Owain could not conceive, but he was certain that Madoc had done so, and had used the very word to attract attention which had awakened the Hungarian lady's memory of the twenty-year-old meeting. She was without doubt on the look-out for the advertisement, knowing in which paper it would appear. Thus she had easily been able to show it to him, and having--so to speak--assisted Madoc to lay the trap she had waited results. Now what puzzled Hench was why Squire Evans should have acted in this very roundabout way to bring about a meeting. An honest man would have either ignored the son of the brother he hated or would have openly invited him as his heir to visit him. Instead of doing this Madoc had behaved mysteriously in making the appointment, and had chosen for the rendezvous a solitary place out-of-doors. It seemed tolerably clear to Owain that his uncle had intended to do him harm; perhaps his idea was to murder him so that he should not inherit. Squire Evans, if the hints of Gwen and the very plain speaking of Mrs. Perage were to be believed, was by no means honest, so it was just possible that he wanted to get his hated heir out of the way. Hench shrunk from this conclusion, but after much thought could come to no other. The unexpected murder of the Squire had prevented his own death taking place. When the young man rose in the morning he turned the matter over in his mind, both while he was having his bath and while he was getting into his clothes. It then occurred to him that, as Madame Alpenny wished him to inherit so that he might marry Zara, the scheme of Evans would scarcely have suited her. She would have been no party to such a transaction, as such would have rendered void all her plans to get money through the marriage. But Madoc, being crafty, had probably not explained what he intended to do, and Madame Alpenny had returned to The Home of the Muses simply to bring about a meeting which would result in Owain entering into his kingdom on the death of his uncle. As things had turned out that death had taken place very unexpectedly, and Hench wondered if Madame Alpenny believed that he was the criminal. It seemed impossible that she should so believe, as in the first place she was ignorant that he had kept the appointment, and in the second if she was aware she would assuredly have moved in the matter before now. Owain could not understand her silence. The only reason he could conceive why she should remain in the background when things had come to such a pass was that her intention was to come forward when he took possession of the estate. Then--as he thought--she would appear at Cookley Grange with Zara, and if he refused to marry the girl would then accuse him of the murder. And again Hench remembered how he had been haunted by the feeling of this scheming woman's presence both at his hotel and when he started for Cookley. He had even believed that he had seen her amongst the crowd at Liverpool Street Station. Certainly the feeling was vague and he had been unable to prove that she was actually present on the platform. All the same he was now pretty certain that Madame Alpenny had been watching him, and that she knew he was staying at Cookley. When she thought it was time she would very likely appear to continue her plots. It was all very uncomfortable and unpleasant to a young man who was honest and straight in all his dealings. Against his will he was involved in these sordid schemes, and he did not see any way of extricating himself from their mire. All he could do was to wait until the Hungarian lady took action. Meanwhile he would do his best to try and learn who had actually murdered his uncle. It was for this reason he had so readily agreed to assist Gwen in her search. The day was very hot, as there was not a cloud in the sky and the sun was blazing like a great jewel in the softly-hued azure. Hench, scorning convention, assumed a tropical kit which he had brought from the warm lands of the equator. In a white linen suit, white shoes and a solar topee, he looked sufficiently noticeable as he made his way to Mrs. Perage's house. The Cookley villagers, accustomed as they were to the eccentricities of tourists, were very much surprised to behold him clothed so strangely. Naturally, being excessively prejudiced, they did not consider the cool comfort of such a garb, and jeered at the young man's common-sense while they sweated in their hot dark apparel. Matrons even came to the doors to remark audibly that his washing-bill must be something enormous. But Hench took no notice of the attention he attracted. He was even glad, as it proved conclusively to him that no one recognized in his spotless dress the rough tramp who was being hunted for far and wide. At the gate of Mrs. Perage's grounds he met Gwen, likewise clothed in fair white linen with a large straw hat girdled by artificial corn-flowers, as blue as her own eyes. She met Hench with a smile and he smiled also, for each of them considered that the other looked wonderfully handsome. Gwen even said as much with delightfully childish candour, blushing as she spoke. "How nice you look, Mr. Hench, and what a sensible dress for a hot day." "I return the compliment," said Owain, standing very straight and slim and saluting her in a strictly military fashion by way of a joke. "But people hereabouts have been making very rude remarks regarding my laundry-bill." "Of course they would. It is eccentric in England to be comfortable in white clothes. You wouldn't dare to go to London in that suit." "Try me," said Hench laughing. "I might do it out of dare-devilment, although I am not anxious to attract undue attention." "Why?" asked the girl, looking at him in what his guilty conscience told him was a searching way. Conscious that he had said an awkward thing, which he had, having regard to his position, Owain strove to turn it off with a laugh. "I am not vain enough to wish for admiration. I leave that to the Nuts and the Nibs." "Horrid, conceited young men," said Gwen, as she fell into step beside him. "I do detest that class of person." "Then I hope you don't think that I belong to the class in question." "No. You're a man!" "A very faulty man." "I hope so. A perfect man would be horrid." "And a perfect woman?" asked Owain, peeping under her large hat. "There isn't such a thing." "There is," he insisted. "I know one, at all events." "Mrs. Perage would be very flattered if she heard you say that," said Gwen in a demure tone and smiling. "I don't mean Mrs. Perage, delightful as she is. I mean----" "Now, don't spoil things with explanations," interrupted Miss Evans quickly. "Are you to pay all the compliments?" "I don't pay compliments. I say that you are a man, because you saved my life and don't talk about yourself as those horrid Nuts do. If you were like them I shouldn't ask you to assist me." Owain nodded comprehendingly. "I hope we will be successful," he said soberly, "but the task is a difficult one!" "To me more than to you it is difficult," said Gwen, colouring. "For to make you understand I have to say things about my father which I would rather leave unspoken." "Leave them unspoken," advised Hench coolly. "I have learned quite enough from Mrs. Perage to know that your father was a man who made many enemies. One of them murdered him; which one we have to find out." "How are we to begin?" "I hardly know. Perhaps Fate will begin for us," said Hench. He was thinking of Madame Alpenny as Fate. His cousin said nothing more, as her mind was busy considering his remarks, so the two walked on very quietly along the dusty road until they came to the scene of the motor-car adventure. Gwen was about to recall Owain's bravery, but checked herself, lest she should say too much, for her gratitude towards Hench was very strong. Also she saw that he was as attracted by her as she was by him, and thought if she spoke too ardently that he might say things which she did not wish to be said at the present moment. By this time the girl was tolerably certain that the young man loved her, and would probably propose if she gave him the least chance. As she knew little about his worldly position, she did not desire to move too swiftly in matters of love. Much as she loved him and admired him and was grateful to him, yet, like all women, even the most romantic, she had a vein of practical wisdom, which made her look before she leaped. Soon she would know more of Hench with regard to his income, his position, his habits and tastes. Then she would be able to say "Yes" or "No" in accordance with her feelings. They were strong just now, but she did not intend to let them run away with her. Owain went with Gwen along the path leading out of the churchyard through emerald-hued meadows towards Parley Wood. It was the very same path which he had trodden on that eventful night, and he shivered slightly at the recollection. Fortunately Gwen was too much taken up with her own thoughts to notice this sign of discomfort, which was lucky, since it would have necessitated an untrue explanation. And after that one uncontrollable tremor, Hench braced himself to outward calmness, and trod with apparent carelessness the bye-way which had previously conducted him towards such dire trouble. He was quite glad when the girl branched off along another path skirting the wood. This took them round the corner of the trees and brought them into a narrow lane, where the trees met overhead to shut out the sky. The pair moved through a quiet green twilight with a tall hedge on one side and a mouldering red brick wall on the other. "This runs round the park," said Gwen, tapping the mellow bricks, "and by following it we come to the gates." "Is it a large park?" asked Hench, curious to ascertain the extent of his domain. "Not very large, but very beautiful. So is the house." Gwen heaved a sigh. "I was very, very sorry to leave the Grange, as you may guess." "Perhaps you will go back to it," suggested Owain, feeling desperately anxious to then and there lay the same at her feet. "No!" Gwen flushed angrily. "My cousin is sure to take possession soon, and then I can never visit my old home." "Why not?" Owain averted his face. "Your cousin may be a good sort of chap." "I don't see how he can be with such a father as he had," retorted Gwen tartly. Hench was nettled, as he thought that this was unfair. "After all, your father was no angel," he said, also tartly. "Yet look at--you." "If you are going to pay silly compliments, I shall go back," said the girl sharply. "We are here on business, remember." "I didn't pay a compliment--at any rate to your father." "My father was--my father, so there's no use saying anything more. As to my cousin, I'll never set eyes on him, so why talk about him." "If you stay with Mrs. Perage you are certain to see him." "I shan't stay with Mrs. Perage. As soon as my cousin arrives I shall go to live in London and enjoy myself. I have five hundred a year of my own, so I can do as I like." "Why have you remained here so far?" "Because I wish to learn who murdered my father." "But I thought you didn't get on with your father?" "That is no reason why I should allow the beast who murdered him to escape, Mr. Hench," said Gwen quickly. "I wish you wouldn't talk of--but there"--she walked on abruptly--"you don't understand, and I cannot give you plain enough explanations to make you understand. There is our family history to be considered and it is not a pleasant one." Of course, Owain knew the family history just as thoroughly as the girl by his side, but for obvious reasons he could not tell her so. He could recall nothing in the same creditable to the late Squire, and it was impossible to guess why Gwen should so greatly desire to avenge his death. Even though the dead man was her father, he had proved a particularly unkind one, if Mrs. Perage was to be believed. But before they returned to the village, Gwen was compelled, against her will as it were, to tell him the true reason for the search. Then Owain was no longer astonished that she should prosecute the same, and ask for his assistance. The two passed through ornate iron gates swung between two mighty pillars of stone, and walked leisurely up a long avenue, which swept round in a curve to lead into a vast open space girdled by the trees of the park. Here, the young man for the first time came face to face with the mansion he had inherited, and silently expressed his admiration. It was a rambling structure of mellow red brick, the patchwork of many generations, and comprising many styles of architecture. And the very incongruity of the same constituted its chief beauty, as the eye was always finding something new and unexpected. Two storeys in height, it possessed a lofty slanting roof of red tiles, weather-worn and picturesque, with many stacks of twisted chimneys and many mullion windows. The whole was draped in dark green ivy, and seemed to be so ancient that it only appeared to be held together by the same. Windows and door were closed, but Gwen informed her companion that Mrs. Capes, her father's old housekeeper, was in charge. To summon her, she rang the bell as they stood in the porch. "It's a lovely place, isn't it?" she said, watching Owain's eyes roving round. "Very lovely," he assented warmly. "We could be very happy here." "We!"--Gwen flushed hotly--"what do you mean?" Then it was Hench's turn to flush. "I beg your pardon. I spoke without thinking, you see. What a lucky person your cousin is," he ended artfully. "I don't envy him his luck," she replied coldly, "and I'm sorry for the place, let alone the people. He is sure to be disagreeable." "But not knowing him, how can you judge?" protested Owain, much vexed at this persistent hostility. "I knew my father and I heard all about my Uncle Owain. No good can come out of Nazareth, and no decent man from the Evans family." Hench inwardly groaned and considered that she would have small mercy on him when she came to realize that he was the wicked heir in question. Madoc Evans must indeed have been a cruel parent to prejudice her so greatly against the race whence she sprung. However, he had little time to consider this question, as the door opened and a stiff, stately old dame in a black silk dress and wearing a lace cap made her appearance. She was a comely woman in spite of her age, and smiled all over her wrinkled face when she beheld the girl. "La, Miss, I am glad to see you. I thought you were never coming again." "I wish to show this gentleman the house and grounds," said Gwen, stepping into a large hall, with busts of the Caesars on pedestals ranged on either side. "I suppose my cousin has not yet come?" "No, Miss," said Mrs. Capes respectfully, and looking at Owain in a puzzled way as though she recognized his face. "The lawyers wrote to tell me that he was coming some time before the end of the year, but they couldn't be sure when." "Curious," murmured Gwen to herself. "I wonder why he is so slow in coming?" "Perhaps he thinks you are here and does not wish to turn you out," said Hench, overhearing. "Then I shall write to Mr. Gilberry and tell him that I have left. In fact, I think he knows, as Mrs. Perage said something about having written. Anyhow, I don't want my cousin to show any consideration for me." "Oh, fie, Miss," said Mrs. Capes reprovingly. "Mr. Evans may be a very nice gentleman, for all we know." "Ah," said Gwen bitterly, "you worship the rising sun, I see." Mrs. Capes looked offended. "I worship no one, Miss, but if Mr. Evans turns out to be a nice gentleman, why shouldn't I like him?" She stole a glance at Owain as she spoke, and again he saw something like recognition in her eyes. Gwen shrugged her shoulders. "Wait here, Mr. Hench, and I shall return soon. I can show you over the house, and we will not need to trouble Mrs. Capes." She went away in a hurry, while Hench and the housekeeper remained in the hall looking at one another. By this time Owain felt rather uncomfortable, as it seemed that Mrs. Capes recognized him, and he wondered if she was about to denounce him as the much-wanted tramp. Of course the idea was ridiculous, as she had never seen him when he first came to Cookley to keep the appointment of the advertisement. Nevertheless, Hench felt uneasy and pointedly questioned the old woman, so as to set his own mind at rest. "Why do you look at me so intently, Mrs. Capes?" he asked quickly. "I was thinking how greatly you resemble your father," she answered. Owain was taken aback. "My father!" he muttered nervously. "My dear young gentleman, I have been with the family all my life, and knew Mr. Owain Evans as boy and man. I was certain that you were his son the moment I saw you. And when Miss Gwen called you 'Mr. Hench,' of course I was positive. That was the name Mr. Owain took when he went away from his father." "I am Owain Evans," admitted the young man, seeing that he was discovered; "but I don't wish my cousin to know. She seems to have a prejudice against me." Mrs. Capes nodded shrewdly. "Mr. Madoc was always speaking against you and your father, sir. No, I won't say a word. Are you----?" She looked searchingly at him. Hench guessed what she meant. "Yes, I am," he admitted boldly, "very much in love, but if she learns who I am she won't marry me." "The temper of the family is obstinate," she sighed. "All the same, sir, as you are young and good-looking, I wouldn't give up hope." "As that means giving up Gwen, you may be certain that I won't. Hush, here she is, Mrs. Capes. Not a word." "You can trust me, sir," replied the housekeeper, and looked quite pleased at being in the secret of the young Squire's identity. "I'll go now," she added, raising her voice for the benefit of Gwen. "You know your way about, Miss." "Yes. Don't let us trouble you," replied Miss Evans more graciously, and then the two young people were left alone. Gwen conducted Hench all over the vast house, showing him into one room after another filled with treasures. The place was very old and the rooms were spacious, while the furniture and the draperies and the carpets, the pictures, statues, carvings, and bric-a-brac were delightfully attractive. After wandering in raw lands, Owain deeply appreciated this real home, with which Destiny had provided him. He thought that if the goddess would only add to her gift by giving him Gwen for his wife, that he would have nothing else to wish for in the wide world. His appreciation and delighted observations pleased Gwen, although she sighed when they emerged again into the sunshine, intending to show him the garden. "It's horrid to leave it," she said, casting a backward glance at the ancient house. "I envy my cousin." "I thought you didn't," remarked Owain calmly. "After seeing my old home again, I do," answered Gwen, passing quickly across the lawn. "Come down here and see the flowers." The gardens were a paradise of flowers and beautifully laid out. There were all kinds of nooks and arbours in odd corners, and many winding paths which led to pleasant glades. The trees were magnificent, and everywhere the place bloomed with blossoms. Hench was not quite sure if he did not like the gardens even better than the charming house. And what with the colour and scent of flowers, the heat of the day, the silence of the place, and the fact that he was walking long-side the girl he loved, the young man rather lost his head. In a rash moment he quoted Omar Khayyam's verse relative to the wilderness, the wine-cup, the loaf of bread, and of course "Thou!" Gwen blushed and flushed, and threw up her hand to stop him. They were standing near a marble bench under an oak tree, and on this she sat down. "I wish you would not speak to me like that," she said in vexed tones. "Why not, when I love you?" "You can't love in five minutes." "Romeo and Juliet did." "Ah, that is in a play. I am talking of real life. We have only known each other a very short time." "Undoubtedly. But then our introduction made for intimacy at once." "How unfair," murmured Gwen, looking down. "You are taking advantage of the fact that you saved my life." "If that is any bar to my loving you, I wish I hadn't." "Then you would have had no one to love," retorted the girl, who could not help smiling at the speech. Hench saw that smile. "Gwen, you don't dislike me?" he asked entreatingly. "No, I certainly do not. I like you, and so does Mrs. Perage." "Please leave Mrs. Perage out of the conversation. Does your saying that you like me mean that you love me?" "Liking doesn't mean love." "It's a step in the right direction, anyhow," said Hench cheerfully. "See here, Gwen, I have little to offer you, but with that little I give my heart. Now if----" "Don't say anything more just now," interrupted the girl, much distressed. "I cannot answer you." "You can say yes, or no." "I don't wish to say no." "Then that means yes!" cried Hench triumphantly, and his heart beat rapidly. "No"--Gwen pulled away the hand he had taken--"there is something you must know about me. I did not intend to tell you, but since you have spoken, I must be frank." She drew a long breath, while Owain fixed his brown eyes keenly on her disturbed face. "Have you heard anything against me in the village?" "No, I have not. But then I don't go into the village much, nor do I attend to gossip. All I know of you comes from Mrs. Bell, and she adores you." Gwen crossed her feet and folded her hands. "My father and I never got on well together," she said rapidly and in a low voice, looking down as she spoke. "He treated me very harshly, and we very often quarrelled." "That was not your fault, I swear," cried the lover impetuously. "No. I can honestly say that it wasn't. But every one knew that we did not get on well together, and when my father was murdered, some people said"--she drew another long breath--"that I--I--murdered him." She looked up with a frightened glance, as if she expected Hench to turn and fly after hearing such a confession. Instead of doing so, the young man laughed aloud and lifted her from the bench into his arms. "What a silly thing to say," he murmured, pressing her to his breast. "You--you--don't---believe it?" gasped Gwen, making no attempt to get away. "Darling, it is not worth my while to answer such a question. I love you and I have done so from the first moment I set eyes on you. Can I believe that the most perfect girl in the world is guilty of anything, much less of such a dreadful crime?" "But people say----" "I won't hear another word. Thus I stop your mouth"--and before Gwen was aware, Owain had kissed her full on the lips. "Oh," she said, half frightened, half delighted, "how can you!" Then suddenly she slipped from his arms. "No! No! Only when you learn the truth about my father's death and end this scandal, will I--will I----" "Good!" said Owain, quite understanding. "I'll find out the truth and then we will go hand in hand to the church." And a final kiss sealed the compact. CHAPTER XIII DANGER Considering that he had gained his heart's desire, Hench should have returned to his lodgings in the highest spirits. Instead of doing so, he arrived in a rather disturbed frame of mind. It seemed to him, after due reflection, that he was not treating Gwen straightforwardly, since as yet she was quite unaware of the relationship between them. Nevertheless, as he argued, he would never have been able to win her had she known at the outset that he was the heir to the estate and her cousin. So far he had acted honestly enough in masquerading as a disguised prince, but he should not have compelled her to acknowledge her love before making himself known. Aware of the truth, she could make her choice of marrying the man she loved, or of dismissing the cousin whom her father had taught her to detest. Hench felt decidedly uncomfortable. This being the case, he was unable to stay in the poky little rooms, as he felt too restless to sit down, and too excited to read. His foot was now so much better that he could walk with considerable ease, although he had some sort of twinge every now and then. But it was certainly not well enough to permit his taking a long walk. Yet Owain, feeling hipped, did so, and strolled a long way into the country. The result was that he felt the old pain coming on again, and his ankle being yet somewhat weak, there was danger that he might twist it. Luckily, a carrier's cart came along the road when he was some miles from Cookley, and the offer of a shilling procured Hench a drive back to the village. When he alighted at Mrs. Bell's door he felt that his foot was again swollen and painful, and cursed his folly, as he hobbled into his sitting-room. He would have to rest that evening, as he fully recognized, and as the lover's desire was to see Gwen, such enforced absence from her presence did not please him. With a groan he wondered how he would get through the dull hours until bed-time. But Fate had already provided him with an interesting companion. While Hench sat down and removed his boots and stroked his ankle, a tall figure appeared at the door of the bedroom, which opened into the sitting-room. After an astonished pause, Hench fell back on the sofa and gasped. "Jim!" he cried. "Who would have thought of seeing you here?" "I thought I would surprise you," said Vane complacently, and advancing into the parlour. "I arrived three hours ago and found that you had gone out for a walk. Therefore, I looked up my aunt, as I intend to put up with her for the night, and then came back to lie on your bed and pass the time in sleep until you turned up. Humph! You don't look like a joyful lover." "What do you know about that?" asked Hench tartly. "Has Gwen----" "No, she hasn't," interrupted Vane promptly. "But Aunt Emma hinted that she wished to bring about a marriage between you and your cousin, so that the family quarrels should end. From your words rather than your looks, it seems that you have settled the matter and accomplished Aunt Emma's desire." Hench groaned. "We can talk of that later. Meantime, I apologize for lying on the sofa; but I foolishly went for a long walk and my ankle is aching again." "Oh, that's all right," replied the barrister, lighting a cigarette. "Aunt Emma told me of your rescuing Miss Evans and that your ankle was better. Why the deuce have you made it worse?" "I couldn't sit down here after meeting Gwen this morning, and went for a walk. This is the result," and Hench pointed to his ankle. As he had removed his sock, Vane saw that it was much inflamed. "Silly ass," said Jim, fumbling near the fireplace for the bell-rope. "Better bathe it in cold water and lie up for the evening." "I intend to, and I daresay it will be all right in the morning. Mrs. Bell"--the delicate-looking landlady entered as he spoke her name--"just bring me a basin of cold water and my sponge." Mrs. Bell threw up her hands at the sight which met her eyes. "Won't I send for the doctor, Mr. Hench?" "No. Bathing will reduce the swelling and rest will put everything else right, Mrs. Bell. Don't worry. Sorry I'm an invalid, Vane, and can't entertain you." "Oh, I shan't let you off inviting me to dinner, Owain," said the barrister, as Mrs. Bell disappeared to fetch the basin of water. "I've come down to see you especially. Later I go on to sleep at my aunt's place." "What do you wish to see me about?" asked Hench uneasily. "That can wait until I have some food. Don't be inhospitable." Owain laughed and began to bathe his ankle in the cold water which Mrs. Bell had just brought in. He thought that Vane's news could not be anything very unpleasant since he so calmly postponed telling it. So the two men chatted on various frivolous subjects while the landlady laid the cloth and made the dinner ready. By the time Hench finished doctoring his foot and was feeling less pain, the meal was before them. Vane pushed the table near to the sofa so that Owain could eat without sitting in a chair. He partook of the viands in the dining attitude of an ancient Roman, leaning on one elbow, and being hungry, managed to make an excellent meal. Then Mrs. Bell brought in the coffee, and after clearing the table, left the two men to their own devices. Vane sat near the window smoking, while Owain remained comfortably on his sofa. The casement was open, and the scent of the homely cottage flowers came into the room, which was filled with the coming shadows of the night. Hench felt so tired that he did not begin the conversation, and would have much preferred slumber. But Vane gave him no chance. He began to chat immediately, and on a subject which was already worrying his friend considerably. "So you are in love with your cousin and she with you," he remarked, after a puff or two. "I am going by what Aunt Emma said, remember. It seems quick work to me--a kind of five minutes' wooing." "Jim, I fell head over heels in love with Gwen the moment I saw her." "The deuce! Yet the last time we met, you told me that you didn't know what love meant." "That was quite true. I didn't. My liking for Zara Alpenny was one of simple admiration. But Gwen! Oh, Jim, you don't know how I adore her." "I'll take it for granted that you do," said Vane dryly. "But I can't say that your newly-born passion makes you very happy. You have groaned two or three or four times since you arrived." "It's my ankle giving me pain." "Oh, shucks!" cried the barrister, after a purely American fashion, "it's your heart, man. You aren't the chap to yowl over a twisted sinew, as I know jolly well. Come along and unburden your mind to your father-confessor." "It will be a relief," admitted Hench, with a fifth groan. "The fact is I am not quite sure if I have acted rightly in stealing a march on Gwen." "What do you mean by your stealing a march?" "Well, you see she knows me as Hench, and hasn't the least idea that I am her cousin who inherits the property." "What of that? You came here with the idea of masquerading." "So I did. But I didn't intend to go too far." "And you have?" "Yes!"--another groan. "We went to the Grange this morning, and when I found myself alone in the garden with her I proposed to her." "So she said to Aunt Emma." "But, Jim, you told me that she had said nothing?" "I did. It was a fib, I admit. But I wanted to hear your version of the proposal, Owain," said Vane shamelessly. "You didn't intend to go too far, nor did your cousin. But as you were swept off your feet by passion, so was she, as she admitted to Aunt Emma, with tears. Miss Evans intended to keep you at arm's length until she knew more about you. But this passion took you both off your feet, so there's no doubt of its being genuine on both sides." "On my side, certainly. But on hers----?" "The same. I hope you don't mind Aunt Emma telling me of what took place; she has your interest very much at heart." "I am glad that Mrs. Perage broke the ice," said Hench dolefully. "It makes it easier for me to talk. You see, Gwen loves me as a stranger----" "Can a girl love a stranger?" "I mean she thinks that I am only Owain Hench. When she learns that I am Owain Evans she will throw me over." "Why should she, seeing that she loves you?" "Love may turn to hate, and her dislike for my father's son has been carefully fostered by her father." "Well," said Vane with an air of finality, "it seems to me that she should be jolly glad to get back her old home by marriage with a decent chap such as her cousin is." "She doesn't believe that I am a decent chap," cried Hench irritably. "Then you must prove that you are by explaining matters," insisted Jim coolly. "Bless you, Miss Evans will look upon your masquerading as a romance." "I've got my doubts about that. She may resent being deceived." Vane remained silent for a few moments and lighted a fresh cigarette. "As a bachelor I don't pretend to understand women," he said at length, "and it is just on the cards that she may cut up rough. Still, if she loves you really and truly, as Aunt Emma assured me she does, she will forgive your innocent deception. After all, by concealing the truth you only gave yourself a fair chance of being judged on your merits." Hench nodded wearily. "That of course was my idea of masquerading, and it was a right idea, seeing how strongly her father has prejudiced her against me. I am a kind of monster in her eyes in my capacity of heir"--Hench turned restlessly--"I must tell her, I suppose." "You must, and as soon as possible," advised his mentor firmly. "If you don't, the information may come from a less pleasant quarter." "Now, what do you mean by that?" asked Hench, startled. "Madame Alpenny----?" "You don't know her." "Oh yes, I do. I am not aware if Aunt Emma told you, but I went down to Bethnal Green for a day or so." "She told me last night, when I dined at her house. I was wondering why you went there?" "Where are your wits?" asked Vane in a surprised tone. "Of course, I went in your interest to that boarding-house and stopped for a couple of nights." "In my interest?" Hench raised himself on his elbow and stared at Vane with an uneasy look in his eyes. "Of course. You don't suppose that any business of my own took me down there, do you? So far as regards this murder of your uncle, you are not out of the wood yet, so I wanted to learn what I could to help you." "You're a real good fellow, Jim," said Owain gratefully. "Pfui! In the absence of briefs which don't come my way, it gives me something to do. Besides, if there is a row over the business you can engage me as your counsel, and then I'll make a big name straight away." "Oh, hang it"--Hench moved uneasily--"don't speak of that even in jest." "I'm not in jest, but in dead earnest," insisted Vane seriously. "I tell you Madame Alpenny is on the warpath." "What?" "There! there! Don't get excited, you silly ass. Let me begin at the beginning and end at the end." Vane blew a ring or so of smoke and went on talking. "I stayed at The Home of the Muses to see if Spruce knew anything about that advertisement, as I dreaded him rather than the old woman. Of course, he knew me as a pal of yours at the old school, and was very curious to know where you had got to." "You didn't tell him, I hope?" Vane shook his head. "Is thy servant an ass that he should do so? Of course I lay low like Brer Rabbit, and let Spruce babble on. He doesn't know anything about your real name, or the advertisement, or your accession to fortune, or anything else. He'd have let the information slip had he known. So far as Spruce is concerned you can set your mind at rest. I'm glad such is the case, Owain, for he's a dangerous monkey." "Humph!" said Hench meditatively. "If he is ignorant why does he wish to know where I am?" "Because, having made London too hot for him over that card affair, with which I charged him, by the way, he wants to seek fresh fields and pastures new. He had an idea--I think you told him--that you were going away into the lands at the back-of-beyond, so thought he'd like to come with you." "I wouldn't have him as a gift as a companion," said Hench with disgust. "So I told him, and he wasn't exactly pleased. At all events, since I ostensibly didn't know where you were he shut up, and gave me the cold shoulder on account of my nasty manner towards him with regard to the cheating. I do think," finished Vane calmly, "that he's the most abject Gadarene swine I have ever met." Owain drew a long breath of relief when Vane finished, for he also mistrusted the meddlesome little man. Had Spruce understood the situation it was very certain that he would have attempted to make an income out of the same by blackmail, particularly now that Hench had money in large quantities. But as he was quite ignorant of everything there was nothing to be feared. "Then it's not from that quarter the information about my real name is to come to Gwen?" "No! Set your mind at rest so far. Madame Alpenny is the lady likely to queer your pitch." "But she doesn't know where I am." "Oh yes, she does. Mrs. Bell's cottage in Cookley, Essex, was the address she gave me as one likely to find you." Hench swore under his breath. "How did she find out?" "Hurry no man's cattle, my son," said Vane sagely. "You must be introduced to the subject gradually, so that you may admire my diplomatic skill. I came to Mrs. Tesk's establishment to ask for you, as that--according to my story--was the address you gave me. Mrs. Tesk didn't know where you had gone to, so I paid civil attentions to Madame Alpenny and confessed that I was your very good friend. Then she told me--when we became better acquainted, mind you--that you were her very good friend, and would shortly be her very good son-in-law." "Nothing of the sort," cried Hench violently. "I proposed to Zara, and she refused me as she loves Bracken." "Zara said nothing about that proposal or her Bracken engagement to Madame Alpenny, as she's a deuced sight too much afraid of the old hag. Madame Alpenny told me that she had given you permission to marry Zara whenever you got the cash. She mentioned that, as you were the nephew of Squire Evans who had been murdered, you were now rich." "How did she know that?" asked Hench, remembering the visit paid by the Hungarian lady to his deceased uncle. "Oh, she told me that your father, some twenty years ago, wished to marry her, and gave a sketch of his family history." "I know. It was the word 'Rhaiadr' he mentioned which revived her recollection and led to the advertisement being inserted." "The deuce!" said Vane curiously. "She told me nothing of that." "No, she wouldn't," growled Hench impatiently. "Go on. I can speak later." "Well, then," proceeded the barrister, "Madame Alpenny knew that you inherited the estate; also your real name and all the rest of it." "My father told her." "Exactly, and she frankly confessed that she had refused him because the estate was going to you and not to your father. She never bothered any more about the matter until she met you at The Home of the Muses. Then the name 'Rhaiadr' revived her memory, and she wished you to marry Zara when you became rich. After seeing the death of your uncle in the newspapers she was certain that you had entered into your kingdom, and is coming down to see if you will keep your promise and marry Zara." "Did she say that she could make it hot for me if I didn't?" "No. She's a wary old bird. She was all smiles and amiability," said Vane significantly. "There was no word of the murder or of the advertisement, or anything which led me to understand that she had a card up her sleeve. All she knows--according to her own showing--is that you are Squire Evans' heir and are engaged to her daughter." "It's a lie. I'm not. How did she learn where I was?" "Oh, she confessed that as she had no reason--so she said--to conceal it. A page called Bottles told her." Hench slipped off the sofa and swore again. "I guessed as much. I saw Bottles' brother, who is a page at your aunt's. He recognized me, as his brother had written telling him all about me. I had half a mind to tell him to hold his tongue as to my whereabouts but didn't like to." "It would have been too late," said Vane quickly. "The page must have written whenever he heard your name as that of a gentleman staying in the village. At all events, Madame Alpenny knew all about you being here the day before yesterday. Peter--I know the brat at my aunt's--wrote to Simon, surnamed Bottles, and Bottles gave you away to Madame Alpenny." "Hang him! I did think that I could trust Bottles." "You can't trust any one in this wicked world," commented the barrister philosophically. "Madame Alpenny knew that the boy was a hero-worshipper and adored you, so she made inquiries. I daresay a few shillings made him talk." "I don't believe it," said Hench doubtfully. "Peter hinted that everything was right, so I believe Bottles has some card up his sleeve which has to do with all this mystery." "But I don't see----" "No more do I," said Hench, cutting Vane short. "We're in the dark, and until some light is thrown on the subject we will remain in the dark. As to Madame Alpenny, she is at the bottom of the business, I am sure." And then Owain went on to tell his friend about the visit paid by the woman to the Squire. "She has engineered the whole plot, I'm certain." "Queer," admitted Vane, staring absently out into the shadowy garden. "Do you think she murdered the Squire?" "How do I know. She might have done so in order to place me in possession of the money at once. There is certainly a motive. Perhaps,"--Hench's face grew less gloomy,--"perhaps that is why she hasn't moved in the matter so far." "How did you expect her to move?" "Well, she must have guessed that I would keep the appointment, and when she saw that my uncle was murdered she naturally would accuse me. Instead of doing this she has held her tongue." "Only for a time, old son. Believe me, she may turn up here any day. Naturally she wouldn't queer her pitch by telling the police of what she knows. My impression is that she will try and make you marry Zara by threatening to give you away unless you come up to the scratch." "I shan't come up to the scratch, then," muttered Hench sullenly. "In that case Madame Alpenny will have the game in her own hands." "She won't, Jim, if I can prove her guilty." "That won't be an easy job," said Vane doubtfully. "The woman is as cunning as a fox, and as dangerous as a tigress. Besides, we can't be sure that she _did_ get rid of your uncle. Anyhow,"--the barrister rose to stretch himself,--"I advise you to make friends with Mammon by telling Gwen who you are, and getting over the trouble before Madame Alpenny turns up to put her fingers in the pie. She intends to do that, you know." "She'll burn her fingers, then." "I said a pie, not a fire," retorted Jim dryly. "She intends to eat your pudding, not to burn herself." "Well, what is best to be done under the circumstances?" asked Hench crossly. "Tell Gwen who you are, and explain how you saw the body of her father in Parley Wood," rejoined the barrister promptly. "No! No! No! She would believe me to be guilty. You know how the supposed tramp who went to the Bull Inn is suspected. If I confessed that I was the man----" "I see, I see," interrupted Vane, wrinkling his lean face. "It's a bit difficult, isn't it, old man? But if Miss Evans loves you she'll never believe a word against you. That's a woman all over." "I tell you she is prejudiced against her cousin Owain," said Hench sullenly. "And when she learns that I am that cousin she will merge her love in hate." Vane shook his head. "I doubt it. But if she does by any ill chance, you have a friend in my aunt. She likes you no end, and will stand by you. As you may guess, she has a strong influence over Miss Evans." "Mrs. Perage is a very clever and sensible woman," mused Owain thoughtfully. "And I really think it would be wise for me to tell her everything." "I agree!" cried Vane emphatically. "Bachelor as I am, I always believe in asking a woman's advice. The sex has more intuition than ours has. Let her be the person to deal with Madame Alpenny--one woman against another. Then," added the barrister cynically, "you'll see the fur fly." "I won't tax Mrs. Perage's friendship so far, Jim. My ankle will be all right to-morrow, so if you will ask Gwen to meet me near the old Saxon Cross in the churchyard I can reveal who I am. When I settle matters with her I shall see Mrs. Perage and relate the whole story." "Relate it to Miss Evans also," advised Vane strongly. "No. I shall only tell her who I am, and give her time to get over that before I tell more. It's dangerous to give her too big a dose at once. Also, when I tell your aunt about my adventure I wish to be guided by her advice. She may suggest my keeping the same a secret from Gwen until the truth becomes known." "Well, do as you think best, Owain. But how is the truth to become known?" "I shall wait until I see Madame Alpenny before forming an opinion." Vane wheeled round. "Do you mean to accuse her of the murder?" "Not unless she accuses me. It's a case of pull devil, pull baker. Now you'd better out along to your aunt's and make my excuses for not turning up. Meanwhile I shall think over things, and a pleasant night I shall have." "The way of the transgressor is hard," laughed Vane cheerfully. "Transgressor be hanged! I'm more sinned against than sinning." Vane laid a friendly hand on his friend's shoulder. "All right, old man, don't get your hair riz. I'll tell Aunt Emma that your ankle kept you from paying your respects to her, and will request Miss Evans to meet you to-morrow near the Cross. At what time, by the way?" "Three o'clock in the afternoon. And don't come along in the morning, Jim. I wish to think out matters alone. I shall see you in the afternoon." Vane put on his hat and prepared a cigarette. "Don't overdo it," he advised at the door. "And remember that two heads are better than one." "Quite so. That is why I intend to see Gwen. All the same, I'm afraid." "Nonsense! Use that very eloquent tongue of yours and show her that the devil is not so black as he is painted. Miss Evans, being very much a woman, may cut up rough at the outset, but when----" "When what?" "When she knows that you are in danger of arrest she will stand by you through thick and thin." "I have my doubts," said Hench dolefully. "I haven't. Women are contrary animals. As her prosperous cousin she may hate you. As an innocent man, in danger of being hanged, she will love you." "May you be a true prophet," said Hench fervently, and Vane went away laughing. CHAPTER XIV AT BAY Vane faithfully delivered both messages, and Gwen was as pleased with the churchyard appointment as Mrs. Perage was annoyed by Hench's folly. That he should walk for miles on a weak ankle proved what a fool he was, and she said as much to her nephew next morning at breakfast. "You men are all babies, Jim, silly, obstinate and weak." "Not me," retorted the barrister. "I haven't been fooling with my ankle." "You know quite well what I mean," fumed Mrs. Perage, who was in her work-a-day attire, and who looked particularly fierce. "It's not only his ankle, it's his masquerading." She rubbed her nose irritably. "I tell you there will be the deuce to pay. Gwen is Welsh." "Well, what does her nationality matter?" "It matters everything. The Welsh are a particularly fiery nation, and have the pride of Old Nick. As a poor man Gwen loves her cousin--he is the fairy prince who has come into her life. But when she learns the truth----" "She'll forgive him if she loves him." Mrs. Perage shook her head and scowled. "You don't know woman, Jim. Her very love may make her resent his not having treated her quite honestly." "Aren't you taking the matter too seriously, Aunt Emma?" expostulated Vane with a shrug. "After all, Miss Evans must see that Owain could only give himself a fair chance by masquerading as he has done. If he had turned up _in propria persona_, she would have disliked him on the spot." "Hum!" boomed Mrs. Perage doubtfully. "Perhaps. But not if he had saved her life. That act would have excused everything had it been done as Owain Evans." "What do you mean by excusing everything?" "I mean as regards the reputation of Owain Evans. Of course Madoc was always a liar, as I know, and Gwen didn't get on over-well with him. As a _deus ex machina_, Gwen would have disbelieved her father's stories of her cousin's wickedness." "But the poor chap isn't wicked at all. He's the whitest man I know." "Madoc's lies would have smirched the whiteness of an angel," retorted the old lady sharply. "But Gwen would have either forgiven or would have disbelieved had Hench come as her cousin. As it is she may throw him over if he tells her who he really is." "Oh, he intends to tell her right enough, and this very day, somewhere about three o'clock," said Vane coolly. "She may cut up rough for the minute, but when Owain gets into trouble she'll find out that she loves him all right." "Trouble!" Mrs. Perage looked up suddenly. "What trouble?" "I'm not at liberty to say, Aunt Emma. Owain intends to tell you himself. But there's a big trouble coming along." "Hum! Can't it be averted?" "So far as I can see, it can't." "Well, Jim,"--the old dame rose from the breakfast table and brushed the crumbs from her apron,--"I'll wait to hear the young man's explanation. But I am quite sure that he is honest and kind and a well-bred gentleman. Nothing will ever make me change my opinion of him." "Wait till you hear what the trouble is." "Do you know all about it?" demanded Mrs. Perage imperatively. "Yes, I do." "And you still can call Hench your friend?" "I can. He's a rattling good chap." "Then why the dickens should I change my opinion when I learn the truth?" said Mrs. Perage vigorously. "It can't be anything dishonourable or you would not champion Hench. Do you think you are talking to a fool, Jim Vane?" "Oh Lord, Aunt Emma, don't get on to me. My nerves are weak." "Your head is," retorted Aunt Emma smartly. "I wish you hadn't hinted at this trouble, Jim. I'm horribly inquisitive, and will be on tenterhooks until I know what it's all about." "I don't expect you'll have to wait long," said Vane gloomily. "There will be the devil to pay if----" Mrs. Perage closed her ears and hurried to the door. "Not another word. You are only making me more and more curious. But I tell you what, Jim, I am going to stand Hench's friend in any case." "You're a brick, Aunt Emma." "I'm an old fool," snapped Mrs. Perage, who was more upset by the implied mystery than she chose to admit. "My wisest plan would be to wash my hands of the whole business, known and unknown. But instead of doing so I am just going to strengthen Gwen's love for Owain, so that it may not fail her when he makes his revelation." Mrs. Perage held to this determination, and twice or thrice during the morning she exchanged words with Miss Evans on the subject of Hench. The girl for the time being had lost sight of her mission of clearing her name by discovering the name of the assassin, and was wholly taken up with love dreams. She was passionately devoted to the young man, as his attitude tended to increase her belief in the nobility of his nature. He had saved her life as it was, and now, in the face of the rumours which credited her with the death of her father, he was willing to marry her. No man but the noblest who ever breathed would act in so gloriously honourable a fashion. She said this and much more to Mrs. Perage in the seclusion of her bedroom, when she was putting on her prettiest frock and hat to keep the appointment. And all the time Mrs. Perage was rubbing her beaky nose irritably. "Don't build the pedestal too high, Gwen," she advised dryly. "Your idol may have feet of clay and come toppling over." "No," said the girl firmly. "Nothing will ever make me believe that Mr. Hench is not the best of men. What is his Christian name, Mrs. Perage? It is strange that he did not tell me yesterday." Mrs. Perage was much too wary to give the name, lest it should lead to uncomfortable questions and forestall Owain's explanations. "How the deuce should I know the man's name?" she asked crossly and evasively. "I never met him until you introduced him to me as your hero." "And he is a hero, isn't he?" "Hum! I suppose so! The rescue was rather flamboyant--a kind of playing to the gallery." "How unjust," cried Gwen, flaming up, which was exactly what Mrs. Perage wanted her to do. "As if he could help the way in which my rescue took place. I am quite sure that he is the most modest of men." "Pooh! No man is modest; they are all as conceited as pigs." "I never knew that pigs were considered vain, Mrs. Perage," said Gwen coldly. "And I don't see why you should compare Mr. Hench to one." "I spoke generally. Don't be silly." "Ah, you call me silly because I'm in love." "Are you really and truly in love?" asked the old lady doubtfully. "Mind you, I don't mean that easy romantic passion which seems everything and means nothing. But real love, true love, staunch love, the sort which will hold to its object in the face of all detraction." "I wouldn't believe a word against Mr. Hench, if that is what you mean. But I don't know why you should use the word detraction." "I don't know myself," said Mrs. Perage grimly. "Unless it is that I find most men are broken cisterns. There, there, child, go away and meet your Prince. I don't wish to be your Jeremiah and prophesy woe." "I wouldn't believe you if you did," said the girl very decidedly. "All my woe was undergone with the death of my father and the loss of my old home. I am sure that there is nothing but sunshine ahead." Mrs. Perage sniffed and thought anxiously about Vane's hints. But it was not her business to give chapter and verse for her forebodings. And, at all events, she had somewhat strengthened Gwen's love for the young man by depreciating him in a hinting kind of way. When the girl, flushed with love, and looking as pretty as a picture, set forth to keep the appointment, Mrs. Perage stood at the window and breathed a prayer that all would be well. It was a bright warm day, but clouds were drifting across the sky. Even as the old dame prayed a cloud concealed the brightness of the sun and Mrs. Perage shuddered. It was an omen of ill, she thought; but when a few moments later the cloud passed and the glow of the sunshine reasserted itself, she cheered up. It seemed to her that trouble was coming, but would pass without being of any great duration. She fervently hoped so, and went about her daily business calling herself hard names for being so superstitious. Meantime, Gwen, with a smiling face and a light heart, was walking swiftly towards the place of meeting. Every moment spent away from Hench, now that he had declared himself, seemed to be wasted, and she promised herself three or four golden hours with her lover. They would talk in the churchyard for a time, and then would take a long walk, in any direction, for whatever path they chose would lead to the Elysian Fields. Then he would tell her how much he loved her, and she would respond coyly to his caresses, until earth and sea and sky would be transfigured, and they would be blessed above all lovers who ever were or who ever would be. Afterwards would come marriage, and they would enter into the kingdom of heaven to remain there for ever and ever. Gwen rather blushed at the extravagance of her thoughts when she entered the churchyard, and blushed still more when she came suddenly upon the ancient Saxon Cross, against which the man of men was leaning. She thought for a single nervous moment that he looked rather pinched and worried, but had no cause to complain of the warmth of his greeting. Once she was in his arms with only the jackdaws for spectators, it seemed as though he would never let her go. All the poetry of Romeo and Juliet was in his embrace. And those lovers met in a vault at the last which was even more weird than meeting in a churchyard. "Though I'm not sure if I like it," murmured Gwen following the course of her thoughts, as they sat down on a flat tombstone. "Like what?" inquired Hench fatuously; "me?" "I wasn't thinking of you at the moment." "Oh, Gwen!" This was breathed with an air of reproach. "I deserve that, I deserve that," she cried penitently. "But really I was thinking that a churchyard is rather a dismal place to meet in." "Any place is Paradise where you are," Hench assured her. "But we can go away for a walk in a few minutes." "Into Parley Wood?" Hench shivered. "No. I don't like Parley Wood--on your account," he added in a hasty manner. "For there----" "Yes, I know." Gwen stopped him and shivered also. "I didn't think of what I was saying. But we can't stay here amongst the tombs." "Why not? Have you any sad recollections about these tombs? Your father is not buried here, I know." "He is buried at Rhaiadr, in Wales, where his ancestors lie," said the girl in an altered tone. "But I wish you would not speak of my father. He was so cruel to me that I wish to forget all about him for the time being. We will have to talk of him later, when it is necessary to learn who killed him. Meantime, let us have our golden hour. But no"--she made a gesture of despair--"we have lost that as it is." "Why so?" "Because you have called up the spectre of my father," said Gwen sadly. "You have reminded me that I am looked at askance by the villagers." "Dear, you are quite wrong about that. Mrs. Bell speaks of you in the highest terms of respect. I think you are making a mistake." "No, I am not," said Gwen decisively. "I don't say that any one has openly declared that I have anything to do with the--the crime"--her breath came and went quickly--"but people look and people talk secretly." "What does it matter so long as they don't talk openly?" said Hench, soothing her gently. "I wish they would," she cried vehemently. "For then I could meet the rumours better. As it is I am fighting in the dark--and all alone, too." "No! No!" Hench gathered her into his strong arms. "You have me to fight for you now. Be calm, dearest; everything will be put right now." "Eh, my faith, but that is most true," said a voice immediately behind them, and the lovers jumped up in dismay to find that they were observed. The speaker had suddenly emerged from behind a tall tombstone near at hand, and stood staring hard at them--a dumpy little woman with a swarthy face and big black eyes now filled with anger. It did not require the orange-spotted dress, the shabby bead-trimmed mantle and the picture hat to inform either of the young people who the spy was. Hench recognized Madame Alpenny at once, and Gwen beheld the unknown visitor who had called at the Grange. To a woman the dress was sufficient to fix the identity. "You are the woman who came to see my father," said Gwen, turning white, for the sight of this visitor revived her recollections of the painful days before Squire Evans was murdered. "Yes, I am the woman. Very clever of you, Mademoiselle, to remember me." "I remember your dress. Who are you?" Madame Alpenny nodded suavely towards the silent Hench. "Ask him." Gwen turned round and looked hard at her lover's colourless face. "Who is this woman?" she asked almost inaudibly. "Do you know her?" "None better," snapped the Hungarian lady. "Come, Mr. Hench, say who I am, and then I shall tell Mademoiselle who you are." "Tell him who he is; tell me who he is," stuttered Gwen incoherently. "What do you mean?" "Ask him," said Madame Alpenny once more. "Mr. Hench----" "Ah"--the Hungarian lady broke into a hard laugh--"then he has not told you his Christian name." "I will tell her now," said Hench, taking Gwen's cold hand, and speaking with an effort. "This lady is Madame Alpenny, who lived in the same boarding-house as I did in Bethnal Green." "But what had she to do with my father, and what has she to do with you?" "I think your Christian name will explain all in one word," remarked Madame Alpenny, looking up at the blue sky. "I intended to tell you myself, Gwen, this very morning," cried Hench, striving to preserve his calmness, which was sorely shaken. "Tell me what?" said Gwen, who was very white and unstrung. "That my Christian name is--Owain." "Owain----?" "Owain Evans," said Madame Alpenny sharply. "Let there be an end to his deceit, Mademoiselle. He is your cousin, the same who has robbed you of your heritage, the same who has----" "Hold your tongue!" interrupted Hench fiercely. "It is for Miss Evans to speak and not you." "_Miss_ Evans," sneered the woman, with sparkling eyes. "Why so, when you called her by her Christian name lately, as she can now call you by yours? Oh, it is very well, very well indeed, this bal masque of lies and wickedness." By this time, Gwen, who had been staring silently at Hench, spoke in a low tone, but in so absolutely unemotional a manner that he could not tell what her feelings were. "Are you really my cousin?" "Yes! I knew that you were prejudiced against me owing to the false stories told to you by your father, therefore I wished to make your acquaintance under the name my father took when he was sent away from home. Until a few weeks ago I believed it was my true name. Don't blame me over-much, Gwen," he implored. "After all, I wouldn't have had a fair chance had I come as your cousin." "Perhaps not," she said softly, and a touch of colour came into her face. "And after all, you saved my life." "No! No! Let us put all obligation out of the question!" cried Hench resolutely. "I wish to be judged on my merits." "That will be difficult, seeing what a hero you are," said Madame Alpenny in a hatefully smooth voice. "Hold your tongue!" cried Gwen, turning on her just as Hench had done. "You came down here to make mischief this time, as you came before to make mischief. How you succeeded before you best know yourself, although I truly believe that your last visit had something to do with my father's death." "It is a lie!" said Madame Alpenny fiercely, and stepped forward. Gwen did the same, and the two were face to face, very close indeed to one another. "I believe that it is the truth. But of that we can talk later. As to making mischief this time, you shan't succeed. I quite understand why my cousin wished to give himself a chance of being judged fairly. And, after all, he came under the name his father used for many years." "Oh, Gwen"--Hench caught her hand--"do you forgive me?" "You silly fellow, there is nothing to forgive," she replied gently. "You were right, as I was greatly prejudiced against you by my father. But now----" "Now?" he asked, looking at her anxiously. "I believe you to be honourable and honest, and----" "Ah"--Madame Alpenny broke in with a snarl, since things were not going as she desired--"honourable, honest. Oh, it is very fine; most excellent, I call it. Do not be sure, Mademoiselle, that he is what you call him." "I _am_ sure"--Gwen stamped--"and to prove the truth of my belief, I am ready to marry him, as my cousin, Owain Evans. There!" "Oh, Gwen! Oh, Gwen!" said Hench, scarcely believing his ears. "Ah, it is so," taunted the marplot. "Do you marry him for the heritage you have lost by his coming?" "I marry him because I love him, as he loves me," said Gwen quietly, and placing her hand in that of her lover, she faced Madame Alpenny steadily. "What a comparison"--the woman threw up her hands--"when he loves you not in the least little bit." "I love her with all my heart and soul!" cried the young man furiously. "Ah, and so did you speak to my daughter, Zara." Gwen pulled her hand away from that of Owain, and looked from him to the scoffing woman. "My daughter, Zara," she repeated. "And who is she?" "Do I not speak English?" questioned Madame Alpenny mockingly. "Ah, then I do pray your forgiveness, as I am what you call--yes--an alien." "It is nonsense you are talking," said Hench angrily. "Your daughter----" Then she turned on him furiously, letting her temper flame out for the first time during the interview. "Yes, my daughter. You dare to stand there and declare that you do not love her. She is heart-broken, poor girl, because you have deserted her. I came here bearing a message, and when I visited where you are staying, your landlady told me you had gone to this place. I followed quietly and hid myself there"--she flung out an arm towards the tall tombstone--"to hear what?--you making love with another girl. But it shall not be so, I tell you. Zara, my daughter, you shall marry, and not this--this----" "Stop!" cried Hench, finally managing to stay this torrent of words. "If you begin to call names you will be sorry for it. I do not love your daughter--I never loved your daughter. It is true that I admired her, but she told me how she desired to marry Bracken." "You false one!" raged Madame Alpenny. "Zara told me you did ask her hand in marriage." "That is true," acknowledged Hench boldly. "But I----" he paused, for a low cry of pain broke on his ear. He turned impetuously to reassure Gwen of his devotion, only to see her gliding up the path towards the gate with surprising swiftness. Evidently his foolish admission had given her to understand that Madame Alpenny's accusation was true, and without waiting to hear any explanation, she had slipped away in despair. "Gwen! Gwen!" cried the young man in hoarse tones, and hastening after the girl. "Wait; wait; it is not what you think, my dear; it is----" his voice broke, as Gwen, without turning her head, reached the gate and ran along the road. "Ah, but no. You shall not go after," hissed a bitter voice at his elbow, and Madame Alpenny grasped his arm firmly. "Here you stay to speak with me." "You old fiend!" cried Hench, turning on her furiously, for he saw that it was useless to follow Gwen and explain at the present moment. "As you please," retorted the Hungarian lady, releasing him. "Names do not do harm, my friend. I can afford to laugh, and I do." While she was laughing, Hench suddenly became quite cool. He saw that he was in both a dangerous and uncomfortable position, as the woman had chosen her time excellently to complicate matters. Gwen had pardoned his masquerade, but she was far too feminine, as he believed, to pardon his proposing to another woman. In a moment Hench determined to settle Madame Alpenny and then go at once to enlist Mrs. Perage on his side. "Well," he said calmly to the marplot, "you have found me and you have done your worst. What now?" "Don't say that much, Monsieur," said Madame Alpenny shrilly. "Done my worst, do you declare? Ah, but no. Not yet have I said what I came to say." "I know what you have come to say," retorted Hench, taking the bull by the horns, which was the best thing to do. "You mean to accuse me of murdering my uncle." Madame Alpenny looked rather taken aback by this cool defiance, but accepted the situation with a vicious pluck. "And is it not so?" "It isn't worth my while to reply to so ridiculous a question," said Hench, shrugging his square shoulders. "You accuse me. On what grounds, pray?" "Plenty of grounds, Monsieur; plenty of grounds. You obeyed that advertisement and met your uncle to murder him and get the property." "When I didn't know that he was my uncle, or that I would inherit any property in the event of his death?" "You did know that he was your uncle," said the woman furiously. "Those papers at your lawyers'----" "I did not see them until nine days later," interrupted the young man. "_You_ say so," she sneered, "How can you prove that?" "My lawyers can prove it." "Ah, what folly!" Madame Alpenny brushed away this defence with a gesture. "It was Mr. Evans who told you in that wood how he was your uncle----" "He did not. I never met him while he was alive." "_You_ say so----" began Madame, again, only to be cut short. "Hold your tongue and listen," said Hench in a peremptory tone. "You are very clever and cunning, Madame, and have trapped me by means of that advertisement in the hopes that you can force me to marry your daughter. I absolutely decline to do so." "Then I tell the policemen that you are a murderer," she retorted quickly. Hench laughed. "Oh no, you won't. You would have done that long ago, but that you wished to blackmail me. But I refuse to be blackmailed also. And you, Madame, will have to explain why you came down here to request my uncle to insert that advertisement, instead of writing to me openly. Stop"--Hench waved his hand, as she was about to speak--"I have no time to enter into details now. On another occasion we can speak." Madame Alpenny looked at him sullenly, as she was unprepared for this defiance and saw the need of gaining time. "I will wait for one week and then come to you again," she said savagely. "But you marry Zara, or you hang!" "I shall do neither," said Hench calmly, and turned on his heel with contempt. "One week," called out the woman furiously; "in one week I come again!" CHAPTER XV A FRIEND IN NEED Now that the long-expected blow had fallen, Hench was surprised to find how lightly he had been struck. Madame Alpenny having come at an inopportune moment for him, had made mischief, and for the time being it looked as though she was triumphing. But Owain felt certain that she was afraid; he had seen fear in her eyes when he met her so defiantly. If she had been quite sure of her position, she would not have given him a week to consider matters. It was not difficult to understand why she had done so. For the murder of Evans the woman cared very little, save as a means to force the man she accused to do what she wanted. Her aim was to secure a wealthy son-in-law, and she could only do that by threatening to tell the police about his fatal visit to Cookley. But if he refused to do her bidding and she did tell the police, then, so far as she was concerned, everything was at an end. She would certainly get him into trouble, but she would not have him as her daughter's husband, nor would she get any money. Unwilling to push things too far, Madame Alpenny had therefore compromised by giving Hench seven days of grace. Of course, at the end of that time, the young man knew that his answer to her would be the same, and then she might revenge herself by acquainting the authorities with her plausible story. But it was questionable if she would do so even then, as the fear in her eyes hinted that she knew more about the crime than she dared to admit. If anything was made public, Hench had an idea that Madame Alpenny might be placed in the dock instead of himself. He could not be sure of this, as even though she had called on Evans to set the advertisement trap, there was nothing to show that she had come to Cookley on the evening of the murder. In that case it would be difficult for her to prove that he had really kept the appointment in Parley Wood. But, as Hench recognized, the fact of the advertisement being addressed to him, together with the undoubted fact that he benefited to the extent of ten thousand a year by the death of his uncle, would undoubtedly throw suspicion on him. The girl at the Bull Inn might remember his voice as that of the tramp; and then the fact of his shaving off his beard would suggest that he had some reason to escape the accusation. On the whole, it was tolerably certain that if Madame Alpenny _did_ go to the police, there would be trouble out of which it would not be easy to emerge scathless. But, owing to his belief that Madame Alpenny knew more about the matter than she would admit, Hench felt sure she would not seek the assistance of the authorities. And in any case he was absolutely safe for one whole week. Much could be done in that time. It was best, meanwhile, to explain things to Gwen, so that she might be sure of his love. When she learned exactly how he had come to propose to Zara, then she would understand that his desire to marry the dancer had only been the longing of a lonely man for home and companionship. With comprehension of this fact, as Hench devoutly hoped, the love of Gwen would return, and she would stand by him in the coming trouble. He needed all the friends he could gather round him to face things, and particularly felt that having his cousin to defend him would brace him up to defend himself. Without her love the young man felt that it would not be worth while to fight. Ten thousand a year and a clearance of his name from suspicion would not make up for the loss of the girl, who was now all in all to him. Therefore the first thing to do was to win back Gwen's heart; after that the deluge could come, so far as Hench was concerned. He returned to his lodgings, and glancing through the window, saw Madame Alpenny waddling along the street on her way to the station. She cast one vengeful look on the cottage of Mrs. Bell, but did not attempt to enter, which was another sign that she did not feel herself strong enough to go into details. And, as a matter of fact, such was the case. Madame Alpenny had hoped to dominate Hench immediately, and his defiance had taken her entirely by surprise. Therefore, she had wisely retreated in order to collect herself, and intended to descend on him at the end of seven days with overwhelming proofs of his guilty deed. Hench was relieved when he saw her pass by the cottage, as he did not wish her to enter and make trouble. Also he was relieved because he saw in her passing a confession of weakness. Therefore did he feel much more cheerful and hopeful than he had done for many a long day. Mrs. Bell explained that a lady had called to see her lodger and that she had sent her on to the churchyard, whither Hench had intimated he was going. She hoped that she had not done wrong. Owain told her that the visitor had only come down to see him on business; that the business had been easily dispatched; that the lady had returned to London, and that Mrs. Bell had acted quite judiciously. The little pale woman accepted the explanation in all good faith, and then went to open the door for the entrance of another lady. Hench, busy with his afternoon tea, was not surprised when Mrs. Perage entered, full of wrath. He had rather expected she would come, as it occurred to him that Gwen's unexpected return from the churchyard would lead to questions and explanations. From the very first remark of Mrs. Perage, it was certain that she knew all about the matter. "Well," said the fierce old lady, who looked something like Meg Merrilees in her half-masculine, half-feminine garb, "this is a nice state of affairs, young man. Gwen goes to meet you with her heart full of love, and returns with that same heart broken into little pieces. Your work." "Sit down, Mrs. Perage, and let us talk quietly," said Hench entreatingly. "Talk quietly!" echoed Mrs. Perage, sitting down nevertheless. "Why, I'm seething with rage, and want to break things--you amongst them." "Then you doubt me?" Mrs. Perage looked at him with a softer eye, and remembered how she had been prepared to stand by him whatever was said. She had declared as much to Jim Vane, and could do nothing else but fulfil her declaration. "Perhaps you have some excuse, young man?" she said truculently. "I have no excuse, but I have an explanation," said Hench dryly. "Then you _did_ propose to that other girl!" shrieked Mrs. Perage furiously. "Yes. I told you that I----" "You didn't; you didn't." Mrs. Perage would not give him time to finish his remark. "You told me that you admired another girl, but that she loved some one else, so you went away. Pfui! Do you think that my memory has gone with age?" "What you say is quite true----" "That my memory has gone with age?" demanded the old lady acidly. "No! No! No! But your recollection of what I said about my former----" "Love-affairs!" interpolated Mrs. Perage, who declined to be suppressed. "No! No! No!" cried Hench again and earnestly. "I never was in love until I met Gwen. I told you so. But I did say that I admired another girl." "You didn't say that you had proposed to her," said Mrs. Perage grimly. "No, I didn't, because----" "Because you loved her." "I didn't!" cried Owain, thoroughly exasperated by these constant interruptions. "As I have already stated, I didn't know the meaning of the word love until I met with Gwen." "Then why did you propose to this Zara creature? One doesn't propose unless love has something to do with the matter." "Has your experience of life only taught you that much, Mrs. Perage? A man proposes for the sake of money." "Was this Zara creature rich?" "No. She was very poor." "Then you didn't propose to her on that account. Come"--Mrs. Perage spoke in her roughest manner--"don't waste my time. _Why_ did you propose?" "Because I was a lonely man and wanted a home and a comrade. I had been wandering all over the world by myself, and found life dismal in the extreme. I didn't love Zara Alpenny one little bit. But I admired her as a thoroughly good woman----" "Oh"--Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose--"she was a good woman, was she?" "A thoroughly good woman," repeated Hench, again emphasizing his remark. "And when I asked her to be my wife, she told me that I didn't love her, but only wanted a home, adding that she loved some one else. I recognized the truth of her statement with regard to my own feelings, and therefore I went away from Bethnal Green. I still respect her, Mrs. Perage, and if I can forward her marriage with the man of her choice in any way, I will do so. After all, Madame Alpenny wants a rich son-in-law, and I am wealthy enough to smooth matters over in that way for Ned Bracken." "Who is he?" "The man Zara loves. And that you may know the worst, let me tell you that she is a dancer at a Bethnal Green music-hall." "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage, smiling grimly. "And by mentioning her profession and position you think that I will have a bad opinion of her. Fudge! I have met with dancers much better as regards morals than many a woman received at Court. Don't be a fool and think you are talking to an inexperienced girl." "Well, I did talk to an inexperienced girl," said Hench rather bitterly, "and she has turned on me." "Why not? You gave her no explanation." "How could I, when she ran away while I was speaking? I couldn't follow quickly enough, as my foot is yet weak." "Your ankle, you mean--be careful in your speech." Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose again and her eyes grew calmer. "I'll have a cup of tea if you will have the decency to give me one." Owain rang for a fresh cup and saucer. "I thought you wouldn't condescend to eat and drink with a pariah." "Fudge!" said Mrs. Perage again, and very sharply. "Who said you were a pariah, you silly fellow? That's merely hurt vanity on your part." "How can I help being hurt, when I am so misjudged?" "Look here." Mrs. Perage bent forward and shook his shoulder. "Are you a man or a twopenny-halfpenny school-girl?" "I'm an ass," confessed Owain, ashamed of his petty outbreak. "But I have an attack of nerves, I think, owing to my dreadful position." "Hum!" Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose, received a cup and saucer from Mrs. Bell, who had just entered the room, and sent that fragile person out again. "Jim hinted at trouble. It seems he was right." "Jim knows all about it." "Well, then, I don't. Wait till I fill my cup and then you can tell me." "Tell you what?" "Drat the man, you know. It's more than this trouble with Gwen you have to tell me about." "I think that I had better tell you about the trouble with Gwen first." "What's the use of beginning at the wrong end? Relate the story from start to finish and then I'll understand more about this interview in the churchyard with this ridiculous old woman." "Madame Alpenny." "Hum! The name fits her. Go on." "I have already told you most of my life---" "And have left out the most interesting part, apparently. See here, Hench, or rather, I should say, Owain." Mrs. Perage drank some of her tea and continued slowly. "I am an old woman with a romantic heart. I love Gwen and I have taken a fancy to you. Both you and Gwen come of a bad stock, as old Mynydd Evans was a miser, Owain Evans was a profligate, and Madoc Evans was a scoundrel, fit for any deed of wickedness. You two children are the best of the bunch, and I expect get your decent morals from your mothers. I want to see you happy and married. Now, don't disappoint me." "I certainly won't, if Gwen won't," said Owain promptly. "Hum! Gwen is a more difficult person to manage. However, if you leave it to me, I think in some way things will be put right." "Oh, I shall leave everything to you, with pleasure," said Hench eagerly. "And I thank you for the trouble you are taking. Your advice----" "Cannot be given further until I am in possession of facts," interrupted Mrs. Perage, and finishing his sentence in a different way. "I know that you are Owain's son and inherit the property. I know that you love Gwen, and that it is possible, in spite of existing circumstances, that you will marry her. Also I am aware that Madoc was murdered--by that tramp, I presume." "No!" said Hench sharply, and ready to make a clean breast. "I am the tramp." "Ha!" exclaimed the old lady in a tone of surprise. "You are the tramp? Well, I withdraw my accusation, as I am sure you are innocent enough. But what I was coming to when you interrupted me was that I wish to know more. Jim says you are in trouble." "In very great trouble. And if you will help me---" "Bless the man, what I came here for was to help. But I can't do that on half-confidences. You must speak plainly. Now, no more talk. Begin." Hench did as he was ordered, and in a very short time Mrs. Perage was in possession of all facts connected with the advertisement; with the keeping of the appointment and the discovery of the body; and with the schemes of Madame Alpenny. Her strong old face did not betray much emotion, although she was inwardly astonished at the revelations, but she kept her eyes on Owain until he ceased speaking, and then rubbed her nose, as was her custom when perplexed or annoyed. As she made no remark, Hench did so. "What do you think?" "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage, starting from the brown study in which she was involved. "You've brought your pigs to a pretty market, young man. Well, well, we must see what is best to be done." "You don't believe me to be guilty?" "Would I be still sitting here if I did? Don't be a fool. Not that I blame the person who got Madoc out of the way very much. He was such a disagreeable person, that I often thought I'd be hanged for killing him myself." "Mrs. Perage!" "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said good-humouredly. "But then you see I am a dreadful person in the eyes of many milk-and-water people, because I have my own decided opinions and go my own way. I suppose it's wrong to say a word against the dead, although I don't see why we should talk of nothing but virtues they never possessed while alive. Well, let the man rest; he did a lot of harm when he was alive, and wherever he has gone to, he's making mischief. You didn't murder him, anyhow?" "I certainly did not," answered Hench, smiling. "But the question is, who did?" "Ah"--Mrs. Perage kilted up her dress and folded her hands on her knees--"a very difficult question to answer. But Madame Alpenny didn't, although you seem to have some idea that she is the guilty person." "She knew my uncle and all about the disposal of the property through the confidence made to her by my father twenty years ago." "That doesn't prove that she murdered Madoc. She wanted you to marry her daughter undoubtedly after she laid hold of the clue which led her to learn that you were likely to inherit ten thousand a year. But why should she put her neck in a noose?" "She might have wished me to get possession of the property at once, and have murdered my uncle in the hope that I would go to the spot and then run the risk of being arrested. I believe myself that it was all a plot to get me under her thumb. I _did_ go to the rendezvous and I _am_ implicated. Well?" Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose again. "The devil's in it for trouble," she muttered. "Perhaps I am premature in assuming that this woman is innocent, but it seems incredible that she should run such a risk. I shall have to see her first before I make up my mind. She's clever." "In a foxy sort of way." "Hum! The fox doesn't do things on a big scale in the way of killing." Hench answered flippantly, as the conversation was getting on his nerves. "What about hen-roost massacres?" Mrs. Perage rose, and was about to rebuke him when she saw, as Gwen had seen earlier, the white pinched look on his face. "You're over-wrought, my friend. I want you to promise me two things." "Yes. What are they?" asked the young man wearily. "In the first place do not make any move in these matters until I give you leave. I have a plan in my head." "What is it?" "I shan't tell it until it is carried out. In the second place do not come to my house until to-morrow afternoon." "But Gwen will believe more than ever that I am----" "What she thinks you are in a moment of rage on her part," finished Mrs. Perage. "That's just it. If you see her now you will spoil all. Wait until I tell you that it is safe to come." "Very well. But I can't let you take my burden on your shoulders and stay here doing nothing. It's not cricket." "You'll get all the cricket you require, I promise you," said Mrs. Perage as she took her departure. "I don't mind telling you," she added, glancing back, "that it interests me to have something exciting of this sort to do. Life is rather dull hereabouts." "I only hope it will not prove too exciting." The old lady laughed and stepped briskly out of the cottage, while Owain remained where he was kicking against the pricks. He wished to see Gwen, but as he had promised to wait for instructions he could not do so. Like the lady who had just left, he found life in Cookley intolerably dull at the moment. But then, as Gwen was not beside him, he would have found it equally dull had he been alone in Paris or London. It was Gwen who made up his existence, and nothing else mattered particularly. To such lengths does the passion of love lead ordinarily sensible human beings. Meanwhile, Mrs. Perage walked home briskly, turning over certain plans in her very capable mind. She did not seek out Gwen, who was weeping in the retirement of her bedroom, since all explanations at the present moment were futile. But Mrs. Perage decided that when the girl grew calmer a very positive explanation, which could not be mistaken, should be made to her by the right person. To bring about this necessary event she looked up her nephew, whom she found dawdling in the garden with a cigarette and a French novel. Vane lay on the grass under a shady tree clothed in white flannels, and looked rather alarmed when his aunt appeared. The day was hot, and Mrs. Perage was so uncommonly active that she was scarcely a desirable companion for a lazy man. His anxiety was therefore natural. "Sit up and listen," said Mrs. Perage, getting to work at once. "I've seen our young friend, and I now know as much as you do." Jim sat up cross-legged, resigned to the worst, and Mrs. Perage seated herself on the rustic bench under the tree with the air of a judge trying a particularly vicious criminal. "Need we discuss matters just now?" he asked in a bored tone. "I'm so comfortable. Peter is bringing me some tea, I have a book and a case of cigarettes, so on the whole----" "Don't be an ass, Jim. You can be busy enough if you like." "That's just it, Aunt Emma," remonstrated the barrister, clutching his ankles. "I don't like. There's nothing to be done at present. I'll see Owain this evening and hear how he settled with that old woman." "He has settled nothing. But he managed to get her to leave him alone for seven days. In that time much can be done." "Very probably. I'm sure I wish to do all I can. And Gwen?" "She's crying in her bedroom. She will continue to cry until she is assured that Owain really loves her and not this other girl. You know what I mean?" "Well, as you related what took place in the churchyard and as Gwen repeated the story to me, I must admit that I do know. I say, Aunt Emma, you don't think Miss Evans minds me calling her Gwen, as I----" "Oh, don't talk rubbish," interrupted Mrs. Perage quickly. "We have more important things to speak about. This evening you must go to town by the seven train,"--she glanced at her watch. "That will give you time to have dinner comfortably, as you needn't dress." "But, I say,"--Vane looked rather disgusted,--"I don't want to go to town." "You must," said his aunt impressively. "Go to Bethnal Green, and bring down with you to-morrow Mademoiselle Zara." "What for?" "Bless the man, can't you understand? Only this Zara creature can set Gwen's mind at rest. She can explain that Hench never really loved her and only offered himself to her to gain a home and a companion." "Can't Owain tell Gwen that?" "He might tell it to her fifty times and she would not believe him," said Mrs. Perage shrewdly. "But when this girl speaks everything will be put right straight away. Then we can consider what is best to be done about the other and more serious business. But you must see, Jim, that it is first necessary to adjust matters between Gwen and Hench." "Well, Aunt Emma, you understand your own sex better than I do, so I suppose it is best for me to bring Zara Alpenny down." "I am quite positive it is." "Good! I'll enjoy my dinner and then go to town by the train you mention. I can bring Mademoiselle Zara to your house about two o'clock to-morrow. Now that's all right." Vane yawned and rose. "Ah, here comes Peter with the tea." Mrs. Perage looked rather grimly on the freckled page who carried on a tray the beverage which Mr. Vane desired. Hench had told her how Madame Alpenny had learned his whereabouts through Simon, _alias_ Bottles, and the same could have only acquired the knowledge through Peter. "Here!" she said sharply. "Do you write to your brother in town and tell him all the gossip of the village?" "Me, mum? No, mum," said Peter, rather alarmed by her peremptory tone. "Don't tell lies, boy," said his mistress sternly. "You told your brother that Mr. Hench was staying at Mrs. Bell's cottage." "I know I did, mum." Peter began to whimper. "But I hope I didn't do no harm, mum. Simon, he thinks no end of Mr. Hench, so I thought as I'd tell him. But it's all right, mum. Simon knows what he's about." "What do you mean by that?" questioned Vane quickly, for the page spoke in a very significant tone. Peter shuffled and wriggled uncomfortably. "Simon will tell you, sir, when the time comes," he replied evasively. "Tell what?" "What Simon knows, sir." "And what does Simon know?" "I can't tell you, sir. Simon's clever. He knows a thing or two." "And so do I," said Mrs. Perage sternly. "And one is that you are not to write gossiping letters from my house." "No, mum, I won't!" And Peter went away as quickly as he could lest he should be questioned further. "Now what does that mean?" asked Mrs. Perage shrewdly. "Is this brat and his brother mixed up in this dangerous business?" "It seems like it," replied Jim, stirring his tea meditatively. "But Peter may have written in all innocence, knowing how Bottles adores Owain." "Bottles, as you call him, didn't tell Madame Alpenny in all innocence," she snapped. "Hum!" said Vane, quite in his aunt's style, "we'll look into the matter." And he did so on the morrow when he went to Bethnal Green. CHAPTER XVI EXPLANATIONS Gwen was thoroughly miserable. On returning from the churchyard she had shut herself up in her bedroom, after a sobbing description to Mrs. Perage and Vane of what had taken place. In this seclusion she remained, speaking little, eating less, and only sleeping occasionally when exhausted Nature insisted upon having her own sensible way. The trouble Gwen was now undergoing seemed ever so much worse than that which she had already undergone. The death of her father had been dreadful, but he had been such a tyrant that--to speak plainly--his loss had not broken her heart. But now she felt certain that her heart was really and truly broken, as the idea of losing Owain was like a nightmare. The girl by this time fully recognized that she loved her cousin dearly, even though that love had grown as rapidly and unexpectedly as Jonah's gourd. Perhaps, like the same, it would perish as quickly. Gwen attempted to assure herself of this, but could not self-hypnotise herself into such a belief. Her passion was too genuine, too strong, too overwhelming, to be got rid of so easily. Yet--she asked herself this question frequently--how could she believe that Owain loved her, when she had heard from his own lips that he had proposed to another girl? Gwen considered that she had been very generous in forgiving his masquerading, although she admitted that under the circumstances the assumption of a false name had been pardonable. But that he should have loved some one else, and should have proposed to that some one, seemed to her to be monstrous. It was impossible for her to forget or forgive such a thing. She assured herself that self-respect demanded the adoption of this merciless attitude, but the cause of it--which she would not admit--was really jealousy. But whatever it was the feeling made her wretched, and for long hours the poor child tossed and turned and shivered and wept, as she wondered what her future was likely to be. She had youth, she had beauty, she had money, but all these desirable things were as dust and ashes, lacking the companionship of the man she loved. And as he had condemned himself out of his own month she could not see how the position of things was to be altered. In her bluff way, Mrs. Perage was very sorry for the girl, as she saw how truly genuine was her suffering. The old lady strongly sympathized with that despairing feeling of youth which believes that the world has come to an end because things do not turn out as expected. Not that she believed Gwen's world had ended, but understood easily enough how the girl thought so. To put matters right, Mrs. Perage set herself to work in the hope of proving that the sun was merely obscured for the moment. For a day and a night she left the sufferer alone, so that she might get over the first stage of misery and anger. Then the old dame entered the bedroom and proceeded to develop her scheme, which she hoped would put the crooked straight. "Well, my dear," she said in a brisk and heartless manner, as she seated herself on the bed, "have you overcome your fit of self-pity?" "Oh, how unkind you are," wailed Gwen, who did not expect such a speech. "My heart is broken." "No, my dear, your vanity is hurt." "Vanity? I have no vanity." "Well, well, we will call it pride, self-respect, dignity, or any other pretty name which appeals to you," said Mrs. Perage complacently. "Anyhow, you can't lie here amongst the ruins of your life. Have some breakfast and get up." "I can't eat and I can't drink. How can you expect me to?" cried Gwen, who was intensely exasperated by this matter-of-fact speech. "You will make me angry, Mrs. Perage." "I want to, since anger will make you see things in a more sensible light. You can't live on air, you know, my dear, or on love either, especially as this last is nonexistent." The spirit of contradiction, begotten by anger, made the invalid resent this last remark. "Love isn't nonexistent," she declared crossly. "I love Owain still, although he doesn't deserve my affection in the least. I call it a shame for him to come here and save my life and make me love him, when all the time he is engaged to another girl." "Who told you that he was?" inquired Mrs. Perage dryly, and very well satisfied with the result her conversation was producing. "He told me so himself, and I told you how he was," said Gwen incoherently. "He admitted that he had proposed to the nasty daughter of that horrid woman." "Well," said Mrs. Perage coolly, "a young man must gain experience somehow." "Owain shan't gain any at my expense," retorted Gwen viciously. "After all, I don't think that he is worth troubling about." "Of course he isn't," said Mrs. Perage, wishing to emphasize this opinion. "So lie down and go to sleep and forget all about him. You can't eat, you know." "Yes, I can." Gwen rose in the bed angrily. "I shall have my breakfast and get up and go about things just as if nothing had happened." Mrs. Perage shook her old head wisely. "You have not the strength." "I have--I have. Ring the bell and order some tea and toast." "Peter is bringing up some sort of a meal, my dear. Ah, there is his knock. I will take the tray," and Mrs. Perage went to the door to do so, chuckling at the way in which she was dealing with the situation. "Give it to me, Peter; now you can go. By the way, Gwen, shall I send him for the doctor?" "No. I'm quite well," said the girl indignantly. So Peter was dismissed and the tray was placed on the bed. "Leave me to eat, Mrs. Perage, and you can come back after I have dressed." "Foolish! Foolish!" said the old dame, leaving the room. "You are attempting too much." And she departed, still chuckling to think how easily this somewhat difficult young lady had fallen into the trap. Gwen, quite ignorant that she was acting exactly as Mrs. Perage desired, sipped the tea and nibbled at the toast. Pride speedily came to her aid, and when the meal was finished she felt much better. Self-pity was now merged in a sense of anger that Owain had dared to treat her so shamefully, therefore she dressed herself in her prettiest frock with the intention of proving to him that she felt his treachery less than he might have expected. When she walked into the drawing-room, Mrs. Perage looked up to see a smartly dressed young lady with sparkling eyes and a fine colour, in place of the white-faced invalid she had left. So far the result of the experiment was distinctly good. "And of course," suggested the old lady artfully, "you have quite decided to throw Owain overboard." "What else would you have me do?" demanded Gwen revengefully. "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage in a meditative manner. "I think I should ask for an explanation." "There can be no explanation likely to satisfy me." "That entirely depends upon my common-sense way of looking at things," said Mrs. Perage dryly. "Or on your common-sense, if you come to that. By the way, that girl is coming down here this afternoon--she will arrive in an hour." "What girl?" "Hum!" Mrs. Perage skirted round the subject and did not give an entirely direct reply. "Your breakfast has been your luncheon, for it is now two o'clock, so such a queer exchange of meals must have upset you. Perhaps you had better not be present." "What girl are you talking about?" asked Gwen, her colour coming and going, although she knew perfectly well what was meant. "And I am in quite enough good health to see any girl. How dare she come here?" "Ah!"--Mrs. Perage chuckled,--"you guess what I mean, I see. Well, my dear Jim was rather put out about your quarrel with Hench, so he suggested at my desire that it would be as well for him to go to town and bring Mademoiselle Zara with him down here to explain matters." "I don't require any explanation," said Gwen, holding her head very high. "Bless the girl, did I say so? This Zara woman is coming to explain to me. I may as well be plain, Gwen. It was I who told Jim to go to town and fetch her, since it is necessary that I should learn what a rascal Hench is." "He's not a rascal; I'm sure he's not a rascal." Gwen stamped her foot and grew very red. "Oh yes, he is, my dear. To propose to one girl and to make love to another is not right. I must inquire into his character, you know, so as to see if he is a decent man to know. Now Mademoiselle Zara can tell us the truth. But I don't want you to be present." "But I shall!" cried Miss Evans, with another stamp. "It is my right to be present. The explanation concerns me more than any one else." "Oh, well, if you insist upon being present, I have no more to say." Mrs. Perage shrugged her shoulders, and making a wilful mistake. "Did you say 'present' or 'pleasant'?" "Pleasant. You must be pleasant to Mademoiselle Zara, as, after all, you do not care anything for your cousin." "I do. All the same I am angry with him. I shall be present and be pleasant just as I please. And now I shall take a walk in the park so as to calm my nerves. I'm sure Owain has upset them enough." And Gwen hastily departed, while Mrs. Perage chuckled more than ever. "Fiery little Welsh temper she has," murmured the old lady. "I don't envy Hench when he makes her his wife. Hum! So that's settled. Let us hope good will come of the interview." She rubbed her nose. "Gwen's a handful to manage, but by contradiction I fancy that I have secured my own way." Of course this was quite true, although Miss Evans, walking in the park, was perfectly sure that she was acting contrary to Mrs. Perage's wishes. By this time the girl was in a fine temper, ready to quarrel with any one about anything. In fact she felt very much inclined to fight for what she considered were her rights, so far as concerned her cousin. In some queer way, Gwen arrived at the conclusion that by saving her life Hench had given her some sort of claim over him. Of course, she would never marry him; nothing would ever induce her to marry such a faithless person. But she intended to hint at her fantastic claim by ordering him to make Zara his wife. Then, on further reflection, she did not like him to marry the dancer, as she loved him herself. Still, as he was unworthy of her love, perhaps it would be as well to allow him to carry out his proposal to Madame Alpenny's daughter. He would certainly be miserable, which would serve him right, as Zara was bound to be a minx and a cat and several other disagreeable things. In this incoherent way Miss Evans thought, while working off her anger as best she could by walking at top speed up one path and down another. She did not know whether to laugh or to cry, to rage or to fret; all she did know was that everything seemed to be wrong, and that the bottom had fallen out of creation. When Gwen again ventured into the house, she found the drawing-room tenanted by Mrs. Perage, her nephew, and two visitors. One of these was a handsome, untidily dressed young fellow, who wore his hair rather long after the manner of musicians; the other was a tall girl, gaunt, striking-looking, with something of the gipsy in her appearance. She wore a red velvet hat and a long red velvet mantle, the violent hues of which harmonized well with her somewhat sallow complexion and bold dark eyes. When Gwen entered, this girl was laughing and showed a row of very white teeth, which added to her handsome looks. "Mademoiselle Zara, this is Miss Evans," said Mrs. Perage, rising to make a rapid introduction. "Gwen, this is Madame Alpenny's daughter, and Mr. Bracken, to whom she is engaged." "Engaged?" Gwen started back and gasped. "But I don't understand." "Mademoiselle Zara will explain," said Mrs. Perage swiftly, and collecting the two men with her eyes. "Mr. Bracken, I must show you my garden, as I am sure you take an interest in flowers. Come with me. You also, Jim, as you must go to Mrs. Bell's and bring Hench here." "I don't wish to see him," called out Gwen hurriedly, but Mrs. Perage took no notice of the speech, as she had already conducted the two men out of the room, leaving the two girls alone. Gwen eyed Zara and Zara eyed Gwen with great curiosity, and used their intuitions with so much skill that in two minutes each girl knew all about the nature of the other girl. Miss Evans could not deny but what the dancer was handsome enough to attract any one, even the most fastidious, while Zara thought that Gwen was one of the most charming young ladies she had ever seen. "I'm sure he will be very happy with you," she said abruptly. "Who?" asked Gwen, sitting down and getting ready to fence. Zara laughed meaningly. "My dear, there is only one 'he' in the world for you." "So I thought, until I found him out," retorted Miss Evans sharply. "Oh, I understand all about your finding him out. Mr. Vane gave me a full description of my mother's meddling. But if you had waited to hear what took place after your departure from the churchyard there would have been no need for me to come down." "I did not ask you to come down," said Gwen pointedly. "You did not. Mrs. Perage did, however, as she was anxious for your mistake to be corrected. I am anxious, also, else I would not have troubled to take this long journey." "Why did you undertake it, then?" "Because I have the greatest respect for Mr. Hench." "The greatest love, you mean." "Indeed, I mean nothing of the sort," said Zara candidly. "I have no more love for Mr. Hench than I have for that table. Didn't you hear Mrs. Perage say that I was engaged to Mr. Bracken?" "Yes! I suppose you are," admitted Gwen reluctantly. "But there is always one who loves and one who is loved, you know." "Heine, the German poet, said that, Miss Evans. I congratulate you on the wide range of your reading. It shows that you are not narrow, and not being narrow, I trust that you will do Mr. Hench justice." "He proposed to you. I heard him say so myself." "My dear," said the dancer, after the lenient fashion of an elder sister, "Mr. Hench at that time would have proposed to any woman of decent character and decent looks. Your Heine quotation implied that although I did not love him, he loved me. There you are entirely wrong. He admired me, certainly, but----" "But he proposed to you," interrupted Miss Evans doggedly. Zara's cheeks grew crimson and her voice became sharper. "We are two women talking together," she said decisively. "Therefore, it is useless for us to skirt about the bush as we would do with men. Mr. Hench never loved me; he had no conception of love when he proposed, and I told him so. Can't you understand how a lonely man must wish for a home and a comrade, so that he may have some centre in life? I used those very words to him. Mr. Bracken gives me that true love which is more than admiration, which was all Mr. Hench had to offer. He could not give me his heart because he did not know that he possessed one. Since coming here he has made the discovery that he has a heart and he has given it to you." "Have you seen him; did he tell you so?" It took Zara a moment or so to quell her rising anger, and she felt inclined to shake this silly little girl who was not to be convinced by common-sense explanations. "I have not seen Mr. Hench, nor if you wish it will I see him." "Oh, it's nothing to me," said Gwen with an air of finality. "Then it ought to be. Mr. Vane told me what Mr. Hench told him." "What is that?" "You know quite well," retorted Zara tartly. "It is that Mr. Hench loves you better than you deserve." "How can you tell what I deserve?" "I am only going by what I see of you now," said the dancer patiently. "You really love Mr. Hench, and you are fighting against your feelings, because you believe that he loves me, which is not the case. As you can see that I am speaking the truth, it is unworthy of you to speak as you do. Therefore, I say that Mr. Hench loves you better than you deserve. I don't know," cried Zara, becoming exasperated, "why you force me to make so unnecessary an explanation, as you are quite aware of what I mean." Gwen was so impressed by the dancer's earnest speech that she became much more reasonable. "I am a pig, I know," she murmured rather inelegantly. "But it isn't pleasant to love a man and then to hear from his own lips that he proposed to another woman." "Pooh! You are making a mountain out of a molehill," said Zara contemptuously. "If Mr. Hench had proposed to me after he met you, then there might be some sense in your attitude. But I tell you he did not know the meaning of love when he proposed to me, and would have proposed to any other woman just as readily. His first acquaintance with love was when he saved your life. He is heart and soul devoted to you. My dear"--Zara rose, and bending over Gwen, took her hand--"don't be foolish and throw away a love which will make you the happiest woman in the world." "Can you swear that Owain loves me?" asked Gwen, more and more impressed. "Personally, I cannot. But from what Mr. Vane has told me I certainly can declare that Mr. Hench adores you." "Yes." Miss Evans stared hard at nothing. "I believe he does." "Then why are you making all this trouble?" "You are a woman and ask me that?" Zara laughed. "It is absurd, I know. But I am anxious to put things right. My mother made trouble and I came down to make peace. Don't send me away with my errand unaccomplished." Gwen jumped up and kissed the dancer. "No, I won't. I am quite satisfied with your explanation. I have been very silly and have made myself quite ill in worrying over things. And if Owain comes----" "Owain is coming," interrupted Zara quickly, as she glanced out of the open French window of the room. "Yonder he is with Mr. Vane, who was sent to bring him by Mrs. Perage. My dear"--she kissed Gwen's cheek--"I will slip out to join Mrs. Perage and Ned in the garden. You stay here and make it up with Mr. Hench. No half-measures, mind. Be generous and loyal." And with a smiling nod the dancer flitted through the window just as the footsteps of Owain were heard in the hall. "Oh!" said Gwen, drawing a long breath, "how nearly I have lost him." Vane had sense enough not to enter along with his friend, as he thoroughly understood the saying about two being company and three none. In a most loyal fashion he obliterated himself, and Owain walked into the room by himself. The young man looked worn and ill, so that Gwen's heart was touched, and she felt ashamed of her conduct, which was responsible for his wilted appearance. Almost without thought she flew into his arms. "I'm a horrid creature," she murmured. "Do forgive me and I'll be good." "Oh!"--Owain's pale face flushed suddenly and his brown eyes sparkled--"then you don't believe----" "I believe that you love me. Mademoiselle Zara has explained everything." "Thank God for that. Where is she?" "Do you wish to see her?" asked Miss Evans jealously. "Only to thank her. But that can come later. Meantime"--he bent and kissed her three or four times--"oh, Gwen, how could you think that I loved any one in the world but you--you--you?" "I was silly and wicked and--and----" "No! No! There was some cause for your anger, as Madame Alpenny told so skilful a lie. It wasn't all a lie, of course, as I did propose to Zara." "I know you did, and I know why you did. But you will be much happier with me than with her," said the girl naïvely. "Than with any one, Gwen," cried the young man fervently. "Oh, my dear, to think how nearly I have lost you." "I said that to myself about you, just before you entered," whispered Gwen in a penitent tone. "Do forgive me." "On condition that you forgive me," pleaded Owain fondly. "Dear, there is nothing to forgive," said the girl, abasing herself. "It is all my fault--all my fault. I'm a nasty little jealous animal." "Just the kind of animal I like." Owain pressed her hard in his arms. "I'll never, never let you go again, and now that we are together and you are on my side, I am prepared to face the worst." "Face what?" "Ah, I forgot; you don't understand. I have a long explanation to give." Hench paused and looked nervous, as he drew Gwen to a chair and sat down to take her on his knee. "You won't hate me, or doubt me?" "Never! Never!" Gwen positively. "I'll never doubt you again. What is the matter?" "Murder is the matter!" "What?" She started back and stared at his perturbed face. "The murder of----" "Yes! The murder of your father. You know that tramp you suspect?" "The one who asked the way to the Gipsy Stile? Yes." "I am that tramp." "It's impossible." "It is quite true. I have explained matters to Vane and to Mrs. Perage. Now I must explain them to you. Having admitted that I am the tramp you suspect----" Gwen stopped him by laying her hand over his mouth. "I don't suspect the tramp, now that you are he," she said vehemently. "You are innocent, I am sure." "How can you be sure?" asked Hench sharply. "Because you saved my life," replied Gwen in a truly feminine fashion. "No one who saved a person's life would commit a murder." "Well, I can scarcely admit the logic of that reasoning," said Hench, unable to refrain from a smile, in spite of the desperate situation. "But I am glad that you so far trust me." "I trust you to the death." "Darling!"--he kissed her--"that gives me the courage to tell you all!" And he did tell her all then and there, from the time of the conversation with Madame Alpenny down to the moment when she accused him in the churchyard. "So you see, Gwen," he concluded in a melancholy tone, "that although perfectly innocent, this woman has the power to have me arrested." "You shall not be arrested," said Gwen, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks. "Then you don't believe me to be guilty?" "What a silly question to ask." This time it was Gwen who kissed. "Is it likely that I would still be sitting on your knee if I thought you killed my father? Of course, the whole thing is difficult and mysterious, but I am on your side, Owain, and we will fight it out together." "Yes! Yes!" Hench rose and swung her off her feet right into his arms. "I am not afraid now. Your love will give me strength to conquer my enemies. But it will be an ordeal for you." "An ordeal which will prove the depth of my love, dear. And I deserve such an ordeal. I doubted you once; but I'll never, never, never, never doubt you again. Owain, darling, everything will come right. There is Mr. Vane and Mrs. Perage and myself and you. Against us is only that horrid old woman." "She holds a strong hand in the game, though," murmured the young man doubtfully. "We hold a stronger. Right will always prevail against might." "Gwen! Gwen! You are a tower of strength. You put new life into me. Yes, we will fight; we will fight, fight to the end." "And win!" cried Gwen. "Oh, never doubt, Owain. We must win!" CHAPTER XVII BLACKMAIL After the reconciliation between the lovers nothing remained but to go into the garden and announce that Mademoiselle Zara's errand had been wholly successful. Gwen was now quite amiably disposed towards her rival, and was indeed very thankful to her for the peacemaking explanation. Along with Hench she went into the hot sunshine, and as they walked across the lawns towards the glade where they were likely to find the others, Owain warned Gwen that Zara was wholly ignorant of her mother's schemes. "Only you and I, Mrs. Perage and Jim Vane, know about her accusation," said the young man seriously. "So don't hint a word of the business to Zara." "Of course I won't," agreed Gwen readily. "But what steps are you going to take, Owain, in order to counterplot her?" "Madame Alpenny? Well, I haven't any idea in my head just now, and, at all events, she has given me a week to think over things. Let us leave matters as they are until to-morrow, and then we can call a council of war and see what is best to be done. There's no doubt that Madame Alpenny has me in a tight place." "She has," said Gwen cheerfully. "But we may be able to turn the tables on her." "In what way?" "I don't know," mused the girl. "It seems to me that this woman knows more about the death of my father than she will admit. She may be guilty herself." Hench shook his head. "I have some such idea myself, and yet it seems impossible. What had she to gain?" "A fortune through you," said Gwen promptly. "By means of that advertisement which brought you to the Gipsy Stile, she implicated you in the murder, which she may have executed before you arrived. Once under her thumb, she hoped to compel you to marry Zara, and so would have gained control of the money." "I am not under her thumb yet," said Hench grimly. "And what is more, I don't intend to be, strong as is her position. Whether she is guilty or innocent I can't say, as I am ignorant of her doings on the night of the first of July. But I should like to know, Gwen, why your father put that advertisement into the papers, and why he appointed the Gipsy Stile as the place of meeting?" "I can't explain," she answered doubtfully. "My father never said a word to me about the advertisement, or, indeed, about Madame Alpenny's visit. I asked him who she was and he told me to mind my own business." "Well, Madame Alpenny can explain, as I believe she suggested the advertisement dodge herself." Owain reflected for a moment. "There's something queer behind all this, Gwen, and when we learn what that something is, I daresay we will find out who murdered your father. And then----" "Hush," said Gwen suddenly, as they turned round the corner of a green alley which ran between high box hedges. "Here they are." As a matter of fact the lovers stumbled right into the centre of a group consisting of Mrs. Perage and her guests. They all appeared to be smiling, and the smiles grew very broad when the reconciled couple came towards them. Mrs. Perage caught Gwen by the shoulders and looked into her tell-tale blue eyes. "Is it all right, you nuisance?" she demanded gruffly. "All right!" assented Gwen, giving her a kiss. "Thanks to----" "To me," cried the dancer gaily. "I am the goddess of Peace." Hench took her hand and kissed it. "I can never thank you sufficiently." "I don't require thanks, Mr. Hench. But did I not tell you that when you really fell in love you would understand how wholly different it was to your feeling for me?" "You did, and I have learned the difference. Admiration is moonlight, and love is the most glowing of sunshine." "How poetical," said Vane with a shrug. "And how true. Jim, I have to thank you for bringing Mademoiselle Zara with the olive branch. Bless you, as a friend in need." "Bless Aunt Emma, rather, old son. She suggested the idea." "It seemed the only way of convincing a stupid man," said Mrs. Perage lightly. "However, all's well that ends well, so let us go in and have some tea. Our visitors have to leave in an hour." All this time Bracken, silent according to custom, was smiling amiably at the man he had at one time considered his rival. Now he advanced and shook him by the hand, much to the approval of Zara, for Bracken had given her considerable trouble over Hench's attentions. Mrs. Perage, still holding on tightly to Gwen, was walking in front, together with Vane, so Owain had the pleasant task of escorting Zara and her lover to the house. He was glad of this, as he wished to say something and repay the dancer for her kindness. "When are you two going to be married?" he asked abruptly. Zara sighed. "I don't know," she confessed sadly. "Ned expected to get some money from his mother, but she died without leaving any. Neither I nor Ned make enough money to keep ourselves and my mother, so we can't think of marrying for a long time." "Madame Alpenny seems to be the stumbling block," mused Hench thoughtfully. "She is," declared Bracken in a gruff, rough way. "Zara and I could manage by ourselves on what we earn, if it wasn't for that cattish old woman." "Ned! Ned! Don't call names. After all, my mother is my mother." "She is very selfish, and makes you miserable to please herself," said Bracken crossly. "I shall never make much money as I am not a genius as you are, Zara. If you could only get the engagement you deserve you would make sufficient to settle your mother, and then we could get married." "Allow me to see to that," said Owain quickly. "See here, Bracken, and you, Zara, you may not know it but I am a rich man." "I am very glad," said the dancer honestly. "You have made money, then?" "I have inherited money--a large income. I owe you much, as but for you things would not have been squared." "It was the least I could do, Mr. Hench." "It was a very great deal to do, as the task was a delicate one. However, what I mean is this, that as you have been my friend you must allow me to be yours. Therefore"--Owain spoke slowly and deliberately--"I wish you, with Bracken's approval, of course, to accept one thousand pounds." "Oh!" gasped Zara, flushing as red as her cloak. "I couldn't think of it." "Nor can I," said Bracken resentfully. "I can keep my own wife." "My dear people,"--Owain being between them took an arm of each,--"if you like you can pay me back on some future occasion. Zara, your mother will bother me to marry you until some barrier is raised which will prevent your being my possible wife. At present, as you have stated, you are not able to marry for want of money. Now if I give you this thousand pounds, which I can very easily spare, I want you to get married quietly. When your mother learns that you are Mrs. Bracken she will leave me alone. Then you can give her a sum of money to live on in the meantime and will be able to rest on your oars and look about for a better engagement. You see?" "Yes," said Zara gratefully. "I see, and I am very much obliged. If I can give my mother half the money she will go to her people in Buda Pesth and amuse herself with gambling. Then with five hundred pounds Ned and and I can manage to get to the West End. Money always brings money, and I am sure that I could get an engagement." "Didn't your mother go in search of one for you?" asked Hench, nodding. Zara's lip curled and she looked more disdainful than ever. "My mother said that she went, but she never did." Hench started. "She was absent for a few days, I remember." "Yes. On business, she told me. But what her business was I never knew. It had nothing to do with an engagement, however, or I should have known." Of course Owain knew very well on what business Madame Alpenny had been engaged, but he was wise enough to make no remark. Also at the moment his attention was distracted by Bracken, who had been thinking in his heavy way. "If you will allow Zara and me to pay you back the money with interest at five per cent," he observed, reflectively, "we don't mind--eh, Zara?" "No," she rejoined promptly. "I shall take the money with pleasure then, as it will certainly help us to get married in spite of my mother's opposition. I am very grateful for your kind help, Mr. Hench." "I am only doing what I ought to do," said Owain frankly. "You have done me a good turn, so it is only right that I should do you and Bracken one. I shall see my lawyers next week and arrange for the money to be paid to you by cheque, or in notes, or gold, whichever you prefer." "Say a cheque, Hench," remarked Bracken, with a sigh of relief. "I have a banking account. It's a very small one--still, it is a banking account." "Good. I will call at The Home of the Muses some day next week with the cheque, and meantime you can see about getting married." "Oh, Ned!" cried Zara. "Oh, Zara!" cried Ned, and they embraced, even though they were in sight of the drawing-room windows. "Well," said Hench philosophically, "I have made two people happy, anyhow." "We will be happier if you are happy yourself, you generous man," said Zara. "Oh, that's all right," replied Hench hurriedly, for he did not wish to be thanked or praised. "Come and have some tea. We'll keep this little arrangement to ourselves." The visitors were very pleased at the result of their visit, which they had been far from expecting, and the tea was unusually gay. Gwen could not show enough attention to Zara, and Mrs. Perage, who had taken a fancy to the honest dullness of Ned, looked after him in her brusque way. Owain and his beloved were silent from sheer happiness, in spite of the thunder-clouds which still obscured the sun, so it was left to Jim Vane to brighten the party with chatter and gaiety. He was entirely successful, and the visitors left with a sense of great enjoyment. Zara looked younger, less fatigued and unapproachable than usual, while Bracken's stolid good-looking face was wreathed in smiles. And Hench saw them off at the station with a sense of thankfulness that he had been able to help them. He was so happy himself in having gained Gwen's love that he wished every one else to be happy, and moreover was delighted that he had been able to repay Zara for her good work. He returned to his lodgings to dress, and then went to dine at Mrs. Perage's hospitable board. Gwen wished to hold the council of war after dinner, but Hench refused. He considered that the day had been quite sufficiently filled with events, and did not wish to start a discussion which was likely to be prolonged into the small hours. Gwen looked tired after all the excitement she had undergone, and Hench himself felt rather weary. The true fact was that a sense of anxiety lay beneath their surface gaiety, and they were feeling the suspense more than they thought. Mrs. Perage and her nephew were also rather silent; so in spite of the reconciliation of the lovers the evening was rather a failure. With her usual prompt way of dealing with things, Mrs. Perage sent Hench away at half-past nine o'clock. "We are all worn out with bother," she said briskly. "So it is best for all of us to have a good night's rest and then we can deal with other and more serious matters to-morrow." "One serious matter has been put right, thanks to you," said Hench, looking fondly at Gwen. "It was just as well to take the bull by the horns," said Mrs. Perage candidly. "And I am glad that Zara proved to be so sensible a creature. And when you tell Gwen what--what----" she hesitated, not knowing if it was wise to speak. "What peril I am in," finished Hench. "Oh, I've done that this afternoon." "The deuce you have!" cried Vane, turning from his friend to Gwen. "And what do you think of the matter, Miss Evans?" "I don't know what to think," said Gwen promptly. "Save that I believe Owain to be innocent, and I will stand by him to the end, whatever it may be." "Good. And the accusation of Madame----" "Jim," commanded his aunt sharply, "do hold your tongue. This is not the time to begin a discussion. To-morrow, when our wits are clearer, we can talk. Owain, go home to bed. Jim and I will turn our backs while you take leave of Gwen." This was not necessary, as Gwen accompanied her lover to the door and kisses were exchanged in the twilight of the summer night. But the two were so long in parting that Mrs. Perage had to come on the scene and fairly shut the door in the face of this lingering lover. Hench went away, feeling that the sun had vanished from the sky, which was exactly what the sun should do considering the time. He sauntered home leisurely, thinking of Gwen and picturing his future life with her. By the time he reached Mrs. Bell's cottage it was striking ten from the church tower, and he entered the house yawning with the intention of going at once to bed. There he could dream of Gwen. But Owain did not get to his repose so speedily as he expected, for he found a visitor sitting in his parlour--and not a visitor he was exactly pleased to see. From an armchair rose the smartly dressed figure of Mr. Cuthbert Spruce, who smiled amiably when he saw the astonished look on the face of his host. Hench frowned, very ill-pleased. "What the deuce are you doing here, Spruce?" he demanded sharply. "I have come to have a serious talk with you," said the Nut coolly, and resumed his seat with the air of a man determined to stay where he was. "Then you can clear out and come to-morrow, my friend. I am much too tired to talk just now." Hench glanced at his watch. "There is a train at a quarter to eleven which you can catch." "I am not going back to town this evening, Hench." "Well, that's your business, not mine. Anyhow, I want you to go now." "I am staying at the Bull Inn," went on Spruce significantly. "It is necessary that we should speak now. Better be sensible, Hench, and listen." Owain looked at this meddlesome marplot searchingly. He was staying at the Bull Inn, and that was a place which Hench had carefully avoided lest he should come into contact with the girl who had seen him as a tramp. It occurred to him from the significance of Spruce's tone that the Nut had been making inquiries, and had come to make himself unpleasant. However, Hench was not the man to be frightened into doing what he did not wish to do, and he threw off his coat and hat, still frowning. "I don't know why you have come here," he said coldly, "or how you found out where I was living. But----" "Madame Alpenny told me," said Spruce quickly, and brought out a cigarette. "Hang her impudence! Don't smoke. I don't want you to stay." "Very good." The Nut rose and carefully lighted the little roll of tobacco. "As you please. But don't say that I did not give you your chance." "What the devil do you mean?" "If you send me away how can I explain?" asked Spruce, with a supercilious smile. "I have been waiting for quite an hour, and it was only after a great deal of persuasion that your landlady allowed me to enter. I believe"--added the Nut, stretching his arms and yawning-- "that she is waiting up, so as to be sure that I have not come after the spoons." Hench looked at him hard, then abruptly left the room to assure Mrs. Bell that everything was all right. After he had sent her to bed, at rest in her mind about the stranger, he returned to the parlour and closed the door in an ostentatious manner. Spruce laughed. "You are going to let me stay, then," he remarked coolly and sitting down again. Hench sat opposite to him with a resolute air. "You don't leave this room until you fully explain what the devil you mean by dogging my footsteps in this way," he said sternly. "Dogged is a good word, or was it dogging? Both are good words. You will have to be dogged so far as your courage is concerned. And as to dogging, it is better that I should do that than the police." "Oh, hang your fantastical chatter!" snapped Hench with a lowering brow. "Come to the point." "Can't you see my point now that I have mentioned the police?" "No," said Hench briefly and obstinately. "Curious! You are not usually so dense." Spruce puffed lightly at his cigarette and smiled blandly. "The fact is I am here on behalf of Madame Alpenny." "What has Madame Alpenny to do with me, may I ask?" "Oh, you may ask, and I shall reply with great pleasure. Madame Alpenny has done me the honour to make me her confidential friend, and I am now in possession of all facts connected with your gaining of a large fortune. Most people would be glad to get so much money, but few people would be ready to gain it at so heavy a price." Hench winced inwardly but not outwardly, as he did not intend to show fear in the presence of this little reptile. He saw from the very audacity with which the Nut spoke that he knew all about the matter connected with the death of Madoc Evans, and knew also that the creature had come at this untimely hour to profit by his knowledge. "You speak in riddles," he said coldly. "Oh, I think you can guess them," retorted the other man. "Perhaps I can and perhaps I cannot. But as you hint at mysteries it is for you to explain them. Be as brief as you can. I can't wait up all night listening to your twaddle." "Very bravely carried off, Hench," taunted Spruce, his eyes looking angry. "But such bluff doesn't deceive me. I know too much for you to pretend ignorance." "What you know I am waiting to learn," said Hench, setting his teeth. "Why give me the trouble to explain?" "Stop your fencing and come to the point. You want money?" "A great deal of money. The price of my story is costly." "Really!" said Hench sarcastically. "Well, you were writing a story at Bethnal Green. At least that was the lie you told me to account for your presence in the boarding-house." Spruce laughed, in no wise offended, as his moral perceptions were very much blunted. "I am writing a much better story than I anticipated. I told you that I came to Bethnal Green to find material. Well, I have found material of the best. I shall sell this story for a good price," he concluded, looking meaningly at his listener. "And the price?" "Well, I think about two thousand a year." "Moderate," said Owain shortly and not quailing. "I think so myself, seeing that I shall have to pay Madame Alpenny at least two hundred a year out of it." "And keep one thousand eight hundred a year to yourself?" "That is my intention," rejoined the Nut coolly. "Spruce, you are--what you are, as it is impossible to find a name low enough to suit you. And how am I to pay this two thousand a year?" "Out of the ten thousand per annum your uncle left you." "Humph! You seem to be well informed." "Madame Alpenny informed me, so naturally I am in possession of many facts which you would prefer to keep secret. Come, Hench, it is no use our beating about the bush, as we understand one another, so----" "Pardon me, we don't understand one another. What am I to get for this two thousand a year blackmail?" "Don't use nasty words. It won't help you to be nasty. I'm top-dog, Hench, so you had better give in." "Two words go to a bargain," said Hench calmly. "What am I to gain in return for this two thousand a year?" "My silence." "About what?" Spruce started up, looking peevishly angry. "Don't try me too far, Hench. You know quite well what I mean. A word from me to the police and you will be arrested straight away for the murder of your uncle." "Oh, indeed. You seem to be very certain of my guilt." "Whether I am certain or not doesn't matter," retorted the other. "I hold you in the hollow of my hand." "Explain how you do that." "Oh, very well," said Spruce, sitting down again. "If you will have chapter and verse I am willing to oblige you, although I think you are wasting my time." The Nut drew a long breath and then proceeded to inform his host of his discoveries. These had to do with the insertion of the advertisement, with the visit of Hench on the fatal night to Cookley, and with the inheritance which the untoward death of Madoc Evans had brought the young man. "So you see," concluded the Nut, "that I have only to go to the police with this tale to ensure your arrest." "I quite admit that, Spruce. In fact, I admit the truth of all your story. I should like to know how you found out all about the business. You could scarcely go to Madame Alpenny and force it out of her without some previous knowledge." "Well, it was my clever brain that gave me the tip," said Spruce coolly. "That conversation in which the word 'Rhaiadr' was used gave me the idea that the old woman knew something about you. I watched her and followed her when she went away. She came down here and saw Evans at the Grange. I waited until she got home later, and then told her that I had followed her. She was so alarmed lest you should know of the visit--as your doing so would have upset the apple-cart--that she told me about the advertisement. When it appeared I saw it and made sure that you would obey it. I followed you to that hotel near the British Museum, but you left there and I lost sight of you. Therefore I lay low until I got evidence of your visit to Cookley on the night of the first of July. I saw all about the murder in the newspapers and believed that you were guilty. But I was not sure until I went to-day to the Bull Inn and questioned that girl about the supposed tramp. From what she said, vague as her description was, I knew that you were the tramp in question, so came on here to let you know. I believe that you asked the way to the Gipsy Stile and went straight there to murder your uncle." "Oh!" said Owain, unmoved. "Am I the sort of person to murder an old man?" "I don't say that you killed him in cold blood," replied Spruce hastily. "You doubtless had a quarrel and stabbed him before you knew what you were about." "One moment, Spruce. I am not in the habit of carrying about carving-knives to kill people. And I had no reason to kill my uncle, as at the time I did not know that he was any relation." "Oh, he told you that at the time you met him." "I never met him. I found him dead." Spruce started up in a fury and snatched at his hat. "What's the use of your dodging in this way. I say that you murdered him, and if you don't promise to pay me two thousand a year and secure the same to me by deed, I shall go to the police and procure your arrest. You know I can do it." "You can. I fully admit that just now you are top-dog," said Hench in quite a bland way. "And you are willing to condone my felony for the money?" "Yes! You can kill the whole population of Cookley for all I care." "Oh, I quite understand that. Well, to-night I shall say nothing. You must give me one week to consider matters." "I don't mind,"--Spruce made for the door with a shrug,--"but don't you try and bolt or I shall put the police on to you." "Naturally! You have made everything perfectly clear to me. Good-night." Spruce walked into the passage and opened the outside door. "Remember," he said. "Good-night," repeated Hench, and shut the door in the face of the blackmailer. CHAPTER XVIII HENCH'S DIPLOMACY Contrary to his expectations, Owain passed a very good night. By this time he was so accustomed to trouble that it did not seem sensible to worry over anything until he could meet the same fairly and squarely. Dangerous as Madame Alpenny and Spruce were, he had no reason to fear them for a week, since they gave him that period in which to assent to their terms. The woman wished him to marry her daughter; the man desired to obtain an income of two thousand a year, secured by deed; and if he satisfied both, they would hold their peace and trouble him no longer. But Hench by no means intended to purchase immunity at this price, as to do so would imply that he was guilty. As he was perfectly innocent such a course was not to be thought of, and it was necessary to think of some other means of settling the difficulty. And since Owain could not decide his course of action on the spur of the moment, he put the matter out of his head for the time being and retired to bed immediately. After a good night's rest, he rose greatly refreshed, and sent Giles to bring Vane to breakfast. Guessing from the unexpectedness of the invitation that something was in the wind, Vane speedily arrived, and was waiting in the little parlour when his friend made his appearance. Hench refused to give any information until the meal was ended, saying that to mix up business with pleasure was to spoil both, so the barrister had to possess his soul in patience until they were enjoying their morning smoke. Then, as Hench still held his peace, Vane asked him a down-right question with considerable impatience. "Why did you ask me to come to breakfast, Owain?" "To talk over a further complication of this trouble." "The murder of your uncle?" "Yes! When I came here last night, Spruce was waiting for me." "Spruce!" echoed the other curiously. "That crawling little cheat. How did he find you out, Owain?" "Madame Alpenny told him where I was, and Bottles told her, and Peter told his brother. That is how the screed runs." "Why the deuce couldn't Peter keep his knowledge of your whereabouts to himself," growled the barrister. "We don't want Spruce here." "Oh, Peter didn't think he was doing wrong in telling Bottles, as he knew how his brother was devoted to me. It is Bottles I blame in giving me away. I don't think he is so devoted to me as I thought. And I certainly don't want Spruce here, especially as he has come to blackmail me." "What's that?" Vane sat up very straight. "Listen!" and Hench related what had taken place in that very room on the previous night, so that the barrister was soon placed in possession of all facts connected with the accusation. Vane sat silent when his friend ended, digesting the uncomfortable knowledge. "Little beast!" he said at length. "I knew that he was after no good in going to Bethnal Green." "Oh, that was mere chance, Jim. But his cleverness led him to suspect what Madame Alpenny knew, and he watched her day and night until he wormed her secret out of her. Well, you have heard; what is your advice?" "I should give Spruce rope enough to hang himself," said Vane quickly. "In what way?" "By promising him the money. If he accepts he will be condoning a felony and in that way will get himself into trouble." "I will get into trouble also." "I'm not so sure of that," said Vane, looking out of the window in a musing manner. "Spruce says that you are guilty, to suit his own ends. But I should not be surprised if he knew the name of the true assassin." "Madame Alpenny?" "I think so. No one but you and that woman knew of the appointment at the Gipsy Stile. You are innocent, so she must be guilty. And we have agreed that she had a strong motive to place you in possession of the property straight away. Yes, I truly think that she struck the blow, thus giving you the money at once and getting you under her thumb. She killed two birds with one stone." "Don't be in such a hurry," said Owain dryly. "The appointment was advertised in the newspaper shown to me by Madame Alpenny. Other people may have gone there on the chance of getting something." "Other people had nothing to gain by keeping the appointment, Owain, much less by murdering the old man. No. Some one who knew what his death meant to you is the assassin, and Madame Alpenny alone possessed that information." "True enough. Well, and what do you propose?" "Send that man you sent to me for Spruce, and ask him to come here at once." "For what purpose?" "We can make a bargain with him. Instead of giving him the money to hold his tongue, offer it to him on condition that he reveals the truth." "He won't. He's a born liar." "Oh yes, he will. The chance of getting two thousand a year will unlock his tongue. He'd sell Madame Alpenny or a dozen like her to line his own nest." "It's not a bad idea," said Owain, as he left the room to speak to Giles. While he was absent Vane began to think of Peter, the page, who was the brother of Simon, surnamed Bottles. It seemed to him that these two boys knew of something in connection with the matter, as they appeared to take a great interest in the doings of Hench. The barrister resolved to speak to Owain on his return, and did so immediately he came back with the information that Giles was now on his way to the Bull Inn. "You say that Bottles was devoted to you, Owain," said Vane reflectively. "I thought so, but since he has given me away to Madame Alpenny I have my doubts of his honesty." "Hm! I don't know. A hero-worshipper doesn't throw off his allegiance so lightly. Bottles promised to hold his tongue?" "Yes! Really, though, Jim, there was nothing for him to tell." "Not when you left Bethnal Green, I admit. But there has been something to tell since, and he has told it, to wit your whereabouts, which you did not wish to be known to that old hag. Bottles must have some reason for acting as he has done. If I were you I would go up to town and see him." Hench nodded. "I intend to, and to see Madame Alpenny at the same time. Our conversation ended rather abruptly in the churchyard, and I want to make it quite clear to her that I suspect her of being the guilty person." "Quite so. And if we succeed in frightening or bribing that little animal Spruce, you will have more grounds to present to her as to the truth of your accusation. We're travelling along a dark path, Owain, and the deuce knows what we will find at the end of it." "A gaol for Madame Alpenny and a church for me and Gwen to be married in, Jim," said Hench promptly. "But it is a dark path as you say, and I have got on to it in the most unexpected manner. I wish I had called to see you before coming down here on that night. Had you been with me all this trouble would have been avoided." Vane quite agreed. "In dealing with people like Madame Alpenny and Spruce it is always best to have a witness. That is why I think that the wisdom of seeing Spruce in company is apparent. Hullo! here he is. Doesn't he look like Solomon in all his glory, the slimy little reptile?" It was indeed Spruce who had just clicked the gate and was sauntering up the short garden path. As the day was very warm, he was appropriately clothed in a suit of cream-coloured serge, with brown shoes and a straw hat. His whole appearance was spic and span, and he looked more like a cherub than ever with his pink and white face. No one would have thought that this innocent blue-eyed youth was such a despicable little scoundrel. His purple necktie, his purple scarf, his purple socks, and the purple band round his hat, were all in keeping with his quality of a Nut. He even wiped his heated face with a purple bordered pocket-handkerchief, and when he came into the room the same wafted a delicate perfume abroad which made Vane growl with disgust. "What the dickens do you use scent for?" he asked irritably. "Vane!" said the Nut, not very well pleased to come across one who knew all about his card-table delinquencies. "You here?" "A pleasant surprise, isn't it, Spruce?" sneered the barrister, who ardently desired to kick the creature into a dusty heap on the road. "Oh, I don't mind meeting old friends," said Spruce, recovering his impudence. "I'm not your friend, neither is Hench." "Well,"---Spruce shrugged his elegant shoulders, "let us say old schoolfellows." "You are a disgrace to Winchester!" raged Vane, scowling. "A cheat and a sneak, a liar and a thief. That's what you are." "Thanks. Any more names?" "I may as well add blackmailer," observed Hench coldly. "In that case I can call you a murderer, which is a worse name!" snarled the Nut, looking very ugly. "I am not. You are lying as usual." "Don't insult me too much, Hench. You seem to forget that I am top-dog." "So far you certainly are. Top-puppy, I should say. Sit down and let us get to business." Spruce still stood by the door in what he considered was a haughty attitude, and frowned impressively. "I don't see what Vane has to do with any business between you and myself," he said sharply. "Vane is my friend, and I have asked him here to deal with the matter about which you spoke last night." "You seem ready to take the whole world into your confidence," said Spruce insolently, dusting a chair with his handkerchief before taking a seat. "If you act in that way I can't protect you." "Wait till you're asked," said Vane tartly. "Good Lord, the idea of your protecting any one; unless," he added significantly, "it is Madame Alpenny." "What do you mean by that?" asked the Nut, visibly discomposed. "Oh, I think you know quite well what I mean, Spruce. You accuse Hench here of murdering his uncle?" "Yes, I do. And I'll tell the police as much if he doesn't pay my price. The police would give a good deal to find the tramp who asked the way to the Gipsy Stile on the night of the first of July." "How can you prove that Hench is the tramp?" "By his own admission." "And if he does not make that admission in open court?" "Then I'll leave it to the barmaid at the Bull Inn. She cannot describe our friend's appearance very well, as she is stupid and the tap-room was badly lighted when she saw him. But she declares that she would know his voice. Mr. Owain Hench would then have to prove what he was doing on the night in question, and I don't think that would be easy." "It certainly would not be easy," said Hench coolly. "I have admitted that you can make out a very good case for the prosecution. All the same you are perfectly aware that I am innocent." "What makes you say that?" asked Spruce quickly and--as Vane thought--in a somewhat anxious manner. "Because I think you know who is the guilty person." "Do I? That remains to be seen." "Spruce," said Vane in a menacing manner, "you are playing a very dangerous game, and let alone the fact that you are trying to blackmail Hench, you run the risk of condoning a felony." "Ah!" said the Nut quickly. "Then you suggest that our friend is guilty?" "Nothing of the sort. I suggest that you pretend to believe him guilty to get this money. But you know perfectly well that he is not." "Do you mean to insinuate that I know who murdered the Squire?" asked Spruce, with a fine show of indignation. "Certainly I do," retorted Vane smartly. "Don't put on frills. In my opinion Madame Alpenny, who knew all about the advertisement and the property, is the guilty person. But, as she isn't worth powder and shot, you are trying to fasten the crime on to Hench's shoulders." "And I can, Mr. James Vane, as you and he shall find." "Oh!" said Hench cynically. "And you really expect me to pay you two thousand a year to refrain from doing so? I won't." "You won't?" Spruce was plainly taken aback. "No. Rather than do so I shall go to the police and tell my story. Better be in the hands of the authorities than in yours." "You won't dare to do what you say." "Oh yes, I dare. My conscience is clear, so I am willing to stand the brunt." Spruce was plainly embarrassed by this defiance and did not very well know what to say or do. If Hench acted as he threatened to do, there would be no money for the Nut, and perhaps an action against him as a blackmailer. He was shrewd enough to see this, and therefore shuffled his cards so that he might not drive his proposed victim to extremities. "What do you wish me to do, then?" he asked sullenly. Before Hench could reply Vane, who was looking out of the window, turned round sharply. "There is Peter," he said, glancing at his friend. "What the deuce is he hanging round your cottage for?" The answer came from an unexpected quarter. "Peter is waiting to see me," said Spruce with dignity. "He was at the Bull Inn when your messenger came and I told him to wait until I returned. I expect he has followed me here and expects me to come out soon." "What are you seeing Peter about?" questioned Hench sharply. "That is my business," snapped the Nut sulkily. "Mine also. Peter is the brother of Bottles, who is employed by Mrs. Tesk, and both the boys are meddling in matters which do not concern them. What does it all mean?" "You had better ask the boy in and question him," sneered Spruce coolly. "I shall do so after we have dispatched this affair," said Hench sharply. "You ask me what I wish you to do. I reply, clear my character." "How can I do that?" "In a way best known to yourself. But you are well aware that Madame Alpenny is the guilty person." "I am not." "Don't tell lies. It is better worth my while to pay you two thousand a year to prove her guilty and me innocent, than for me to give the income to you merely for the sake of your holding your tongue. That's a thing you never did and never will do." Spruce considered. "If I prove Madame Alpenny to be guilty," he said, with a greedy gleam in his eyes, "will you pay me the two thousand a year?" "I'll think about it." "Then I do nothing. To be quite plain, I _can_ clear your character in the way you say----" "Ah, I knew you were lying." "----But I shan't do so unless you agree, in the presence of Vane, to give me my price." "It is too large a price," grumbled the barrister. "Large or small, it is what I want." "I'll give you one thousand a year if you----" "Two thousand." Hench looked at Vane and Vane at Hench, as both were uncertain how to act. A very difficult question had to be threshed out. Owain was unwilling to pay blackmail, yet if he did not there was bound to be trouble. If he did he was quite certain that Spruce could clear his character. For an honourable man the position was very trying, but there seemed to be only one way out of it. "Very good," said Hench with an effort. "You must have your price, Shylock, as my life and liberty are more to me than money, and there is no denying but what you have me in a cleft stick. I promise to give you two thousand a year if you remove all danger from me of being accused." "I can do that." "Then you know who murdered my uncle?" "I do. Madame Alpenny is guilty, as you thought. But I alone can prove her guilt. I have your promise in Vane's presence to give me the income?" "Yes," said Hench with another effort, for he hated giving way thus ignobly to this scoundrel. "You have my promise." "You hear, Vane? I shall call you as a witness in case of non-payment." "I hear," said the barrister, smoking phlegmatically. "I am surety for Hench's good faith. You shall be paid, you rat. Now prove to us that you can have the woman arrested." Spruce drew a long breath of relief, as things were now going exactly as he wished. Like the traitor he was, he gaily went to work and sold Madame Alpenny's secret to gain the money. "She came down to see Evans after she knew that Hench was his nephew." "I know that," said Owain quickly. "Tell us something new." "All in good time," said Spruce smoothly. "I made her confess how she arranged with Evans about the advertisement and how to draw your attention to it." "Why was the appointment made in Parley Wood instead of in the house?" asked Vane, whom the problem had frequently perplexed. "I can't tell you. Madame Alpenny never explained that to me. All I know is that she laid the trap for Hench to fall into, and he did." "Only to find that my uncle was dead." "Of course," said Spruce, turning towards Hench with raised eyebrows; "that was the trap. She intended to accuse you, and thus force you to marry Zara so that she could handle the money." "That I also know, and she did accuse me. Well?" "Well, she came down here by the same train as you did, and while you were at the Bull Inn she went on to Parley Wood and murdered the Squire." "How can you prove that?" "Very easily." Spruce rose from his chair, and going to the window beckoned in the page. "Come here, I want you!" he cried. Peter started and seemed very much inclined to run away. But after a pause he braced up his courage and entered the house. Shortly he was standing before the three men, twisting his cap and looking very nervous. His likeness to his town brother was more apparent than ever, and Hench winced to think how Bottles had betrayed him. He had always believed that he could trust the boy to the uttermost. "Peter," said Spruce, sitting down again and enjoying his position of dictator, "you must tell this gentleman what you told me." "If Simon wishes me to," blurted out Peter. "He does wish you. I brought you that letter from Simon telling you to do whatever I asked you. Isn't that so?" "Yes, sir." Peter flushed and quivered, and wriggled in a most uneasy way. "Well, then, tell them what you told me about Madame Alpenny coming to Cookley on the night when Squire Evans was murdered." "Simon sent me a telegram telling me to watch for her," said Peter, speaking to the three generally. "And as I knew how she was dressed I easily did so, even though she wore a veil." "How did you know her dress?" asked Hench sharply. "Well, sir, when Simon came down here for his holiday he told me as he'd follered Madame Alpenny, who was up to some game. I met him then at the station, when he told me, and he follered her to the Grange. I follered him and hid in Parley Wood outside because Simon told me to. He watched at the gate. She saw the Squire and then came out, and after passing Simon she went into the wood follering the path to the Gipsy Stile." "What did she go there for?" questioned Vane. "To see the Squire." "But she had seen him in the house." "So she had, but he came to her at the Gipsy Stile afterwards. Both Simon and I follered and hid to listen. The Squire said as he would put in an advertisement asking 'Rhaiadr' to meet him at the Gipsy Stile, and said as he brought her there to see the meeting-place. When Madame Alpenny examined it and the Squire showed her how to get to it from the church she went away, and the Squire he returned to his house. Simon and me saw Madame Alpenny go to the station and catch the train to town. That was all that happened at that time. So you see, sir, how I knew how she was dressed." "I understand, though it is difficult to know why your brother suspected her." "Oh, Simon is sharp, sir, and he saw she was up to some games. He'll tell you all about it." "I'll see to that," said Hench grimly. "I'll have no more of this underhanded work. Well, go on. What about the second occasion when you saw her?" "Simon sent me a telegram saying as she was coming by a perticler train and to watch her at the station. I went there and saw her in the same dress, so I knew her in spite of the veil. Simon was there too, but he couldn't wait to speak to me, but just follered her, waving me back. I follered them as far as the church and waited there. Madame Alpenny, with Simon after her, went into the wood, and after staying there for a long time she came out and ran for the station." "Was Simon following her then?" asked Vane, alertly. "No, sir. He was still hiding in the wood, I think. I hid in the churchyard behind a tomb, and Madame she ran past me. I waited in the churchyard for Simon, and later I saw you, sir." "Me!" said Hench, starting up. "Yes, sir. You went through the churchyard and along the path. When you got into the wood Simon came running out as white as death, and told me as Madame Alpenny had murdered the Squire. He made me swear to hold my tongue, lest I and him should get into trouble. Then he went off to catch the train to London and I went home." "Why didn't you tell the police all this?" asked Hench, frowning. "Oh, I couldn't, sir," replied Peter in a most ingenuous way. "Simon made me promise not to in case we'd both get into trouble. But as he wrote saying I could tell Mr. Spruce I have done so, and as Mr. Spruce says I can tell you I have----" "There! There!" Spruce waved the boy into silence. "That is enough. You can go, and hold your tongue. Simon's orders, remember. Well,"--he turned to the two men,--"do you see how I can prove your innocence and Madame Alpenny's guilt?" "Yes," said Hench thoughtfully. "As Peter here saw me when I entered the wood, and Simon told him that the Squire was already dead, I see how my character can be cleared. Well, Spruce, I shall go to town and see the woman and the boy. When I settle with them I shall see you about your reward." "Don't you try and sell me," threatened Spruce, putting on his hat. "If you do it will be the worse for you." "Pah! Get out, you little swine," said Vane contemptuously, and the Nut departed considerably pleased with himself in spite of the scornful epithet. Peter lingered behind. "See Simon, sir. He'll explain," he said in a whisper. "Oh, I'll see him. But he's a little Judas," said Hench angrily. "No, sir. He ain't a Judas," said Peter, speaking grandiloquently. "Simon's as true to you as a needle is to the North Pole." And then he ran away hastily, evidently afraid of being questioned further. Hench let him go. CHAPTER XIX A DENIAL On the day after the interview with Spruce it was necessary for Owain to travel to London for the purpose of having an interview with Madame Alpenny. Vane at first wished to go with him, but on second thoughts decided that it would be best for him to remain in Cookley and keep a close watch on the Nut. That traitor, having behaved treacherously, was as pleased with himself as if he had acted in a most honourable manner. He was now certain of an excellent income, and determined to go abroad for a year or so to enjoy himself until such time as his West End friends forgot his little mistake at cards. Meanwhile he remained at the Bull Inn waiting for the arrest of the Hungarian lady, when everything would be put ship-shape. Spruce was very pleased with every one and everything since matters had turned out so well. That they had turned out badly for Madame Alpenny did not worry him in the least. He was much too busy building castles in the air to trouble about her. Owain had given Mrs. Perage and Gwen a full account of the discovery of the old woman's guilt. They were naturally shocked, but scarcely surprised, as for a long time circumstances had tended to make them think that Madame Alpenny had murdered the Squire. At the same time Gwen pleaded with her lover to deal gently with the wretched creature as she was Zara's mother, and they both owed a great deal to Zara. Hench admitted as much and promised to be as lenient as he could. Nevertheless, he pointed out that to save himself he would have to inform the police about the woman's guilt. Unwilling as he was to act so drastically, there was no other course to be taken. All the way to London the young man argued out the matter in his own vexed mind, but was unable to see how he could shield Madame Alpenny. It was a pity that Zara, who was innocent, should suffer for the wickedness of her mother. All the same, it was impossible to spare her the shock. Owain hated the idea of saving himself at the expense of a woman, but in strict justice to himself, and considering that his liberty and life were at stake, he could not see what else he could do. When he was on his way to Bethnal Green he fully made up his mind to act as justice dictated. The Home of the Muses was much in the same state as Hench had left it, although there were several new boarders. Mrs. Tesk received him joyfully, and conducted him to her sanctum saying that she wished for a private conversation with him. Madame Alpenny, it appeared, was in the drawing-room along with Bracken and Zara. "For a surprising thing has occurred," said Mrs. Tesk, who looked more like a retired school-mistress than ever. "They are now man and wife." "Oh!" Hench expected something of this sort, but was astonished to learn that the young couple had got married so promptly. "Man and wife, are they?" "Yes! They have entered into the bonds of matrimony, and are now breaking the news to Madame Alpenny." "She won't be pleased," observed Hench, with a shrug. "Oh, I am sure she will be very annoyed indeed!" cried Mrs. Tesk, clasping her hands with a look of distress. "She intended you to be her son-in-law. She told me so several times." "Ah! There is such a thing as counting your chickens before they are hatched, Mrs. Tesk," was the young man's dry reply. "But you loved Mademoiselle Zara--or rather I should now say Mrs. Bracken." "I admired her," corrected Owain. "I never loved her. She quite understood my feeling. I wish her and Bracken all manner of luck." "So do I, Mr. Hench. After all, if two people are tenderly attached, why should they not wed?" "Why, indeed? When were they married?" "Yesterday, at a Registrar's office. I scarcely look upon such a civil contract as a marriage myself, Mr. Hench, as such a ceremony should surely be sanctified by the blessing of the Church. But married they are according to the law of the land, and I expect they will leave me now." "Why should they?" "Because Madame Alpenny will never allow them to live under the same roof as herself. She is a very determined woman, Mr. Hench. I shall be sorry to lose the company of the bridal pair," said poor Mrs. Tesk, wiping away a tear, "as I highly approve of their young affection. It's so romantic. Ah!" she rose suddenly and opened the door. "They have broken the news. Hark!" Madame Alpenny certainly was not pleased. She stood at the head of the stairs anathematizing the bridal pair as they descended arm in arm. Zara was weeping and Bracken's stolid face wore an angry expression. Moved to the depths of her being, Mrs. Tesk was about to rush out and console them when her skirts were plucked by Hench. "Don't say that I am here," he whispered, and the landlady nodded comprehendingly as she disappeared. While Mrs. Tesk was accompanying Bracken and his wife to the door Madame Alpenny still stood at the top of the stairs raging wildly. She was fat and homely in her appearance, and still wore her eternal orange-spotted dress, bead mantle and picture hat. But furious anger made her look quite picturesque as she poured out a torrent of words, shaking her fists and with flashing eyes. "Never come near me again, you miserable girl!" she shouted after her daughter. "Ah, but what a wicked child you are to throw yourself away on a fool. As to that man Hench, who has bribed you into deceiving me, he shall suffer for his evil doings. Take my curse with you, Zara, and may you-----" Sheer wrath choked her further utterance, and perhaps the fact that the happy pair had stepped out of the front door. Even Atê cannot waste her fury on nothing, and Madame Alpenny looked very like Atê indeed. Luckily the boarders were all away and the servants were downstairs, so there were no spectators of the scene but Hench and Mrs. Tesk. The landlady parted with Zara and Bracken quite tenderly, for their romance appealed to her ever-young heart. While she was dismissing them on the doorstep, with a blessing which she hoped would neutralize the maternal curse, Hench ran up the stairs and into the drawing-room as quickly as he could. Madame Alpenny had staggered into the same a few moments earlier, and was sobbing violently on the sofa when Owain entered and closed the door. At the sound of the closing she looked up, and her face became purple with rage when she saw who had disturbed her. "You dare to come here, you--you--you?" she stormed, rising promptly and shaking her fist. "You who have ruined my hopes for Zara." "As those hopes were connected with a possible marriage between myself and your daughter," said Owain suavely, "I told you long ago that they could never be realized." "You told me. What do I care what you told me?" Madame Alpenny was in such a rage that she could scarcely get the words out. "And you smile, do you? Ah, yes, you can smile at my shame." "Don't be a fool," said Hench brusquely. "Your daughter has married an honourable man, whom you ought to be proud of as your son-in-law." "But I wanted you," sobbed Madame piteously, and suddenly passing from anger to pleading sorrow. "I know, and I pointed out to you that the thing was not possible. Zara loves Bracken, and I have arranged for money to be given to them so that they can make a fresh start in life." "Money; my money," moaned the old woman. "Your money! What do you mean by saying that?" Madame Alpenny dropped her handkerchief from her eyes and stood up with as great a dignity as her stout ungainly figure permitted. "Your money is mine, Monsieur. You owe it to me that you inherited the money." "Indeed!" Hench trapped her at once. "So you admit your guilt." "My guilt?" "Yes. It was you who murdered my uncle." "I?" Madame Alpenny stood stock still and stared hard. "It is a lie." "It is the truth. You learned from my father how matters stood twenty years ago, and our conversation in this very room revived your memory when I mentioned the place where my father had passed his youth. You went down to see my Uncle Madoc and arranged with him that I should be brought to meet him in Parley Wood by means of that advertisement which you showed me. And----" Madame Alpenny interrupted his flow of words by waving her fat hand for silence. "I admit all this, although I don't know how you found it out." "Never mind how I found it out. You are guilty." "What? You tell me a long story of what I have done and which I admit to be true. But you have said nothing which can prove that I murdered the man." "I was coming to that when you interrupted me," said Hench calmly. "You knew that I would go to the meeting, although I was then ignorant of my relationship to Squire Evans. Therefore you travelled down to Cookley on the first of July and----" "I never did; I never did," interrupted Madame Alpenny violently, but looking very anxious in spite of her denial. "You did, and when you arrived at Cookley you went to the Gipsy Stile before I did to stab my uncle." "Oh!" Madame Alpenny waved her arms grotesquely. "La! la! la! la! I murdered him, did I? And why should I murder him?" "So as to place me in possession of the money," said Hench solemnly. "So as to implicate me in the death, as you knew that I would arrive to find the dead body of the man you had killed. In this way you hoped to force me to marry your daughter and handle my fortune." Madame Alpenny sat down with a cool ironical air. "A very clever tale indeed, Monsieur. And who can prove its truth?" "Two people at least. You were followed when you first went to Cookley to join my uncle in laying the trap by means of the advertisement; you were followed on the occasion of your second visit, when you killed him." "Who followed me? Who saw me?" "Simon Jedd, who is a page here, and his brother Peter, who is in the service of Mrs. Perage at Cookley." "And how much have you paid them to tell this lie?" "I have paid them nothing. They are voluntary witnesses. Come, Madame, it is useless for you to deny the truth." "But I do deny it, see you!" she cried excitedly. "I deny it wholly and altogether. My first visit---ah, yes, I say that I did call on your uncle, and he did tell me about the advertisement, but----" "Why did he put in that advertisement?" interrupted Owain sharply. "He wished to see you before revealing himself as your uncle." "He could have appointed the meeting to take place in his house. Why was it arranged to come off in Parley Wood?" "There," said Madame Alpenny with candour, "I cannot help you. But that Monsieur Evans was strange--ah yes, he was dangerous. He told me that he would meet you at the Gipsy Stile, and took me there to show me the place. I went into the wood after I had left the big house." "I am aware of that," said Hench, remembering what Peter had said. "Go on." "You seem to know much," she sneered. "Enough to get you arrested and tried, condemned and hanged," said Hench in a significant tone. "Go on, I tell you." Madame Alpenny snarled, and her eyes glittered viciously. "Don't try to ride the tall horse over me, beast that you are. I am not afraid; no, I am not at all afraid. I do not know why your uncle arranged the meeting for the wood. All I had to do was to draw your attention to the advertisement, which I did. He wrote it out and put it in the journal. For all I know," went on the woman, more or less to herself, "this man wished to kill you, and chose a lonely place to do so." "Why should he wish to kill me?" "Because he hated your father and he hated you, Monsieur. He did not wish you to get the money. I did, because then you could marry Zara and I would be rich for the rest of my life." "That means I would have been under your thumb." "Ah, but no. Why should you be under my thumb? It was gratitude I looked for because I knew what would give you a large fortune. Your uncle would have given you enough to live on--perhaps two thousand a year." "Why so, when he hated me?" "Because I would have persuaded him. I told him about my daughter and how you loved her." "I did not," said Hench quickly and with a frown. "You did; you did. And Monsieur Evans, he said that if he found you a good young man and better than your wicked father, whom your uncle hated, that he would allow you a good income as his heir. For that reason did I agree to him putting in the advertisement and bringing you to meet him in that solitary spot. But it was in my mind to tell you all when I came back." "Why didn't you? It would have saved much trouble." "Because if I had not consented your uncle would never have acknowledged you as his heir or allowed you anything. Then you could not have married Zara and have given me money as I desired. Monsieur Evans was a healthy man, and I saw he would live for many years." "Therefore to get the money into your clutches at once you killed him." "I did not. Who dares to say that I did?" "Simon Jedd will dare for one, when I examine him, and Mr. Spruce has already accused you, for another." Madame Alpenny jumped up in a fury. "Mistare Spruce!" she shouted, with a violent gesture. "That wicked beast! That evil one! He accuse me?" "Of murdering my uncle? Yes. It is due to his information that I am here, as he can help me to prove your guilt." "My guilt!" Madame Alpenny snapped her fingers, with a crimson face. "Oh, that for my guilt! I am innocent." "Naturally you say so. But can you prove your innocence?" "I can." She said this with so much assurance that Hench was staggered, and began to wonder if he had made a mistake. "See you, that Mistare Spruce make me confess to him and then betrays me to you. Beast!" "You should not have trusted him," said Owain coldly. "Any one can see that he is a bad lot. I wonder that a woman of your penetration, Madame, behaved in so rash a manner." "Rash! Ah, but I did not behave rash. He forced me to speak. He knew so much that I had to tell him all." "About the murder?" "I am innocent of the murder," cried the woman, throwing back her head in a fierce way. "Hear what I speak, and then you shall see. Mistare Spruce was in this room when I told how I met your father. Is it not so?" "Yes," agreed Hench. "He heard the whole conversation." "I said," went on Madame Alpenny, "that there was a mystery about you, and now you know what the mystery was. Mistare Spruce, wanting to make money out of you and thinking that I knew something--which I did--watched me as a cat a mouse. I went to Cookley saying that I had to go away to find an engagement for my daughter. Is it not so?" she asked again. "Yes. You were away for a few days and so was Spruce." "He followed me down to Cookley." "Are you sure?" asked Hench, wondering why the two sharp Jedd boys had not also seen the Nut. "He confessed to me. He saw me enter the Grange; he saw me come out and go into the wood to meet Monsieur Evans at the Gipsy Stile. He stole after me and listened. You understand? He listened and learned about the property coming to you; about the advertisement; about my desire that you should marry my daughter Zara." "Well?" asked Owain, when she stopped for want of breath. "Well,"--she made a dramatic gesture,--"and what follows. He said nothing, but he knew the paper in which the advertisement appeared--Monsieur Evans mentioned it at the stile--and learned about the meeting. He still said nothing, but after the tale of the murder appears in the paper he comes to me." "Yes? To accuse you; to blackmail you?" "Ah, but no. He said nothing of me being guilty. He declared that you went down to Cookley to meet your uncle." "How did he know?" "I cannot say. It was, perhaps, what you call a pot-shot. But he says you are the guilty person and that he will denounce you unless I confess all. I tell him all, as I did not wish you to be arrested, and Mistare Spruce said that he would wait until you married Zara before speaking. Then he expected me to get you to give him two thousand a year for ever." Hench nodded. "Quite so. That is the price he asked for betraying you. And why did he alter his arrangements?" "He grew weary, and then that Bracken--the pig who stole my daughter--told him that he loved Zara and would marry her, as she loved him. And, mark you, Mistare Spruce still says nothing to me. Oh, no. He goes down to you and declares that I am guilty, as only in that way could he get the money. Do you think, Monsieur, that I am blind? Ah, but no. I see it all. You wish your name to be cleared, and you are helped by Mistare Spruce to accuse me. But it is a lie--a lie--a lie!" She rose to stamp furiously. "I am as innocent as you are guilty. You murdered Monsieur Evans to get the money." "Well," said Hench, with a shrug, "it's not much use my denying that I did, as you can only save yourself by believing that I struck the blow. You _had_ a strong case against me," ended Hench, with emphasis. "But now that Spruce has told his story, these Jedd boys who watched you on the night of the murder can prove you to be the assassin." "Ah," sneered Madame Alpenny contemptuously, "it is that silly, insolent, ugly page who accuses me?" "He has not done so yet, but he will when I see him, if what Spruce says is true; and true, Madame, I believe it to be." "Pfui!" She snapped her fingers again. "I did not go to Cookley on that night." "Can you prove that?" Madame Alpenny looked somewhat disconcerted; then a thought seemed to strike her and she burst into a violent rage. "Ah, but you dare to ask me that when you arranged, to save yourself, that I should go to Hampstead on the night." "Go to Hampstead? What are you talking about?" "Your wickedness!" vociferated the woman, beside herself with fury. "I received a letter on the morning of the first of July, asking me to meet the writer at the Ponds in Hampstead, as I would then be told how to get the money of your uncle at once. It was six o'clock I was to meet this person, and----" "Who was the person?" "There was no name signed to the letter, as you well know who wrote it," cried Madame Alpenny indignantly. "And it said also that if the person who wrote was not there I was to wait if it was two or three hours. I go"--she spoke dramatically, in the present tense--"I find no one. I wait and wait and wait; hour and hour and hour I wait. After ten o'clock--yes, and nearer eleven, if I remember--I come back disappointed to this place. I hear no more of the letter or of the person. But you see that I am innocent. Could I be in two places at once, I ask you, Monsieur?" "No. But have you any witness to prove that you were at Hampstead?" "No," said Madame Alpenny, in her turn, and disconcerted again as she was quite sharp enough to see the flaw in her story. "I cannot bring any one to prove I was at Hampstead. But I was----I was----I was." "Show me the letter." "I have not got it. I tore it up and so made a mistake." "You did," said Hench coolly, and not believing a word of her tale. "All the worse for you, Madame. Well"--he rose and took up his hat--"it only remains for me to go to the police and tell them everything." If Hench thought that this statement would frighten the woman, he was never more mistaken in his life. She snapped her fingers right under his nose. "Go! Go! Go!" she cried. "You have robbed me of my daughter by giving money to that fool to marry her; now you would rob me of my liberty. I defy you. I care not for the police, nor for you, nor for anything." "Very good." Hench walked towards the door. "If you had behaved in a different spirit I would have tried to arrange matters differently for your daughter's sake. As it is you must take the consequence. To clear my own character, you can understand----" "Oh, yes, I well understand, Monsieur. You murdered your uncle; you wrote that letter asking me to leave this house, so that I could be unable to explain where I was, and now you accuse me at the bidding of Mistare Spruce. I see it all, and I defy you; I spit upon you; I----" Here Hench, unable to stand any more of her savage anger, left the room, while she still raged. The young man descended the stairs with the determination to go as soon as possible to the police-office and tell his tale. If he did not, the chances were that Madame Alpenny would run away, although he admitted to himself that her speech was not that of a frightened person. But when he reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Mrs. Tesk at the door of her sanctum, he remembered that Simon Jedd had still to be examined, and walked up to the landlady. "Where is Bottles?" he asked abruptly. "Dismissed from my employment!" was the unexpected reply. "Dismissed! His brother, who is a page at Mrs. Perage's, did not tell me so." "Simon did not wish his brother to know," said Mrs. Tesk quietly, "as he was ashamed, very naturally." "Ashamed of what?" "Of being dismissed for theft." "Come, come, Mrs. Tesk, I can't believe that Bottles is a thief." "He is!" insisted the ex-school-mistress, colouring. "Sorry as I am to say so, Mr. Hench. Several small articles have been missing lately, and amongst them a valuable carving-knife with a horn handle, which I inherited from my grandmother. So you see----" "A horn-handled carving-knife!" echoed Hench with a start, and remembered clearly that such a weapon had been used to stab Madoc Evans. "Can you swear that the boy took it?" "I accused him of stealing the knife and several other small articles. He turned red, but he did not deny his guilt. Out of consideration for his hard-working mother, I did not prosecute him, but sent him away, lest he should contaminate Amelia and the other servants." "Where is he now?" "Staying with Mrs. Jedd, his mother. As you know, she is the wardrobe mistress at the Bijou Music-hall." "Thank you. I'll go and see Bottles. I can't believe that such an honest lad is guilty." And Hench turned on his heel. "Wait, sir. You do not blame me?" "Oh, no. If he did not deny your accusation, you acted rightly. But there must be some explanation of this. What it is I go to find out." Mrs. Tesk would have detained him to ask questions concerning Madame Alpenny's frame of mind, but Hench refused to stay. He was now beginning to wonder if the Hungarian lady really was guilty. It seemed as if Bottles was the culprit, that is if he had really stolen the carving-knife. With such a weapon the crime had certainly been committed. CHAPTER XX REAPING THE WHIRLWIND The weather was uncommonly hot. For weeks the sun had been blazing in a cloudless sky, as it did in the tropics, and the earth was parched for want of rain. Everywhere it was seamed and cracked; everywhere the grass was brown and the trees were wilted, while the air was like the thrice-heated breath of a furnace. Animals and human beings went languidly about their business and longed all day for the cool night hours. Not that it was particularly cool even when the twilight came, but it was something to escape the pitiless blue sky and the burning sun. And on this particular evening a hot wind rose with unexpected suddenness to make matters worse. It raised clouds of dust, it rattled the dry foliage in Parley Wood, and brought no sense of relief to the worn and weary. As people are never really prepared for an unusually hot season in England, the Cookley villagers found this equatorial summer excessively trying and disagreeable. Spruce enjoyed the sultry weather personally, as he loved warmth with all the affection of a cat, and the worst heat never caused him any discomfort. After dining excellently at seven o'clock, he now sat by the open window of his sitting-room at the Bull Inn, enjoying a cup of fragrant coffee and as many cigarettes as he could get through. Of course, he was in accurate evening dress, as he always loved to be clothed appropriately according to the hour of the day. No one was more of a slave to social observances than the Nut, for he had the petty soul of a Beau Brummel. A small table stood before him, and he passed the time in trying new card-tricks, which might be useful some day, should he again become hard up. Not that Spruce always played false to make money, since he was a cheat by instinct. To get the better of any one by trickery was pleasant, as it involved danger, which was exciting, and gave him an agreeable feeling of superiority because of his wonderful dexterity. So he shuffled and cut and dealt; slipped cards up his sleeve and out again; diddled an imaginary opponent by sleight of hand, and in every way trained himself to cheating as though it were a fine art. Most card-lovers when alone play Patience. Spruce preferred to prepare himself for future campaigns. Every now and then he cast a disdainful look round the shabby old room, which was by no means to his taste. Undoubtedly the apartment was ancient and time-worn, containing too much furniture, and giving little gratification to the eye. But Time had mellowed the whole into pleasing, sober colours, and less fastidious people would have been delighted with the reposeful look of things. The atmosphere was quite monastic. But Spruce admired spacious chambers filled with gilded furniture and blazing with lights. He had the tastes of Louis XIV., and Versailles was his idea of a dwelling house. When he was in possession of the two thousand a year, he intended to live in great luxury, but meanwhile contented himself with this dingy habitation. The window at which he was seated looked out on to a small garden surrounded by a low wall beyond which stretched fields right up to the grey churchyard. The sill of the window was so low that the Nut could easily have vaulted over it into the pleasant garden. But not having any love for Nature, he preferred to stay where he was playing cards, and dreaming of luxurious years, which were as he thought--truly coming to him. While Spruce was thus occupied, the landlady of the inn knocked at the door to announce that Mr. Hench and Mr. Vane wished to see him. The Nut at once ordered them to be admitted, never doubting but what they were coming to conclude the matter of his blackmail. He rose to greet them pleasantly, as if he was the most honest person in the world, and when the door was closed signed that they should be seated. He resumed his post near the window, and in that way obtained a good view of their faces, while his own was in the shadow. As it was only half-past eight o'clock, the twilight was yet luminous enough to see very plainly, and although Spruce offered to ring for lights, Hench signified that it was not necessary. Then the host offered cigarettes and drinks, both of which were curtly refused. "You are uncommonly rude," said the Nut, much nettled. "When you look up a man you might be civil." "That depends very much on the man," said Vane coolly. "Neither Hench nor myself were ever friends of yours, Spruce." "Oh, I don't want your friendship. After all, you are a dull couple." "But honest," said Hench with emphasis. "Honesty implies dullness. It takes a clever man to sin." "What a brilliant person you must be, then." "That's sarcastic, I suppose." Spruce was not at all offended, but accepted the observation as a tribute to his powers. "But I don't mind. On the whole, I am clever enough to get two thousand a year." "You haven't earned it yet," snapped Vane with a look of dislike. Spruce started. "Ah, play fair, whatever you do," he protested. "Hench promised me two thousand a year if I told him about that old woman. You heard him, Vane." "I heard Hench promise to give you that income if the crime was brought home to Madame Alpenny, and his character cleared," said Vane dryly. "There is a difference between telling a thing and proving a thing." "I suppose that means Madame Alpenny denies her guilt?" said the Nut, turning to the other man. "It is useless for her to do so, as Simon can prove it." "Oh, I have seen Simon and have brought him down with me," said Hench quietly. "In fact, he is waiting outside to come in when called." "Then call him at once," said Spruce briskly. "I want to get this business completed and see the last of you. I hate bores." "Oh, you'll see the last of us sooner than you expect," said Vane grimly. "Good! You will confer a favour on me when you do cut." Spruce looked round again at Owain. "So you saw Madame Alpenny?" "Yesterday, at The Home of the Muses. I went up to town especially to see her, as you know." "And she----" "She denies that she was in Cookley on the night when my uncle was killed. I was given to understand by her that an anonymous letter summoned her to the Hampstead Ponds to meet some one." "For what purpose?" "The letter said that the person who wrote it--there was no name, remember--declared that information would be given to enable her to get the money at once from my uncle." "What money?" "My property, I presume, for which she was scheming." "Well, and did Madame Alpenny see this person?" "No. She went to Hampstead about six and returned home after ten." "Quite time enough for her to travel to Cookley and back in order to commit the murder," said Spruce coolly. "Did you see the letter?" "No. She had torn it up." "Fudge!" cried the Nut inelegantly. "There never was such a letter. She invented that yarn so as to account for her presence elsewhere on the night of the crime. She did murder Squire Evans. You heard what Peter said?" "Oh, yes. And I have heard what Simon said. I am bound to say," said Hench with emphasis, "that his story is much the same." "Well then, with two witnesses, what more proof do you want of the woman's guilt?" demanded Spruce indignantly. "I fancy I have earned my money. What do you say, Vane?" "I say we had better have Simon in and hear his story," retorted the barrister dryly. "It is just as well to get everything made quite plain." "So I think," declared the Nut briskly. "Call him in, Hench." With great calmness the young man did so, not at all disturbed by the imperious tone in which the order was given. This was Spruce's little hour of triumph, so both the visitors allowed him to control the situation while he was able. Bottles made his appearance quickly, and cap in hand stood before the closed door, waiting to be interrogated. With his freckled face and red hair he looked anything but prepossessing. At least he did not in the Nut's eyes, who failed to observe the good-humoured expression and intelligent gaze of the lad, which were worth much more than mere animal comeliness. Spruce, in the attitude of an examining judge, surveyed the boy superciliously and immediately began to question him. "You are to tell these gentlemen what you told me," he commanded. "Now, on the first of July you followed Madame Alpenny to the Liverpool Street Station?" "Yes, sir. She caught the five o'clock train to this place." "And you followed?" "I did, sir. I wished to see what her game was." "One moment," interpolated Hench at this remark. "I may mention that I also came to Cookley on that night by that train. I had an idea that Madame Alpenny was at my elbow. In fact, I fancied that I caught a glimpse of her in the crowd at Liverpool Street Station. But I thought that I was mistaken." "You wasn't mistaken, sir," said Bottles calmly. "She was in the crowd, sure enough, and went down by that train. So did you, sir, for I saw you, and dodged." "Good!" said Spruce, rubbing his hands. "This unsolicited testimony of yours, Hench, emphasizes the fact of the woman's guilt. Go on, Simon." "The train got here at half-past six. I had already sent a telegram to my brother saying that Madame was coming, and telling him to meet the train and watch. He was on the Cookley platform, sure enough, but I hadn't any time to speak to him, having to keep my eye on Madame Alpenny. She didn't go through the village street, but across the fields to the churchyard and then by the path to Parley Wood. I followed, hiding as often as I could." "She didn't see you, then?" inquired Vane idly. "No, sir. I was much too fly. Peter, he came also at a distance, and hid in the churchyard, while I follered Madame Alpenny into the wood. She made for the Gipsy Stile." "How did you know where that was?" inquired Hench. "Why, sir," said the boy, greatly surprised, "of course I was there before when she and the old cove talked together about the advertisement." "Yes! Yes! I understand." "And, of course," said Spruce smoothly, "he was following Madame, who also knew the appointed meeting place. Well, Simon?" "She didn't stay at the stile, but hid in the wood. I hid near her and kept my eyes on her, as there was plenty of light." "Of course. It was not late and the Gipsy Stile is in a clearing," explained the Nut, waving his hand. "Go on, boy." "After a long time--I couldn't say how long, as I hadn't a watch--the old cove came to the stile. Madame Alpenny came to meet him and talked to him for a time, and----" "Did she raise her veil?" asked Hench quickly. "No, sir. She spoke for a few minutes, and I could see as she'd something in her right hand. What it was I don't know. Then she suddenly lifted her arm and stabbed the old gentleman, who fell without a cry. As soon as she made sure he was dead, she cut. My brother saw her go through the churchyard." Vane nodded. "On her way to the station. I remember. Then you came out of the wood, to meet your brother near the church, and made him swear not to say a single word." "What else could I do, sir?" protested Bottles, distressed. "I might have got into a row with the police. That is why I said nothing." "Very wise of you," said Spruce approvingly, then turned to the others. "Well, gentlemen, I think the case is clear. Madame Alpenny murdered Squire Evans, and her guilt is proved by Simon here, who saw the crime committed, and by Peter, who saw her in the vicinity, even though she swears that she was at Hampstead. What more proof do you want?" "None," said Hench calmly. "Undoubtedly my uncle was murdered by--some one dressed as Madame Alpenny!" Spruce gave a gasp and rose as if moved by springs. "What do you mean by saying that, may I ask?" he demanded in a choked voice. "I mean that you murdered Madoc Evans and that Bottles here can prove it." "A lie! A wicked, false lie!" gasped the Nut, who became deadly pale. Vane chuckled; tense as the situation was, he chuckled. "You have been weaving a rope for your own neck all this time, Spruce," he remarked grimly. "Such an accusation is ridiculous!" said the other, with an attempt at dignity. "Is it likely that I would dress up as a woman to----" "You were always good in amateur theatricals," said Vane remorselessly. "And you would do anything to get the two thousand a year, which, by the way, you are not likely to enjoy." "My enemy speaks," said Spruce dramatically. "It's one thing to say a thing and another thing to prove a thing." "You are quite epigrammatic!" sneered the barrister. "Hush, Jim, and let the boy speak. He can prove that Spruce is guilty." "I just can," said Bottles promptly, and greatly enjoying his _rôle_ of detective. "For I've watched you, Mr. Spruce, for ever so long. I watched Madame Alpenny first, thinking she meant harm to Mr. Hench." "Why should she have meant harm?" asked Vane quickly, for he was not so well acquainted with the story as his friend. "Oh, she knew something about him, and said that he was a mystery. I heard her talking to Miss Zara, and then I heard something of the talk in the drawingroom, when she said as she knowed Mr. Hench's father. She asked me for an A.B.C., too, she did, and left it open on the table. I looked and saw on the page the timetable for Cookley. I didn't know she was going there, as other time-tables were on the page, but I thought it was queer seeing Cookley, considering that my brother was down here with Mrs. Perage." "It's all rubbish, of course," said Spruce, with a kind of hysterical cackle. "But what did you do then?" "I watched. When she went away I got my holiday and follered. She did go to Cookley, and so did you, Mr. Spruce." "It's a lie, you imp. I didn't!" "You did!" insisted the lad. "And it was your follering Madame Alpenny as made me watch you. I knowed as you wasn't up to any good. Me and Simon follered you both, and when Madame Alpenny went into the Grange you hung about in the midst of the trees waiting for her. Then you follered her when she went into the wood to see the old cove at that stile, and heard everything." "Admitting all this," said Spruce, appealing to the two men, "how does it connect me with the murder and this masquerade, which is so ridiculous?" "Oh, I'll connect you, right enough," said Bottles tartly. "Don't you make any mistake, sir. I ain't read detective stories for nothing. When you came back I watched you and I watched Madame. Then you made friends with the manager of the Bijou Music-hall," "I was friends with him long before!" declared Spruce angrily, and hoping against hope that the boy would fail to substantiate his accusation. "Ah, but you became better friends," said Bottles persistently, "and got behind the scenes. Then you were agreeable to mother and asked to look over the theatrical properties. I didn't know what you was after until mother said as you'd asked her for a red wig to play in some theatricals. Then I guessed as you wanted to imitate Madame, who has hair as red as mine. I was sure when you brought mother some orange-spotted black cloth to make a dress and borrowed a bead mantle and a flopping hat off her." "I did not. You are a brazen liar!" "Liar yourself, sir! Mother can prove the truth of everything I say. You paid her well for the things, I don't deny. But mother wouldn't have taken a penny if she knowed what you was after. She never did know, as there was no mention of Madame Alpenny's dress, or of Madame, in the papers reporting the murder. Only when Mr. Hench come yesterday did I take him to mother and tell her all. She was horrified, for mother is a good sort, and told him what I am telling you. I knowed it all before." "The woman is a liar, as the boy is," said Spruce, licking his lips, which were very white and dry. "Shut up, Bottles!" said Hench, as the boy was about to make an angry response. "Let me say the rest. Bottles watched you leave the house dressed as Madame Alpenny, Spruce----" "It was Madame Alpenny!" insisted the Nut, fighting desperately. "It wasn't!" cried Simon, who could not be suppressed. "She'd gone to Hampstead later, after you went, and I let her out. No, I'm talking wrong. I saw her leave the house after four, and she said as she'd an appointment at Hampstead, and wouldn't be back till late. She come back very late, and so did I, because I was follering you." "The boy equivocates, you see," mumbled Spruce. "First one thing, then another." "I think his evidence is very clear, on the whole," declared Vane calmly. "So do I," said Hench. "And after Madame Alpenny went, you came out, Spruce, dressed in the same way. Bottles, knowing how you got the clothes from his mother, the wardrobe mistress at the Bijou, and knowing that Madame Alpenny had already left the house, guessed it was you in disguise. He snatched up his cap and followed, catching the five o'clock train, as you did. The rest you know. You are the guilty man." "He is!" said Bottles with relish. "And he gave back the things to mother saying as the amateur theatricals had been quite a success." "As he hoped to make two thousand a year, I presume they were!" said Vane in a cruel voice. "Well, Spruce, what have you to say before being arrested?" "Arrested!" Spruce gave a scream like a woman, and he dropped limply into his chair, white-faced and aghast. "What for?" "For the murder of Squire Evans." "No! No!" He thrust out his hands as if warding off a blow. "I did not kill him. You cannot bring the crime home to me." "The evidence you have heard brings the crime home to you only too positively," said Hench, with a certain pity in his voice, for the sudden collapse of the man was dreadful. "Peter can prove that you were mixed up in the matter, and Mrs. Jedd can prove that you borrowed the clothes, having the orange-spotted dress made after the style of that worn by Madame Alpenny. And Simon can prove the murder. He saw you kill the man." "No! No! No!" "May I die if I didn't!" swore Bottles, who was looking nervous, for the scene shook him considerably, since he was only a boy. "It was a mean, sordid murder, committed for the sake of gain," said Vane. "Don't kick the man when he is down, Jim," said Hench, pityingly. "Why not? He was insolent enough while he was up. And to kill an old man of whom he knew nothing! Owain, it was beastly. I hope I'm as decent a chap as any, but my gorge rises at the sight of this creature." What little pride remained in Spruce rose at these words. He sprang to his feet and shook his fist wildly in the air. "I shall get off!" he screamed. "I can prove my innocence!" "Do so to the detective," said Hench, wishing to end the scene. "A detective! a detective!" Spruce clutched his throat as if to tear away the rope he was doomed to. "You won't--you won't----" His voice failed. "I saw the authorities and procured a warrant before leaving London. Every moment I expect the detective in to execute it." "No! No! No!" Spruce flung himself on his knees. "Dear Hench, good Hench, you won't allow me to be hanged? I don't want the money; I'll give it up. Let me get away; let me hide." "Did you murder my uncle?" "Yes! Yes!" Spruce's cheeks were streaming with tears and his teeth were chattering. "It's all true. I acknowledge that I killed him to get the money. But I am sorry--really and truly I am sorry. Don't give me up--don't----" "Get up," cried Vane in disgust, "and take your gruel like a man." "Bottles, see if the policeman is there," ordered Hench, and Bottles, glad to escape from the scene, fled willingly. "No!" Spruce rose from grovelling on the ground, and from a tearful martyr was suddenly changed into a wild beast. His lips curled, showing his teeth. He drew back towards the window, and his eyes flashed fire. If he had had a weapon in his hand there is no doubt he would have killed both the men. "You shan't catch me, hounds that you are. I shall escape; I shall----" "Look out, Owain, he's trying for the window!" But Vane's warning came too late. With a surprising spring, the miserable little creature flung himself through the window into the garden. Before the two men could recover from their surprise he was over the low garden wall and racing for the churchyard. Terror winged his feet, and he flew onward like an arrow from the bow. Hench leaped after him immediately, and followed close behind him, while Vane rushed out to see if the police had arrived with the warrant. Two men were there in plain clothes, with a village constable, and in a few hurried words the barrister related how the man wanted had escaped. With the rapidity of lightning the news spread, and in a wonderfully short space of time half the village, headed by the police, Vane and Bottles, were making for the churchyard. Far ahead they could see Hench running swiftly through the twilight, but of the fugitive they could see no trace. It was no wonder that the pursuers could not gain a glimpse of their wretched quarry, for Spruce flew on with amazing speed. Behind him were the dogs of justice, and he knew that once they pulled him down all that remained for him to do was to face the death he had earned by his cowardly crime. But he was not a man, only a creeping crawling thing saturated with evil, a bird of prey, a snarling tiger--and he did not wish to receive the reward of his wickedness. Instinctively he made for the wood wherein his crime had been committed. Once in its dark recesses he hoped to remain hidden until he could escape over seas. Behind him he caught sight of Hench, and longed to have a knife or revolver to shoot or stab the man he hated. Gasping, and streaming with perspiration, he plunged into the wood, broke from the path which led to the Gipsy Stile, and struggled through the dry, rustling undergrowth. They would never catch him, he swore, and even as he did the miserable creature heard the beat of Owain's feet in pursuit. A thought struck him. The wood was dry, and would burn like tinder. Hench, being in the wood and unprepared, would be probably burnt to death. Without thinking of the danger to himself in his mad fury--only resolved to make an end to Owain and to place a blazing screen between himself and his pursuers---Spruce took out a silver box and struck a match. Then another, and another, until all round him, in the grass and the moss and the undergrowth, were stars of fire. The stars grew into blazing suns, as the flames caught the tall, dry trees and roared upward. With inconceivable rapidity the fire spread, and now it was time for Spruce to fly from the death he had created. As he plunged onward he came suddenly into the open, and fell, catching his foot in a fallen tree-trunk. He tried to rise and could not, as his ankle was twisted. So he lay shrieking on the verge of a fiery furnace, unable to move, and condemned by his own evil act to a far more terrible death than that which he would have suffered at the hands of the law. Shouting for help, and only anxious now to escape the immediate doom, Spruce heard the cries of the villagers, when they saw the tall columns of flame rising from the wood. Hench was lunging here and there amidst the undergrowth seeking for Spruce, and continued to do so until a barrier of flame cut him off from further search. Before that terrible heat he was forced to retreat, and made for the pathway so as to get back into the open. Vane's voice, high, clamorous and clear, could be heard shouting for him, and in the roar of the flames Hench heard the shrieking of the wretched creature who had lighted the funeral pyre of himself. He made for the direction whence the cries came, as they appeared to be near at hand. Fighting the flames, he stumbled into the open space round the Gipsy Stile and saw Spruce writhing on the edge of the clearing under a canopy of fire. It blazed overhead; it ran along the moss and grass, licking up everything with greedy avidity; and all round the wood was like a seven-times heated furnace. "Save me; save me!" yelled Spruce, seeing his enemy. Wicked as the creature was, Owain did his best. He ran towards the spot where Spruce lay in agony, and tried to reach him. But the flames came out with a gust of the hot dry wind, which now was blowing furiously, and the young man fell back, shielding his face with his arms. When he removed them he heard a wild cry of agony, and saw a tall bulky tree falling slowly down. Spruce was beneath it, and saw its gradual descent. He cried to Hench for help; he cried to God for pardon; but the tree dropped inch by inch in the midst of that hell until it suddenly crashed down on the doomed man. Then there was silence, save for the roar of the flames rejoicing over their prey. Hench turned and fled, skirting the flaming trees and getting round to where the police and villagers were by slipping along the park wall. Blackened and burnt, dizzy and faint, he staggered into the open space, where all watched the great bonfire. Vane rushed forward and caught him in his arms. "Are you hurt--are you hurt?" "No. I'm all right. But Spruce----!" He gasped at the memory of the horror. "My man," said the police officer. "What of him?" "Dead!" breathed Hench faintly, and then fell unconscious to the ground, while Parley Wood, with a noise like the roaring of many waters, vanished for ever in flames and smoke. CHAPTER XXI THE SUNSHINE OF LIFE The discovery that Spruce was the murderer of Squire Evans, the burning of Parley Wood, and the consequent death of the criminal, were wholly unexpected events. They descended on the Cookley villagers like so many bolts from the blue, and naturally caused a very great commotion. So far as the woodland was concerned, nothing remained but a vast area of grey ashes, wherein multitudinous smouldering stumps pricked up here and there. Luckily the trees of the Grange park were untouched, as the fire had not reached across the considerable space which, like a wide roadway, divided Hench's property from the miniature forest. Also, the violent wind blowing from the south had swept the flames northward, long-side the brick wall girdling the demesne. But considerable damage had been wrought, as Parley Wood was dear to many artists, and they, as well as the villagers, lamented the blotting out of this beauty-spot. But, as some people said, perhaps it was just as well, since the murder of Madoc Evans had given the wood an evil reputation. These philosophical individuals, however, were in the minority. Under the huge tree-trunk which had crushed him to death the body of Cuthbert Spruce was found, burnt and disfigured almost beyond recognition. But there was not the least difficulty in identifying the remains of the wretched man, and he was duly buried in Cookley churchyard. A large number of morbid sight-seers were attracted to the ceremony, and there was much talk about the extraordinary events which had led to his guilt being proved. Hench, naturally enough, was anxious that the whole miserable story should be kept from the public, but this was not possible. The Inspector who had been charged with the arrest of Spruce advised the young man--for the clearing of his own character--to allow all facts to become known. Therefore the newspapers were filled with true accounts of all that had happened in connection with the affair, from the time of his early conversation with Madame Alpenny down to the moment when he staggered out of Parley Wood to fall unconscious at Vane's feet. Owain was considerably shaken by what he had undergone, both physically and mentally, so it was natural that he should take some days to recover. He was burnt and bruised; very much horrified by the appalling death of his old schoolfellow; and greatly disturbed by the enforced publicity of the whole dreadful business. It was fortunate that Mrs. Perage was at hand to look after him, as she proved to be a very dragon to guard the broken man from the curiosity of the public. Vane brought Hench to the old lady's house, and there he remained in bed for quite a week to be nursed back to health and strength by Gwen. Save the Inspector, who advised him to make the facts of the case known to the world, he saw no one but the old lady and the young one. Not even Jim Vane was permitted to interview him. The result of this judicious treatment on the part of Mrs. Perage was obvious, for while the excitement was going on Hench remained secluded in his sick-room, and was not worried with questions. By the time he was able to get up, healed of his hurts and much calmer in mind, the worst was over. Spruce lay in the churchyard, the newspapers had said all they could say about the matter, and the nine days' wonder of the whole awful business had come to an end. It only remained for Owain to fulfil his promise to the Brackens; to reward the Jedd boys for the clever way in which they had saved him; to take formal possession of his property, and to marry his cousin. Then he could begin a new life, and all the old troubles would be forgotten. Of course it required decision and strength to deal with such matters, but, thanks to Gwen's careful nursing, Owain was quite able to attend to the business. With his descent into the drawing-room, wholly cured at the end of nine days, the 'nine days' wonder came to a termination. "Now we must sweep up the fragments," said Hench, who was rapidly recovering his strength, although he still looked somewhat pale. "Quite so," agreed Mrs. Perage, who looked more grim and masculine than ever. "I have asked the fragments to come here to-day for the sweeping." "What do you mean?" "My meaning is plain enough, young man!" she replied vigorously. "I want all this disagreeable business concluded, so that it will not be necessary to re-open it again. Then, as soon as possible, you must arrange about getting the property, marry Gwen, and go for a year's tour in Europe, or in the States, if you like. I don't care where you go, so long as you get away." "I don't know if Owain is strong enough to travel yet," said Gwen, who was sitting beside the sofa holding her lover's hand. "Fudge!" retorted Mrs. Perage, standing on the hearthrug in quite a manly attitude, with her hands behind her back. "Don't make a mollycoddle of the fellow, you silly girl. While he remains here, everything will remind him of the horrors which have taken place. Let him travel to forget, and then he can return to take up his work as the Squire of Cookley. You must go with him, as he is sure to be miserable without you." "That is very certain!" said Hench, smiling. "Well, then," cried Mrs. Perage argumentatively, "so young a girl can't go with you as a chaperon, can she? Marry her in a couple of weeks and then no one can say a word, even if you take her to the North Pole." "But my father has not been dead very long," murmured Gwen nervously. "My dear, don't be a fool. God forbid that I should say a word against your father, who has paid for his foolishness. But you owe him nothing and you never got on with him. Then why sacrifice yourself to a feeling which does not exist? Pfui!" Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose. "Can't you understand that I am anxious to see the backs of you two nuisances? I've had quite enough bother with you as it is." Hench laughed outright, knowing that Mrs. Perage looked upon himself and Gwen as her own children. "You wouldn't be happy without us," he said gaily. "You would have no one to scold." "Oh, there's always Jim Vane, at a pinch," said Mrs. Perage good-humouredly. "But I daresay I shall miss you two brats. Babies, that's what you are. As to scolding, there will be plenty of that when you return. You are the Lord of the Manor, but I have much property in Cookley also, so there will be ample for us to fight about. I want my own way and so do you. Hum!" Mrs. Perage rubbed her hands. "There are lively times ahead." Both the young people looked at the tall, grim old Amazon with great affection, as they recognized how much they owed her. Gwen particularly loved her, as she had brought common-sense to bear on the estrangement after the fatal interview in the churchyard with Madame Alpenny. But that Mrs. Perage had acted so vigorously, Gwen saw plainly enough that she and Owain might never have entirely understood one another. Now they did, especially since the nine days' nursing had drawn them together more rapidly. Never did a couple arrange to enter into the bonds of matrimony with such an excellent knowledge of each other's character. Mrs. Perage guessed what was passing in the girl's mind and nodded approvingly. "Trouble brings people together very quickly," she said briskly. "Time is nothing and opportunity is everything. Owain has saved your life; carefully nursed him back to health, so you comprehend one another a thousand times better than if you had dawdled through a ten years' courtship. You are both decent, also, my dears; quite different to your fathers. It's the mothers' blood that tells, I expect. What do you say, Hench?" "Oh, don't call him Hench," said Gwen, with a shudder. "Let us leave that false name behind with all the other trouble." "Very good. What do you say, Evans?" "I agree with you, Mrs. Perage. Gwen and I will get on capitally." "You had better!" she threatened. "If I catch you beating her it's me you'll have to reckon with. Ha!" She glanced out of the window. "Here's Jim, the first of the fragments come to be swept into the dustbin of oblivion." "I hope not," said Owain, laughing. "I wish Jim to remain my very good friend and be my best man." "Of course he will be. And I will be the bridesmaid if Gwen is sensible enough to ask me." "You shall do whatever you like at the wedding," said Gwen, also laughing, for she felt uncommonly happy. "And afterwards also, my dear. I am fond of my own way; it's a great fault of mine. Jim,"--Vane entered as she spoke,--"here you are at last. There! I'm not fond of kisses. Go and talk to Evans yonder, and ask him if you can kiss Gwen." "Oh!" said Gwen in alarm, whereat every one laughed. "Don't be frightened, Miss Evans," said Vane, with a smile on his lean face. "I am quite sure that Owain yonder is now strong enough to punch my head if I take Aunt Emma's advice. Well, old chap, how goes it? You look much better and are quite a different man." "I am, Jim. Hench has vanished for ever. Only Owain Evans remains." "Well, I hope he'll be as good a chap as Hench was." "Much better!" said Gwen resentfully. "I've improved him. He is no longer to be a wanderer, but intends to settle down with me as the Squire of the parish." "After a year's travelling!" said Mrs. Perage sharply, and detailed her scheme to her nephew, who quite approved. "Better be off with the old life, Owain, before you take on with the new," he said judicially. "Travel will heal all the old soreness, and will place a barrier between the disagreeable past and the pleasant future. Aunt Emma is a sensible woman." "I always am!" said Aunt Emma. "Now, Jim, say what you have to say about this trouble, and let us bury the same for ever." "There isn't much to say," said Vane carelessly. "The newspapers have dropped the matter, and everybody is forgetting the sensation. You won't be bothered with reporters or photographers when you come abroad, Owain. All the same, it is just as well that you are going away." "What does the Inspector say about Bottles' share in the business?" "He wasn't very pleased, and gave both Bottles and his brother a good talking to for having held their tongues for so long." "I wonder why they did," murmured Mrs. Perage, rubbing her nose. "My dear aunt, it was a game to both of them. Bottles having read detective tales was burning to be a Sexton Blake or a Sherlock Holmes. Only when he saw that miserable creature brought to book did the boy realize that his comedy had turned into real tragedy. I've brought him with me as you desired." Vane went to the door and beckoned to the lad, who entered bashfully, to look with adoring eyes on his hero. Hench called to him to come forward and shook him heartily by the hand, thanking him for his great services. "Oh, it ain't nothing, sir," said Bottles, with a glowing face as crimson as his hair. "I'd do anything for you, as you've always been kind to me. And it's been a rattling good game, anyhow." "A sadly serious game, Bottles, I fear." "Yes, sir." The lad turned pale, shivered, and swallowed something with an effort, as he recalled the scene at the Bull Inn. "I didn't think it was so bad till I saw that little cove's face. It wasn't me who got him burnt, was it, sir?" he asked entreatingly. "No! No! my boy. How he came to set the wood on fire, I don't know. Perhaps he struck a match to see his way in the darkness. But we will never know exactly what happened. You are not in any way to blame. What made you suspect him?" "I didn't suspect him at first, sir. It was Madame I thought was the wrong 'un, as I told you. But when I saw that little cove sneaking after her down to Cookley I watched him as well as her. Then I found out he was talking a lot to mother and learned about the dress and the wig. After that, it wasn't hard to twig his game. But I never thought as he'd murder the old cove," said Bottles, shivering. "I turned sick in the wood when I saw that knife go in." "Oh, by the way, Bottles, Mrs. Tesk told me that she dismissed you for stealing the knife." "Yes, she did, sir. She said as I'd taken other things. But it was Amelia, I was engaged to, as stole the things, and I couldn't give her away. But I ain't going to make her my wife, sir," said Bottles seriously. "She ain't what she should be in the way of honesty." "Did she steal the knife also?" "No, I think Mr. Spruce stole that; took it off the table one day, and slipped it up his sleeve. He killed the old cove with it, as you know, and left it in the body. I knowed it was Mrs. Tesk's carving-knife all along." "Does Mrs. Tesk know all this now?" asked Owain quickly. "Yes, sir. Mother went and told her, though I didn't wish to split on Amelia, who's only a gel after all. Mrs. Tesk said as she was sorry and asked me to go back, which I have done, sir." "Well, then, Bottles, I am going to take you away from there and send you to school. Also I intend to settle a small income on your mother so that she need not work any more at the Bijou Music-hall. Finally, I will arrange with my lawyers to invest a sum of money for you so that you may be able to start life with something in hand. What do you wish to be?" "I think if Bottles is wise he will be a detective," suggested Vane. Bottles turned a shining face towards the speaker. "That's just what I want to be, sir. I can do it, I'm sure." "I think so also," remarked Mrs. Perage gruffly. "But I hope Peter doesn't want to be one also. I can't have a juvenile Vidocq in my house." "Oh, Peter ain't got no ambitions, mum," said Bottles contemptuously. "He's just as pleased as Punch to stay on with you and rise to be a butler and a footman." "I'll look after Peter," said Mrs. Perage, nodding briskly. "He has also had a share in this business which has cleared up the mystery, and he deserves to be rewarded. But see here," she added sharply, "why didn't you tell the police immediately about the murder?" "Because I wanted to see what that little cove would do, mum. I guessed from his disguise that he intended to make out that Madame Alpenny had murdered the old cove. But I didn't think he'd accuse Mr. Hench there." "Mr. Evans, Simon," corrected Gwen quickly. "That is his real name." "I think I shall always be Hench to Bottles," said Owain, laughing. "He can call me what he likes as he has done so much for me. But you would have saved a lot of trouble, Bottles, if you had told the police at once." "So the Inspector said, sir," grinned the boy. "He gave me what-for, he did. But I wanted to see the game out, sir." Owain saw that Bottles would persist in regarding the whole dreadful business as a game, in spite of its terrible termination, so he left the subject alone. "But you might have guessed, my detective friend, that Spruce would accuse me, as he wanted to get my money. He committed the murder to trap me." "I thought he'd do that through Madame Alpenny when you married Miss Zara," was the boy's reply, promptly given. "As you'd never have liked your mother-in-law to be hanged. You didn't mind my giving the address I got from Peter to Madame Alpenny and the little cove, did you, sir?" "I did when I was in the dark. But now I see that you did so deliberately." "It was part of the game," persisted Bottles coolly. "And as the little cove had gone so far, I knew he'd go further. If I hadn't told him and Madame of your address they might have asked the police where you were." "That suggestion doesn't do credit to your detective acumen, Bottles. Had either of the two brought the police into the matter, they would not have been able to get the expected money. Spruce was playing the blackmail game." "I see, sir." Bottles rubbed his red head. "Well, I've got something to learn yet, I expect, as a 'tec, and I ain't above learning. But thank you for helping me, sir, and for helping mother. She's a good one, is mother, and gave me such a talking for not having spoke out before." "Between the Inspector and your mother, I daresay you have had a bad time, Bottles," said Vane idly. "You bet I have, sir. But it don't matter. I've enjoyed myself, I have, in pulling the strings." "It's more than I have done," said Owain languidly. "Good-bye, Bottles. Go home and tell your mother of my intentions. Next week I'll fulfill my promise, as soon as I can see my solicitors and settle matters." "And, Simon," said Mrs. Perage graciously, "you can go to the kitchen and have your dinner. Here's a pound. Take Peter with you to town and to see your mother." "Thank you, mum; thank you, sir; thank everybody." And Bottles disappeared with a happy grin, which made every one smile. "Here comes Madame Alpenny and the Brackens," announced Vane, who acted as a master of the ceremonies. "I don't like that old woman to come under my roof," said Mrs. Perage, with a frown. "She's a plotter and a schemer. But----" "Oh, she's only one of the fragments which have to be swept up," said Gwen in a lively tone. "I don't like her either; but I am so much obliged to Zara that I am quite willing Owain should help the old lady." "Old lady, indeed," grumbled Mrs. Perage. "Old scamp, I call her. You can deal with her yourselves. I'm going." And as the newcomers entered the room, she went out swiftly through the conservatory. Zara looked pale, her husband confused, and both advanced with rather a shame-stricken air. Madame Alpenny, on the contrary, rushed forward and took Owain's hand with effusion, beaming all over her harsh swart face. Considering how she had behaved when they last met, the young man was astonished by this friendly greeting. He scarcely knew what to say; but it appeared there was no need for him to say anything. Madame Alpenny did all the talking, so it was just as well that Mrs. Perage had left the room. Had that Amazonian dame remained, there assuredly would have been trouble. "Ah, but I am delighted to see you looking so magnificent after your illness, dear Monsieur!" cried Madame, clasping Owain's hand fondly within her own. "You terrified me greatly, as I thought you would perish. Ah, but it is good of the Heavens to preserve you to us." The young man withdrew his hand as soon as he recovered from his astonishment, and spoke very coldly. "You have changed your mind since our last meeting!" Madame Alpenny threw up her fat hands. "Ah, but what would you, my dear sir? I was angered at losing so beautiful a son-in-law. I said much that I have wept for saying. And to you also, in the churchyard, Mademoiselle," she added, turning to Gwen, who was frigid, "I spoke most wickedly. Ach! my dear young lady, you must forgive me for my open nature. We are all now friends here, I hope." She beamed all round the room, but there were no answering smiles. Zara laid her hand on her mother's arm and drew her back. "I must ask your pardon, Mr. Hench, for all the trouble which has been brought to you," she said seriously. "It was not your fault, Mrs. Bracken, nor that of your husband," said Owain very quickly. "I have nothing but friendship and admiration for you both, seeing the way in which you made the crooked straight between us," and he glanced at Gwen fondly. "Ah, what a good heart!" murmured the Hungarian lady, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "A heart of gold!" "Shut up!" growled Bracken to his mother-in-law, and twitched the old head mantle which she still wore over the famous orange-spotted dress. "I will not shut up, you rude man!" cried Madame Alpenny volubly. "Ah, to think of what I have suffered at the hands of Mistare Spruce, now happily deceased. He would have had me hanged!" "Did he accuse you of committing the murder?" asked Vane sharply. "But no. He was all sweetness and smiles. Yet, if Monsieur Hench had married Zara, then this Mistare Spruce would have accused me. He laid his plans to make me guilty. It was he, I find, who wrote the letter asking me to go to Hampstead. He wished me to be unable to prove where I was. If he had lived I should have put him in gaol," ended Madame, with a frown. "You nearly put Mr. Evans in gaol!" said Gwen icily. "Mistare Evans. Ah, yes--the real name of Monsieur Hench. No, I would not have put him in gaol, Mademoiselle. My talk was what you call--eh, yes--bluff. I might have been his beloved mother had I accepted his father's hand. Never would I have harmed him." "Oh, I think you would when you had me in your power, Madame," said Owain dryly. "Remember what you talked about in the churchyard." "Bluff--all bluff, Monsieur." "It would have been better had you acted fairly with me and told the truth at our first conversation. Then I should have known that I was Madoc Evans' heir and all this trouble would have been avoided. You also would have been the richer for such honesty, Madame." "Ah, but you will not turn from me now," said Madame in a wheedling tone. "See, Monsieur Hench, it is through me you have money and marry this sweet angel. I am poor; I am deserving. So give me----" "Mr. Hench will give you nothing, mother," said Zara in a cold tone of displeasure. "I came down here to say good-bye to him and to take you out of his life. Mr. Hench,"--she faced round to Owain,--"my husband and I are going to America, where I have obtained a good engagement. My mother goes back to Hungary, and I will send her money to support her. Therefore it will not be necessary for you to give me that thousand pounds." "I wish to give it to you as a mark of my esteem," insisted Hench, and Gwen endorsed this speech. "I do not wish my wife to take it," said Bracken, advancing to hold out his hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Evans, we have been here long enough. We shall always remember your kindness with gratitude." Owain shook the extended hand. "But I wish you would take the money, Bracken." "Ah, but do!" cried Madame Alpenny, feverishly greedy. "I can double it at cards. I am so lucky, I want to----" "Come away, mother," interrupted Zara, dragging her towards the door. "Mr. Hench will not give you a single penny!" "Ingrate!" shouted Madame, turning at the door, out of which she was going, held firmly by Zara and Bracken. "After all I have done. Ach! the wickedness of the evil one. I gave him thousands, and he--he, the beast--the-----" Here she was dragged into the hall by her scandalized daughter, and those in the drawing-room heard her voice loudly lamenting all the way down the avenue. In this manner was the Hungarian lady rewarded for her scheming. She did not benefit in the least. "I'm glad she's gone," said Gwen, drawing a deep breath. "I don't like her." "Nor do I," said Owain, pulling the girl down beside him. "She nearly got me into the dock. But I am bound to say that she ran an equal risk from poor Spruce." "Poor Spruce, indeed!" cried Vane, turning from the window where he was watching the protesting Madame Alpenny being dragged down the avenue. "Why say good of a man who did nothing but evil?" "Don't be hard on him, Jim. After all, he has paid the penalty of his crime by suffering a terrible death." "You're a good chap, Owain, so I won't say another word. But never mention his name to me again if you I can help." "We'll never mention anything about the past if we can help," said Gwen, as Owain slipped his arm round her. "Now all these people have gone let us try and forget them." "Oh, you'll forget right enough," said Vane, smiling. "When you marry Owain you will think of nothing but him." "He saved my life!" cried the future Mrs. Evans defiantly. "In return you have saved mine," murmured Owain. "Had you not nursed me back to life and love, where should I have been now? But the clouds have disappeared, my dear, and now the sunshine of life is ours. In three weeks we will get married quietly and go abroad for a year. Afterwards we can return to take up our position here." "And you will go back to your old home, Miss Evans," said Vane, laughing. "Not much change about that." "A great deal of change!" cried Gwen hotly. "While I lived there with my poor father, the Grange was a house of hate; now it will be a mansion of love." "Quite so; you will be so happy that you won't want to see any one." "Always you, Jim," said Owain, holding out his hand, which the barrister took. "And me also, I hope," said Mrs. Perage, entering unexpectedly from the conservatory. "Hum! A touching tableau. The sweetheart, the angel of the sweetheart, and the true-hearted friend. Fudge!" "You don't mean that word!" cried Gwen. "Perhaps I don't." Mrs. Perage rubbed her nose. "For to tell you the truth, I don't know what the word means. I got it out of 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' and it seemed useful. I should like to have used it to that old woman who is screaming viciously all the way down the avenue. Really, young man, you have some very queer friends." "Well, I lived in Queer Street for a long time, you know!" said Owain, smiling. "You'll never live there again," whispered Gwen. "Lucky Owain!" mocked Vane. "No more hunger and thirst, hard beds and unpaid bills. You will henceforth lie in the lap of luxury." "Hum!" said Mrs. Perage gruffly. "There is a good luncheon: a much better one than you ever tasted in Queer Street, I'll be bound. There's the gong." Owain rose quickly and took Gwen's arm. "And here begins the new life!" he said. THE END -------------------------------- Printed by W. Mate & Sons, Ltd., "Directory" Office, Bournemouth 
11127	----	Proofreaders THE CASE _of_ JENNIE BRICE _By_ MARY ROBERTS RINEHART _Author of_ THE MAN IN LOWER TEN, WHEN A MAN MARRIES WHERE THERE'S A WILL, ETC. _Illustrated by_ M. LEONE BRACKER 1913 CHAPTER I We have just had another flood, bad enough, but only a foot or two of water on the first floor. Yesterday we got the mud shoveled out of the cellar and found Peter, the spaniel that Mr. Ladley left when he "went away". The flood, and the fact that it was Mr. Ladley's dog whose body was found half buried in the basement fruit closet, brought back to me the strange events of the other flood five years ago, when the water reached more than half-way to the second story, and brought with it, to some, mystery and sudden death, and to me the worst case of "shingles" I have ever seen. My name is Pitman--in this narrative. It is not really Pitman, but that does well enough. I belong to an old Pittsburgh family. I was born on Penn Avenue, when that was the best part of town, and I lived, until I was fifteen, very close to what is now the Pittsburgh Club. It was a dwelling then; I have forgotten who lived there. I was a girl in seventy-seven, during the railroad riots, and I recall our driving in the family carriage over to one of the Allegheny hills, and seeing the yards burning, and a great noise of shooting from across the river. It was the next year that I ran away from school to marry Mr. Pitman, and I have not known my family since. We were never reconciled, although I came back to Pittsburgh after twenty years of wandering. Mr. Pitman was dead; the old city called me, and I came. I had a hundred dollars or so, and I took a house in lower Allegheny, where, because they are partly inundated every spring, rents are cheap, and I kept boarders. My house was always orderly and clean, and although the neighborhood had a bad name, a good many theatrical people stopped with me. Five minutes across the bridge, and they were in the theater district. Allegheny at that time, I believe, was still an independent city. But since then it has allied itself with Pittsburgh; it is now the North Side. I was glad to get back. I worked hard, but I made my rent and my living, and a little over. Now and then on summer evenings I went to one of the parks, and sitting on a bench, watched the children playing around, and looked at my sister's house, closed for the summer. It is a very large house: her butler once had his wife boarding with me--a nice little woman. It is curious to recall that, at that time, five years ago, I had never seen my niece, Lida Harvey, and then to think that only the day before yesterday she came in her automobile as far as she dared, and then sat there, waving to me, while the police patrol brought across in a skiff a basket of provisions she had sent me. I wonder what she would have thought had she known that the elderly woman in a calico wrapper with an old overcoat over it, and a pair of rubber boots, was her full aunt! The flood and the sight of Lida both brought back the case of Jennie Brice. For even then, Lida and Mr. Howell were interested in each other. This is April. The flood of 1907 was earlier, in March. It had been a long hard winter, with ice gorges in all the upper valley. Then, in early March, there came a thaw. The gorges broke up and began to come down, filling the rivers with crushing grinding ice. There are three rivers at Pittsburgh, the Allegheny and the Monongahela uniting there at the Point to form the Ohio. And all three were covered with broken ice, logs, and all sorts of debris from the upper valleys. A warning was sent out from the weather bureau, and I got my carpets ready to lift that morning. That was on the fourth of March, a Sunday. Mr. Ladley and his wife, Jennie Brice, had the parlor bedroom and the room behind it. Mrs. Ladley, or Miss Brice, as she preferred to be known, had a small part at a local theater that kept a permanent company. Her husband was in that business, too, but he had nothing to do. It was the wife who paid the bills, and a lot of quarreling they did about it. I knocked at the door at ten o'clock, and Mr. Ladley opened it. He was a short man, rather stout and getting bald, and he always had a cigarette. Even yet, the parlor carpet smells of them. "What do you want?" he asked sharply, holding the door open about an inch. "The water's coming up very fast, Mr. Ladley," I said. "It's up to the swinging-shelf in the cellar now. I'd like to take up the carpet and move the piano." "Come back in an hour or so," he snapped, and tried to close the door. But I had got my toe in the crack. "I'll have to have the piano moved, Mr. Ladley," I said. "You'd better put off what you are doing." I thought he was probably writing. He spent most of the day writing, using the wash-stand as a desk, and it kept me busy with oxalic acid taking ink-spots out of the splasher and the towels. He was writing a play, and talked a lot about the Shuberts having promised to star him in it when it was finished. "Hell!" he said, and turning, spoke to somebody in the room. "We can go into the back room," I heard him say, and he closed the door. When he opened it again, the room was empty. I called in Terry, the Irishman who does odd jobs for me now and then, and we both got to work at the tacks in the carpet, Terry working by the window, and I by the door into the back parlor, which the Ladleys used as a bedroom. That was how I happened to hear what I afterward told the police. Some one--a man, but not Mr. Ladley--was talking. Mrs. Ladley broke in: "I won't do it!" she said flatly. "Why should I help him? He doesn't help me. He loafs here all day, smoking and sleeping, and sits up all night, drinking and keeping me awake." The voice went on again, as if in reply to this, and I heard a rattle of glasses, as if they were pouring drinks. They always had whisky, even when they were behind with their board. "That's all very well," Mrs. Ladley said. I could always hear her, she having a theatrical sort of voice--one that carries. "But what about the prying she-devil that runs the house?" "Hush, for God's sake!" broke in Mr. Ladley, and after that they spoke in whispers. Even with my ear against the panel, I could not catch a word. The men came just then to move the piano, and by the time we had taken it and the furniture up-stairs, the water was over the kitchen floor, and creeping forward into the hall. I had never seen the river come up so fast. By noon the yard was full of floating ice, and at three that afternoon the police skiff was on the front street, and I was wading around in rubber boots, taking the pictures off the walls. I was too busy to see who the Ladleys' visitor was, and he had gone when I remembered him again. The Ladleys took the second-story front, which was empty, and Mr. Reynolds, who was in the silk department in a store across the river, had the room just behind. I put up a coal stove in a back room next the bathroom, and managed to cook the dinner there. I was washing up the dishes when Mr. Reynolds came in. As it was Sunday, he was in his slippers and had the colored supplement of a morning paper in his hand. "What's the matter with the Ladleys?" he asked. "I can't read for their quarreling." "Booze, probably," I said. "When you've lived in the flood district as long as I have, Mr. Reynolds, you'll know that the rising of the river is a signal for every man in the vicinity to stop work and get full. The fuller the river, the fuller the male population." "Then this flood will likely make 'em drink themselves to death!" he said. "It's a lulu." "It's the neighborhood's annual debauch. The women are busy keeping the babies from getting drowned in the cellars, or they'd get full, too. I hope, since it's come this far, it will come farther, so the landlord will have to paper the parlor." That was at three o'clock. At four Mr. Ladley went down the stairs, and I heard him getting into a skiff in the lower hall. There were boats going back and forth all the time, carrying crowds of curious people, and taking the flood sufferers to the corner grocery, where they were lowering groceries in a basket on a rope from an upper window. I had been making tea when I heard Mr. Ladley go out. I fixed a tray with a cup of it and some crackers, and took it to their door. I had never liked Mrs. Ladley, but it was chilly in the house with the gas shut off and the lower floor full of ice-water. And it is hard enough to keep boarders in the flood district. She did not answer to my knock, so I opened the door and went in. She was at the window, looking after him, and the brown valise, that figured in the case later, was opened on the floor. Over the foot of the bed was the black and white dress, with the red collar. When I spoke to her, she turned around quickly. She was a tall woman, about twenty-eight, with very white teeth and yellow hair, which she parted a little to one side and drew down over her ears. She had a sullen face and large well-shaped hands, with her nails long and very pointed. "The 'she-devil' has brought you some tea," I said. "Where shall she put it?" "'She-devil'!" she repeated, raising her eyebrows. "It's a very thoughtful she-devil. Who called you that?" But, with the sight of the valise and the fear that they might be leaving, I thought it best not to quarrel. She had left the window, and going to her dressing-table, had picked up her nail-file. "Never mind," I said. "I hope you are not going away. These floods don't last, and they're a benefit. Plenty of the people around here rely on 'em every year to wash out their cellars." "No, I'm not going away," she replied lazily. "I'm taking that dress to Miss Hope at the theater. She is going to wear it in _Charlie's Aunt_ next week. She hasn't half enough of a wardrobe to play leads in stock. Look at this thumb-nail, broken to the quick!" If I had only looked to see which thumb it was! But I was putting the tea-tray on the wash-stand, and moving Mr. Ladley's papers to find room for it. Peter, the spaniel, begged for a lump of sugar, and I gave it to him. "Where is Mr. Ladley?" I asked. "Gone out to see the river." "I hope he'll be careful. There's a drowning or two every year in these floods." "Then I hope he won't," she said calmly. "Do you know what I was doing when you came in? I was looking after his boat, and hoping it had a hole in it." "You won't feel that way to-morrow, Mrs. Ladley," I protested, shocked. "You're just nervous and put out. Most men have their ugly times. Many a time I wished Mr. Pitman was gone--until he went. Then I'd have given a good bit to have him back again." She was standing in front of the dresser, fixing her hair over her ears. She turned and looked at me over her shoulder. "Probably Mr. Pitman was a man," she said. "My husband is a fiend, a devil." Well, a good many women have said that to me at different times. But just let me say such a thing to _them_, or repeat their own words to them the next day, and they would fly at me in a fury. So I said nothing, and put the cream into her tea. I never saw her again. CHAPTER II There is not much sleeping done in the flood district during a spring flood. The gas was shut off, and I gave Mr. Reynolds and the Ladleys each a lamp. I sat in the back room that I had made into a temporary kitchen, with a candle, and with a bedquilt around my shoulders. The water rose fast in the lower hall, but by midnight, at the seventh step, it stopped rising and stood still. I always have a skiff during the flood season, and as the water rose, I tied it to one spindle of the staircase after another. I made myself a cup of tea, and at one o'clock I stretched out on a sofa for a few hours' sleep. I think I had been sleeping only an hour or so, when some one touched me on the shoulder and I started up. It was Mr. Reynolds, partly dressed. "Some one has been in the house, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "They went away just now in the boat." "Perhaps it was Peter," I suggested. "That dog is always wandering around at night." "Not unless Peter can row a boat," said Mr. Reynolds dryly. I got up, being already fully dressed, and taking the candle, we went to the staircase. I noticed that it was a minute or so after two o'clock as we left the room. The boat was gone, not untied, but cut loose. The end of the rope was still fastened to the stair-rail. I sat down on the stairs and looked at Mr. Reynolds. "It's gone!" I said. "If the house catches fire, we'll have to drown." "It's rather curious, when you consider it." We both spoke softly, not to disturb the Ladleys. "I've been awake, and I heard no boat come in. And yet, if no one came in a boat, and came from the street, they would have had to swim in." I felt queer and creepy. The street door was open, of course, and the lights going beyond. It gave me a strange feeling to sit there in the darkness on the stairs, with the arch of the front door like the entrance to a cavern, and see now and then a chunk of ice slide into view, turn around in the eddy, and pass on. It was bitter cold, too, and the wind was rising. "I'll go through the house," said Mr. Reynolds. "There's likely nothing worse the matter than some drunken mill-hand on a vacation while the mills are under water. But I'd better look." He left me, and I sat there alone in the darkness. I had a presentiment of something wrong, but I tried to think it was only discomfort and the cold. The water, driven in by the wind, swirled at my feet. And something dark floated in and lodged on the step below. I reached down and touched it. It was a dead kitten. I had never known a dead cat to bring me anything but bad luck, and here was one washed in at my very feet. Mr. Reynolds came back soon, and reported the house quiet and in order. "But I found Peter shut up in one of the third-floor rooms," he said. "Did you put him there?" I had not, and said so; but as the dog went everywhere, and the door might have blown shut, we did not attach much importance to that at the time. Well, the skiff was gone, and there was no use worrying about it until morning. I went back to the sofa to keep warm, but I left my candle lighted and my door open. I did not sleep: the dead cat was on my mind, and, as if it were not bad enough to have it washed in at my feet, about four in the morning Peter, prowling uneasily, discovered it and brought it in and put it on my couch, wet and stiff, poor little thing! I looked at the clock. It was a quarter after four, and except for the occasional crunch of one ice-cake hitting another in the yard, everything was quiet. And then I heard the stealthy sound of oars in the lower hall. I am not a brave woman. I lay there, hoping Mr. Reynolds would hear and open his door. But he was sleeping soundly. Peter snarled and ran out into the hall, and the next moment I heard Mr. Ladley speaking. "Down, Peter," he said. "Down. Go and lie down." I took my candle and went out into the hall. Mr. Ladley was stooping over the boat, trying to tie it to the staircase. The rope was short, having been cut, and he was having trouble. Perhaps it was the candle-light, but he looked ghost-white and haggard. "I borrowed your boat, Mrs. Pitman," he said, civilly enough. "Mrs. Ladley was not well, and I--I went to the drug store." "You've been more than two hours going to the drug store," I said. He muttered something about not finding any open at first, and went into his room. He closed and locked the door behind him, and although Peter whined and scratched, he did not let him in. He looked so agitated that I thought I had been harsh, and that perhaps she was really ill. I knocked at the door, and asked if I could do anything. But he only called "No" curtly through the door, and asked me to take that infernal dog away. I went back to bed and tried to sleep, for the water had dropped an inch or so on the stairs, and I knew the danger was over. Peter came, shivering, at dawn, and got on to the sofa with me. I put an end of the quilt over him, and he stopped shivering after a time and went to sleep. The dog was company. I lay there, wide awake, thinking about Mr. Pitman's death, and how I had come, by degrees, to be keeping a cheap boarding-house in the flood district, and to having to take impudence from everybody who chose to rent a room from me, and to being called a she-devil. From that I got to thinking again about the Ladleys, and how she had said he was a fiend, and to doubting about his having gone out for medicine for her. I dozed off again at daylight, and being worn out, I slept heavily. At seven o'clock Mr. Reynolds came to the door, dressed for the store. He was a tall man of about fifty, neat and orderly in his habits, and he always remembered that I had seen better days, and treated me as a lady. "Never mind about breakfast for me this morning, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "I'll get a cup of coffee at the other end of the bridge. I'll take the boat and send it back with Terry." He turned and went along the hall and down to the boat. I heard him push off from the stairs with an oar and row out into the street. Peter followed him to the stairs. At a quarter after seven Mr. Ladley came out and called to me: "Just bring in a cup of coffee and some toast," he said. "Enough for one." He went back and slammed his door, and I made his coffee. I steeped a cup of tea for Mrs. Ladley at the same time. He opened the door just wide enough for the tray, and took it without so much as a "thank you." He had a cigarette in his mouth as usual, and I could see a fire in the grate and smell something like scorching cloth. "I hope Mrs. Ladley is better," I said, getting my foot in the crack of the door, so he could not quite close it. It smelled to me as if he had accidentally set fire to something with his cigarette, and I tried to see into the room. "What about Mrs. Ladley?" he snapped. "You said she was ill last night." "Oh, yes! Well, she wasn't very sick. She's better." "Shall I bring her some tea?" "Take your foot away!" he ordered. "No. She doesn't want tea. She's not here." "Not here!" "Good heavens!" he snarled. "Is her going away anything to make such a fuss about? The Lord knows I'd be glad to get out of this infernal pig-wallow myself." "If you mean my house--" I began. But he had pulled himself together and was more polite when he answered. "I mean the neighborhood. Your house is all that could be desired for the money. If we do not have linen sheets and double cream, we are paying muslin and milk prices." Either my nose was growing accustomed to the odor, or it was dying away: I took my foot away from the door. "When did Mrs. Ladley leave?" I asked. "This morning, very early. I rowed her to Federal Street." "You couldn't have had much sleep," I said dryly. For he looked horrible. There were lines around his eyes, which were red, and his lips looked dry and cracked. "She's not in the piece this week at the theater," he said, licking his lips and looking past me, not at me. "She'll be back by Saturday." I did not believe him. I do not think he imagined that I did. He shut the door in my face, and it caught poor Peter by the nose. The dog ran off howling, but although Mr. Ladley had been as fond of the animal as it was in his nature to be fond of anything, he paid no attention. As I started down the hall after him, I saw what Peter had been carrying--a slipper of Mrs. Ladley's. It was soaked with water; evidently Peter had found it floating at the foot of the stairs. Although the idea of murder had not entered my head at that time, the slipper gave me a turn. I picked it up and looked at it--a black one with a beaded toe, short in the vamp and high-heeled, the sort most actresses wear. Then I went back and knocked at the door of the front room again. "What the devil do you want now?" he called from beyond the door. "Here's a slipper of Mrs. Ladley's," I said. "Peter found it floating in the lower hall." He opened the door wide, and let me in. The room was in tolerable order, much better than when Mrs. Ladley was about. He looked at the slipper, but he did not touch it. "I don't think that is hers," he said. "I've seen her wear it a hundred times." "Well, she'll never wear it again." And then, seeing me stare, he added: "It's ruined with the water. Throw it out. And, by the way, I'm sorry, but I set fire to one of the pillow-slips--dropped asleep, and my cigarette did the rest. Just put it on the bill." He pointed to the bed. One of the pillows had no slip, and the ticking cover had a scorch or two on it. I went over and looked at it. "The pillow will have to be paid for, too, Mr. Ladley," I said. "And there's a sign nailed on the door that forbids smoking in bed. If you are going to set fire to things, I shall have to charge extra." "Really!" he jeered, looking at me with his cold fishy eyes. "Is there any sign on the door saying that boarders are charged extra for seven feet of filthy river in the bedrooms?" I was never a match for him, and I make it a principle never to bandy words with my boarders. I took the pillow and the slipper and went out. The telephone was ringing on the stair landing. It was the theater, asking for Miss Brice. "She has gone away," I said. "What do you mean? Moved away?" "Gone for a few days' vacation," I replied. "She isn't playing this week, is she?" "Wait a moment," said the voice. There was a hum of conversation from the other end, and then another man came to the telephone. "Can you find out where Miss Brice has gone?" "I'll see." I went to Ladley's door and knocked. Mr. Ladley answered from just beyond. "The theater is asking where Mrs. Ladley is." "Tell them I don't know," he snarled, and shut the door. I took his message to the telephone. Whoever it was swore and hung up the receiver. All the morning I was uneasy--I hardly knew why. Peter felt it as I did. There was no sound from the Ladleys' room, and the house was quiet, except for the lapping water on the stairs and the police patrol going back and forth. At eleven o'clock a boy in the neighborhood, paddling on a raft, fell into the water and was drowned. I watched the police boat go past, carrying his little cold body, and after that I was good for nothing. I went and sat with Peter on the stairs. The dog's conduct had been strange all morning. He had sat just above the water, looking at it and whimpering. Perhaps he was expecting another kitten or-- It is hard to say how ideas first enter one's mind. But the notion that Mr. Ladley had killed his wife and thrown her body into the water came to me as I sat there. All at once I seemed to see it all: the quarreling the day before, the night trip in the boat, the water-soaked slipper, his haggard face that morning--even the way the spaniel sat and stared at the flood. Terry brought the boat back at half past eleven, towing it behind another. "Well," I said, from the stairs, "I hope you've had a pleasant morning." "What doing?" he asked, not looking at me. "Rowing about the streets. You've had that boat for hours." He tied it up without a word to me, but he spoke to the dog. "Good morning, Peter," he said. "It's nice weather--for fishes, ain't it?" He picked out a bit of floating wood from the water, and showing it to the dog, flung it into the parlor. Peter went after it with a splash. He was pretty fat, and when he came back I heard him wheezing. But what he brought back was not the stick of wood. It was the knife I use for cutting bread. It had been on a shelf in the room where I had slept the night before, and now Peter brought it out of the flood where its wooden handle had kept it afloat. The blade was broken off short. It is not unusual to find one's household goods floating around during flood-time. More than once I've lost a chair or two, and seen it after the water had gone down, new scrubbed and painted, in Molly Maguire's kitchen next door. And perhaps now and then a bit of luck would come to me--a dog kennel or a chicken-house, or a kitchen table, or even, as happened once, a month-old baby in a wooden cradle, that lodged against my back fence, and had come forty miles, as it turned out, with no worse mishap than a cold in its head. But the knife was different. I had put it on the mantel over the stove I was using up-stairs the night before, and hadn't touched it since. As I sat staring at it, Terry took it from Peter and handed it to me. "Better give me a penny, Mrs. Pitman," he said in his impudent Irish way. "I hate to give you a knife. It may cut our friendship." I reached over to hit him a clout on the head, but I did not. The sunlight was coming in through the window at the top of the stairs, and shining on the rope that was tied to the banister. The end of the rope was covered with stains, brown, with a glint of red in them. I got up shivering. "You can get the meat at the butcher's, Terry," I said, "and come back for me in a half-hour." Then I turned and went up-stairs, weak in the knees, to put on my hat and coat. I had made up my mind that there had been murder done. CHAPTER III I looked at my clock as I went down-stairs. It was just twelve-thirty. I thought of telephoning for Mr. Reynolds to meet me, but it was his lunch hour, and besides I was afraid to telephone from the house while Mr. Ladley was in it. Peter had been whining again. When I came down the stairs he had stopped whimpering and was wagging his tail. A strange boat had put into the hallway and was coming back. "Now, old boy!" somebody was saying from the boat. "Steady, old chap! I've got something for you." A little man, elderly and alert, was standing up in the boat, poling it along with an oar. Peter gave vent to joyful yelps. The elderly gentleman brought his boat to a stop at the foot of the stairs, and reaching down into a tub at his feet, held up a large piece of raw liver. Peter almost went crazy, and I remembered suddenly that I had forgotten to feed the poor beast for more than a day. "Would you like it?" asked the gentleman. Peter sat up, as he had been taught to do, and barked. The gentleman reached down again, got a wooden platter from a stack of them at his feet, and placing the liver on it, put it on the step. The whole thing was so neat and businesslike that I could only gaze. "That's a well-trained dog, madam," said the elderly gentleman, beaming at Peter over his glasses. "You should not have neglected him." "The flood put him out of my mind," I explained, humbly enough, for I was ashamed. "Exactly. Do you know how many starving dogs and cats I have found this morning?" He took a note-book out of his pocket and glanced at it. "Forty-eight. Forty-eight, madam! And ninety-three cats! I have found them marooned in trees, clinging to fences, floating on barrels, and I have found them in comfortable houses where there was no excuse for their neglect. Well, I must be moving on. I have the report of a cat with a new litter in the loft of a stable near here." He wiped his hands carefully on a fresh paper napkin, of which also a heap rested on one of the seats of the boat, and picked up an oar, smiling benevolently at Peter. Then, suddenly, he bent over and looked at the stained rope end, tied to the stair-rail. "What's that?" he said. "That's what I'm going to find out," I replied. I glanced up at the Ladleys' door, but it was closed. The little man dropped his oar, and fumbling in his pockets, pulled out a small magnifying-glass. He bent over, holding to the rail, and inspected the stains with the glass. I had taken a fancy to him at once, and in spite of my excitement I had to smile a little. "Humph!" he said, and looked up at me. "That's blood. Why did you _cut_ the boat loose?" "I didn't," I said. "If that is blood, I want to know how it got there. That was a new rope last night." I glanced at the Ladleys' door again, and he followed my eyes. "I wonder," he said, raising his voice a little, "if I come into your kitchen, if you will allow me to fry a little of that liver. There's a wretched Maltese in a tree at the corner of Fourth Street that won't touch it, raw." I saw that he wanted to talk to me, so I turned around and led the way to the temporary kitchen I had made. "Now," he said briskly, when he had closed the door, "there's something wrong here. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help. If I can't, it will do you good to talk about it. My name's Holcombe, retired merchant. Apply to First National Bank for references." "I'm not sure there _is_ anything wrong," I began. "I guess I'm only nervous, and thinking little things are big ones. There's nothing to tell." "Nonsense. I come down the street in my boat. A white-faced gentleman with a cigarette looks out from a window when I stop at the door, and ducks back when I glance up. I come in and find a pet dog, obviously overfed at ordinary times, whining with hunger on the stairs. As I prepare to feed him, a pale woman comes down, trying to put a right-hand glove on her left hand, and with her jacket wrong side out. What am I to think?" I started and looked at my coat. He was right. And when, as I tried to take it off, he helped me, and even patted me on the shoulder--what with his kindness, and the long morning alone, worrying, and the sleepless night, I began to cry. He had a clean handkerchief in my hand before I had time to think of one. "That's it," he said. "It will do you good, only don't make a noise about it. If it's a husband on the annual flood spree, don't worry, madam. They always come around in time to whitewash the cellars." "It isn't a husband," I sniffled. "Tell me about it," he said. There was something so kindly in his face, and it was so long since I had had a bit of human sympathy, that I almost broke down again. I sat there, with a crowd of children paddling on a raft outside the window, and Molly Maguire, next door, hauling the morning's milk up in a pail fastened to a rope, her doorway being too narrow to admit the milkman's boat, and I told him the whole story. "Humph!" he exclaimed, when I had finished. "It's curious, but--you can't prove a murder unless you can produce a body." "When the river goes down, we'll find the body," I said, shivering. "It's in the parlor." "Then why doesn't he try to get away?" "He is ready to go now. He only went back when your boat came in." Mr. Holcombe ran to the door, and flinging it open, peered into the lower hall. He was too late. His boat was gone, tub of liver, pile of wooden platters and all! We hurried to the room the Ladleys had occupied. It was empty. From the window, as we looked out, we could see the boat, almost a square away. It had stopped where, the street being higher, a door-step rose above the flood. On the step was sitting a forlorn yellow puppy. As we stared, Mr. Ladley stopped the boat, looked back at us, bent over, placed a piece of liver on a platter, and reached it over to the dog. Then, rising in the boat, he bowed, with his hat over his heart, in our direction, sat down calmly, and rowed around the corner out of sight. Mr. Holcombe was in a frenzy of rage. He jumped up and down, shaking his fist out the window after the retreating boat. He ran down the staircase, only to come back and look out the window again. The police boat was not in sight, but the Maguire children had worked their raft around to the street and were under the window. He leaned out and called to them. "A quarter each, boys," he said, "if you'll take me on that raft to the nearest pavement." "Money first," said the oldest boy, holding his cap. But Mr. Holcombe did not wait. He swung out over the window-sill, holding by his hands, and lit fairly in the center of the raft. "Don't touch anything in that room until I come back," he called to me, and jerking the pole from one of the boys, propelled the raft with amazing speed down the street. The liver on the stove was burning. There was a smell of scorching through the rooms and a sort of bluish haze of smoke. I hurried back and took it off. By the time I had cleaned the pan, Mr. Holcombe was back again, in his own boat. He had found it at the end of the next street, where the flood ceased, but no sign of Ladley anywhere. He had not seen the police boat. "Perhaps that is just as well," he said philosophically. "We can't go to the police with a wet slipper and a blood-stained rope and accuse a man of murder. We have to have a body." "He killed her," I said obstinately. "She told me yesterday he was a fiend. He killed her and threw the body in the water." "Very likely. But he didn't throw it here." But in spite of that, he went over all the lower hall with his boat, feeling every foot of the floor with an oar, and finally, at the back end, he looked up at me as I stood on the stairs. "There's something here," he said. I went cold all over, and had to clutch the railing. But when Terry had come, and the two of them brought the thing to the surface, it was only the dining-room rug, which I had rolled up and forgotten to carry up-stairs! At half past one Mr. Holcombe wrote a note, and sent it off with Terry, and borrowing my boots, which had been Mr. Pitman's, investigated the dining-room and kitchen from a floating plank; the doors were too narrow to admit the boat. But he found nothing more important than a rolling-pin. He was not at all depressed by his failure. He came back, drenched to the skin, about three, and asked permission to search the Ladleys' bedroom. "I have a friend coming pretty soon, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "a young newspaper man, named Howell. He's a nice boy, and if there is anything to this, I'd like him to have it for his paper. He and I have been having some arguments about circumstantial evidence, too, and I know he'd like to work on this." I gave him a pair of Mr. Pitman's socks, for his own were saturated, and while he was changing them the telephone rang. It was the theater again, asking for Jennie Brice. "You are certain she is out of the city?" some one asked, the same voice as in the morning. "Her husband says so." "Ask him to come to the phone." "He is not here." "When do you expect him back?" "I'm not sure he is coming back." "Look here," said the voice angrily, "can't you give me any satisfaction? Or don't you care to?" "I've told you all I know." "You don't know where she is?" "No, sir." "She didn't say she was coming back to rehearse for next week's piece?" "Her husband said she went away for a few days' rest. He went away about noon and hasn't come back. That's all I know, except that they owe me three weeks' rent that I'd like to get hold of." The owner of the voice hung up the receiver with a snap, and left me pondering. It seemed to me that Mr. Ladley had been very reckless. Did he expect any one to believe that Jennie Brice had gone for a vacation without notifying the theater? Especially when she was to rehearse that week? I thought it curious, to say the least. I went back and told Mr. Holcombe, who put it down in his note-book, and together we went to the Ladleys' room. The room was in better order than usual, as I have said. The bed was made--which was out of the ordinary, for Jennie Brice never made a bed--but made the way a man makes one, with the blankets wrinkled and crooked beneath, and the white counterpane pulled smoothly over the top, showing every lump beneath. I showed Mr. Holcombe the splasher, dotted with ink as usual. "I'll take it off and soak it in milk," I said. "It's his fountain pen; when the ink doesn't run, he shakes it, and--" "Where's the clock?" said Mr. Holcombe, stopping in front of the mantel with his note-book in his hand. "The clock?" I turned and looked. My onyx clock was gone from the mantel-shelf. Perhaps it seems strange, but from the moment I missed that clock my rage at Mr. Ladley increased to a fury. It was all I had had left of my former gentility. When times were hard and I got behind with the rent, as happened now and then, more than once I'd been tempted to sell the clock, or to pawn it. But I had never done it. Its ticking had kept me company on many a lonely night, and its elegance had helped me to keep my pride and to retain the respect of my neighbors. For in the flood district onyx clocks are not plentiful. Mrs. Bryan, the saloon-keeper's wife, had one, and I had another. That is, I _had_ had. I stood staring at the mark in the dust of the mantel-shelf, which Mr. Holcombe was measuring with a pocket tape-measure. "You are sure you didn't take it away yourself, Mrs. Pitman?" he asked. "Sure? Why, I could hardly lift it," I said. He was looking carefully at the oblong of dust where the clock had stood. "The key is gone, too," he said, busily making entries in his note-book. "What was the maker's name?" "Why, I don't think I ever noticed." He turned to me angrily. "Why didn't you notice?" he snapped. "Good God, woman, do you only use your eyes to cry with? How can you wind a clock, time after time, and not know the maker's name? It proves my contention: the average witness is totally unreliable." "Not at all," I snapped, "I am ordinarily both accurate and observing." "Indeed!" he said, putting his hands behind him. "Then perhaps you can tell me the color of the pencil I have been writing with." "Certainly. Red." Most pencils are red, and I thought this was safe. But he held his right hand out with a flourish. "I've been writing with a fountain pen," he said in deep disgust, and turned his back on me. But the next moment he had run to the wash-stand and pulled it out from the wall. Behind it, where it had fallen, lay a towel, covered with stains, as if some one had wiped bloody hands on it. He held it up, his face working with excitement. I could only cover my eyes. "This looks better," he said, and began making a quick search of the room, running from one piece of furniture to another, pulling out bureau drawers, drawing the bed out from the wall, and crawling along the base-board with a lighted match in his hand. He gave a shout of triumph finally, and reappeared from behind the bed with the broken end of my knife in his hand. "Very clumsy," he said. "_Very_ clumsy. Peter the dog could have done better." I had been examining the wall-paper about the wash-stand. Among the ink-spots were one or two reddish ones that made me shiver. And seeing a scrap of note-paper stuck between the base-board and the wall, I dug it out with a hairpin, and threw it into the grate, to be burned later. It was by the merest chance there was no fire there. The next moment Mr. Holcombe was on his knees by the fireplace reaching for the scrap. "_Never_ do that, under such circumstances," he snapped, fishing among the ashes. "You might throw away valuable--Hello, Howell!" I turned and saw a young man in the doorway, smiling, his hat in his hand. Even at that first glance, I liked Mr. Howell, and later, when every one was against him, and many curious things were developing, I stood by him through everything, and even helped him to the thing he wanted more than anything else in the, world. But that, of course, was later. "What's the trouble, Holcombe?" he asked. "Hitting the trail again?" "A very curious thing that I just happened on," said Mr. Holcombe. "Mrs. Pitman, this is Mr. Howell, of whom I spoke. Sit down, Howell, and let me read you something." With the crumpled paper still unopened in his hand, Mr. Holcombe took his note-book and read aloud what he had written. I have it before me now: "'Dog meat, two dollars, boat hire'--that's not it. Here. 'Yesterday, Sunday, March the 4th, Mrs. Pitman, landlady at 42 Union Street, heard two of her boarders quarreling, a man and his wife. Man's name, Philip Ladley. Wife's name, Jennie Ladley, known as Jennie Brice at the Liberty Stock Company, where she has been playing small parts.'" Mr. Howell nodded. "I've heard of her," he said. "Not much of an actress, I believe." "'The husband was also an actor, out of work, and employing his leisure time in writing a play.'" "Everybody's doing it," said Mr. Howell idly. "The Shuberts were to star him in this," I put in. "He said that the climax at the end of the second act--" Mr. Holcombe shut his note-book with a snap. "After we have finished gossiping," he said, "I'll go on." "'Employing his leisure time in writing a play--'" quoted Mr. Howell. "Exactly. 'The husband and wife were not on good terms. They quarreled frequently. On Sunday they fought all day, and Mrs. Ladley told Mrs. Pitman she was married to a fiend. At four o'clock Sunday afternoon, Philip Ladley went out, returning about five. Mrs. Pitman carried their supper to them at six, and both ate heartily. She did not see Mrs. Ladley at the time, but heard her in the next room. They were apparently reconciled: Mrs. Pitman reports Mr. Ladley in high good humor. If the quarrel recommenced during the night, the other boarder, named Reynolds, in the next room, heard nothing. Mrs. Pitman was up and down until one o'clock, when she dozed off. She heard no unusual sound. "'At approximately two o'clock in the morning, however, this Reynolds came to the room, and said he had heard some one in a boat in the lower hall. He and Mrs. Pitman investigated. The boat which Mrs. Pitman uses during a flood, and which she had tied to the stair-rail, was gone, having been cut loose, not untied. Everything else was quiet, except that Mrs. Ladley's dog had been shut in a third-story room. "'At a quarter after four that morning Mrs. Pitman, thoroughly awake, heard the boat returning, and going to the stairs, met Ladley coming in. He muttered something about having gone for medicine for his wife and went to his room, shutting the dog out. This is worth attention, for the dog ordinarily slept in their room.'" "What sort of a dog?" asked Mr. Howell. He had been listening attentively. "A water-spaniel. 'The rest of the night, or early morning, was quiet. At a quarter after seven, Ladley asked for coffee and toast for one, and on Mrs. Pitman remarking this, said that his wife was not playing this week, and had gone for a few days' vacation, having left early in the morning.' Remember, during the night he had been out for medicine for her. Now she was able to travel, and, in fact, had started." Mr. Howell was frowning at the floor. "If he was doing anything wrong, he was doing it very badly," he said. "This is where I entered the case," said Mr. Holcombe, "I rowed into the lower hall this morning, to feed the dog, Peter, who was whining on the staircase. Mrs. Pitman was coming down, pale and agitated over the fact that the dog, shortly before, had found floating in the parlor down-stairs a slipper belonging to Mrs. Ladley, and, later, a knife with a broken blade. She maintains that she had the knife last night up-stairs, that it was not broken, and that it was taken from a shelf in her room while she dozed. The question is, then: Why was the knife taken? Who took it? And why? Has this man made away with his wife, or has he not?" Mr. Howell looked at me and smiled. "Mr. Holcombe and I are old enemies," he said. "Mr. Holcombe believes that circumstantial evidence may probably hang a man; I do not." And to Mr. Holcombe: "So, having found a wet slipper and a broken knife, you are prepared for murder and sudden death!" "I have more evidence," Mr. Holcombe said eagerly, and proceeded to tell what we had found in the room. Mr. Howell listened, smiling to himself, but at the mention of the onyx clock he got up and went to the mantel. "By Jove!" he said, and stood looking at the mark in the dust. "Are you sure the clock was here yesterday?" "I wound it night before last, and put the key underneath. Yesterday, before they moved up, I wound it again." "The key is gone also. Well, what of it, Holcombe? Did he brain her with the clock? Or choke her with the key?" Mr. Holcombe was looking at his note-book. "To summarize," he said, "we have here as clues indicating a crime, the rope, the broken knife, the slipper, the towel, and the clock. Besides, this scrap of paper may contain some information." He opened it and sat gazing at it in his palm. Then, "Is this Ladley's writing?" he asked me in a curious voice. "Yes." I glanced at the slip. Mr. Holcombe had just read from his note-book: "Rope, knife, slipper, towel, clock." The slip I had found behind the wash-stand said "Rope, knife, shoe, towel. Horn--" The rest of the last word was torn off. Mr. Howell was staring at the mantel. "Clock!" he repeated. CHAPTER IV It was after four when Mr. Holcombe had finished going over the room. I offered to make both the gentlemen some tea, for Mr. Pitman had been an Englishman, and I had got into the habit of having a cup in the afternoon, with a cracker or a bit of bread. But they refused. Mr. Howell said he had promised to meet a lady, and to bring her through the flooded district in a boat. He shook hands with me, and smiled at Mr. Holcombe. "You will have to restrain his enthusiasm, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "He is a bloodhound on the scent. If his baying gets on your nerves, just send for me." He went down the stairs and stepped into the boat. "Remember, Holcombe," he called, "every well-constituted murder has two things: a motive and a corpse. You haven't either, only a mass of piffling details--" "If everybody waited until he saw flames, instead of relying on the testimony of the smoke," Mr. Holcombe snapped, "what would the fire loss be?" Mr. Howell poled his boat to the front door, and sitting down, prepared to row out. "You are warned, Mrs. Pitman," he called to me. "If he doesn't find a body to fit the clues, he's quite capable of making one to fill the demand." "Horn--" said Mr. Holcombe, looking at the slip again. "The tail of the 'n' is torn off--evidently only part of a word. Hornet, Horning, Horner--Mrs. Pitman, will you go with me to the police station?" I was more than anxious to go. In fact, I could not bear the idea of staying alone in the house, with heaven only knows what concealed in the depths of that muddy flood. I got on my wraps again, and Mr. Holcombe rowed me out. Peter plunged into the water to follow, and had to be sent back. He sat on the lower step and whined. Mr. Holcombe threw him another piece of liver, but he did not touch it. We rowed to the corner of Robinson Street and Federal--it was before Federal Street was raised above the flood level--and left the boat in charge of a boy there. And we walked to the police station. On the way Mr. Holcombe questioned me closely about the events of the morning, and I recalled the incident of the burned pillow-slip. He made a note of it at once, and grew very thoughtful. He left me, however, at the police station. "I'd rather not appear in this, Mrs. Pitman," he said apologetically, "and I think better along my own lines. Not that I have anything against the police; they've done some splendid work. But this case takes imagination, and the police department deals with facts. We have no facts yet. What we need, of course, is to have the man detained until we are sure of our case." He lifted his hat and turned away, and I went slowly up the steps to the police station. Living, as I had, in a neighborhood where the police, like the poor, are always with us, and where the visits of the patrol wagon are one of those familiar sights that no amount of repetition enabled any of us to treat with contempt, I was uncomfortable until I remembered that my grandfather had been one of the first mayors of the city, and that, if the patrol had been at my house more than once, the entire neighborhood would testify that my boarders were usually orderly. At the door some one touched me on the arm. It was Mr. Holcombe again. "I have been thinking it over," he said, "and I believe you'd better not mention the piece of paper that you found behind the wash-stand. They might say the whole thing is a hoax." "Very well," I agreed, and went in. The police sergeant in charge knew me at once, having stopped at my house more than once in flood-time for a cup of hot coffee. "Sit down, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "I suppose you are still making the best coffee and doughnuts in the city of Allegheny? Well, what's the trouble in your district? Want an injunction against the river for trespass?" "The river has brought me a good bit of trouble," I said. "I'm--I'm worried, Mr. Sergeant. I think a woman from my house has been murdered, but I don't know." "Murdered," he said, and drew up his chair. "Tell me about it." I told him everything, while he sat back with his eyes half closed, and his fingers beating a tattoo on the arm of his chair. When I finished he got up and went into an inner room. He came back in a moment. "I want you to come in and tell that to the chief," he said, and led the way. All told, I repeated my story three times that afternoon, to the sergeant, to the chief of police, and the third time to both the others and two detectives. The second time the chief made notes of what I said. "Know this man Ladley?" he asked the others. None of them did, but they all knew of Jennie Brice, and some of them had seen her in the theater. "Get the theater, Tom," the chief said to one of the detectives. Luckily, what he learned over the telephone from the theater corroborated my story. Jennie Brice was not in the cast that week, but should have reported that morning (Monday) to rehearse the next week's piece. No message had been received from her, and a substitute had been put in her place. The chief hung up the receiver and turned to me. "You are sure about the clock, Mrs. Pitman?" he asked. "It was there when they moved up-stairs to the room?" "Yes, sir." "You are certain you will not find it on the parlor mantel when the water goes down?" "The mantels are uncovered now. It is not there." "You think Ladley has gone for good?" "Yes, sir." "He'd be a fool to try to run away, unless--Graves, you'd better get hold of the fellow, and keep him until either the woman is found or a body. The river is falling. In a couple of days we will know if she is around the premises anywhere." Before I left, I described Jennie Brice for them carefully. Asked what she probably wore, if she had gone away as her husband said, I had no idea; she had a lot of clothes, and dressed a good bit. But I recalled that I had seen, lying on the bed, the black and white dress with the red collar, and they took that down, as well as the brown valise. The chief rose and opened the door for me himself. "If she actually left town at the time you mention," he said, "she ought not to be hard to find. There are not many trains before seven in the morning, and most of them are locals." "And--and if she did not, if he--do you think she is in the house--or--or--the cellar?" "Not unless Ladley is more of a fool than I think he is," he said, smiling. "Personally, I believe she has gone away, as he says she did. But if she hasn't--He probably took the body with him when he said he was getting medicine, and dropped it in the current somewhere. But we must go slow with all this. There's no use shouting 'wolf' yet." "But--the towel?" "He may have cut himself, shaving. It _has_ been done." "And the knife?" He shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. "I've seen a perfectly good knife spoiled opening a bottle of pickles." "But the slippers? And the clock?" "My good woman, enough shoes and slippers are forgotten in the bottoms of cupboards year after year in flood-time, and are found floating around the streets, to make all the old-clothesmen in town happy. I have seen almost everything floating about, during one of these annual floods." "I dare say you never saw an onyx clock floating around," I replied a little sharply. I had no sense of humor that day. He stopped smiling at once, and stood tugging at his mustache. "No," he admitted. "An onyx clock sinks, that's true. That's a very nice little point, that onyx clock. He may be trying to sell it, or perhaps--" He did not finish. I went back immediately, only stopping at the market to get meat for Mr. Reynolds' supper. It was after half past five and dusk was coming on. I got a boat and was rowed directly home. Peter was not at the foot of the steps. I paid the boatman and let him go, and turned to go up the stairs. Some one was speaking in the hall above. I have read somewhere that no two voices are exactly alike, just as no two violins ever produce precisely the same sound. I think it is what they call the timbre that is different. I have, for instance, never heard a voice like Mr. Pitman's, although Mr. Harry Lauder's in a phonograph resembles it. And voices have always done for me what odors do for some people, revived forgotten scenes and old memories. But the memory that the voice at the head of the stairs brought back was not very old, although I had forgotten it. I seemed to hear again, all at once, the lapping of the water Sunday morning as it began to come in over the door-sill; the sound of Terry ripping up the parlor carpet, and Mrs. Ladley calling me a she-devil in the next room, in reply to this very voice. But when I got to the top of the stairs, it was only Mr. Howell, who had brought his visitor to the flood district, and on getting her splashed with the muddy water, had taken her to my house for a towel and a cake of soap. I lighted the lamp in the hall, and Mr. Howell introduced the girl. She was a pretty girl, slim and young, and she had taken her wetting good-naturedly. "I know we are intruders, Mrs. Pitman," she said, holding out her hand. "Especially now, when you are in trouble." "I have told Miss Harvey a little," Mr. Howell said, "and I promised to show her Peter, but he is not here." I think I had known it was my sister's child from the moment I lighted the lamp. There was something of Alma in her, not Alma's hardness or haughtiness, but Alma's dark blue eyes with black lashes, and Alma's nose. Alma was always the beauty of the family. What with the day's excitement, and seeing Alma's child like this, in my house, I felt things going round and clutched at the stair-rail. Mr. Howell caught me. "Why, Mrs. Pitman!" he said. "What's the matter?" I got myself in hand in a moment and smiled at the girl. "Nothing at all," I said. "Indigestion, most likely. Too much tea the last day or two, and not enough solid food. I've been too anxious to eat." Lida--for she was that to me at once, although I had never seen her before--Lida was all sympathy and sweetness. She actually asked me to go with her to a restaurant and have a real dinner. I could imagine Alma, had she known! But I excused myself. "I have to cook something for Mr. Reynolds," I said, "and I'm better now, anyhow, thank you. Mr. Howell, may I speak to you for a moment?" He followed me along the back hall, which was dusk. "I have remembered something that I had forgotten, Mr. Howell," I said. "On Sunday morning, the Ladleys had a visitor." "Yes?" "They had very few visitors." "I see." "I did not see him, but--I heard his voice." Mr. Howell did not move, but I fancied he drew his breath in quickly. "It sounded--it was not by any chance _you_?" "I? A newspaper man, who goes to bed at three A.M. on Sunday morning, up and about at ten!" "I didn't say what time it was," I said sharply. But at that moment Lida called from the front hall. "I think I hear Peter," she said. "He is shut in somewhere, whining." We went forward at once. She was right. Peter was scratching at the door of Mr. Ladley's room, although I had left the door closed and Peter in the hall. I let him out, and he crawled to me on three legs, whimpering. Mr. Howell bent over him and felt the fourth. "Poor little beast!" he said. "His leg is broken!" He made a splint for the dog, and with Lida helping, they put him to bed in a clothes-basket in my up-stairs kitchen. It was easy to see how things lay with Mr. Howell. He was all eyes for her: he made excuses to touch her hand or her arm--little caressing touches that made her color heighten. And with it all, there was a sort of hopelessness in his manner, as if he knew how far the girl was out of his reach. Knowing Alma and her pride, I knew better than they how hopeless it was. I was not so sure about Lida. I wondered if she was in love with the boy, or only in love with love. She was very young, as I had been. God help her, if, like me, she sacrificed everything, to discover, too late, that she was only in love with love! CHAPTER V Mr. Reynolds did not come home to dinner after all. The water had got into the basement at the store, he telephoned, one of the flood-gates in a sewer having leaked, and they were moving some of the departments to an upper floor. I had expected to have him in the house that evening, and now I was left alone again. But, as it happened, I was not alone. Mr. Graves, one of the city detectives, came at half past six, and went carefully over the Ladleys' room. I showed him the towel and the slipper and the broken knife, and where we had found the knife-blade. He was very non-committal, and left in a half-hour, taking the articles with him in a newspaper. At seven the door-bell rang. I went down as far as I could on the staircase, and I saw a boat outside the door, with the boatman and a woman in it. I called to them to bring the boat back along the hall, and I had a queer feeling that it might be Mrs. Ladley, and that I'd been making a fool of myself all day for nothing. But it was not Mrs. Ladley. "Is this number forty-two?" asked the woman, as the boat came back. "Yes." "Does Mr. Ladley live here?" "Yes. But he is not here now." "Are you Mrs. Pittock?" "Pitman, yes." The boat bumped against the stairs, and the woman got out. She was as tall as Mrs. Ladley, and when I saw her in the light from the upper hall, I knew her instantly. It was Temple Hope, the leading woman from the Liberty Theater. "I would like to talk to you, Mrs. Pitman," she said. "Where can we go?" I led the way back to my room, and when she had followed me in, she turned and shut the door. "Now then," she said without any preliminary, "where is Jennie Brice?" "I don't know, Miss Hope," I answered. We looked at each other for a minute, and each of us saw what the other suspected. "He has killed her!" she exclaimed. "She was afraid he would do it, and--he has." "Killed her and thrown her into the river," I said. "That's what I think, and he'll go free at that. It seems there isn't any murder when there isn't any corpse." "Nonsense! If he has done that, the river will give her up, eventually." "The river doesn't always give them up," I retorted. "Not in flood-time, anyhow. Or when they are found it is months later, and you can't prove anything." She had only a little time, being due at the theater soon, but she sat down and told me the story she told afterward on the stand: She had known Jennie Brice for years, they having been together in the chorus as long before as _Nadjy_. "She was married then to a fellow on the vaudeville circuit," Miss Hope said. "He left her about that time, and she took up with Ladley. I don't think they were ever married." "What!" I said, jumping to my feet, "and they came to a respectable house like this! There's never been a breath of scandal about this house, Miss Hope, and if this comes out I'm ruined." "Well, perhaps they were married," she said. "Anyhow, they were always quarreling. And when he wasn't playing, it was worse. She used to come to my hotel, and cry her eyes out." "I knew you were friends," I said. "Almost the last thing she said to me was about the black and white dress of hers you were to borrow for the piece this week." "Black and white dress! I borrow one of Jennie Brice's dresses!" exclaimed Miss Hope. "I should think not. I have plenty of my own." That puzzled me; for she had said it, that was sure. And then I remembered that I had not seen the dress in the room that day, and I went in to look for it. It was gone. I came back and told Miss Hope. "A black and white dress! Did it have a red collar?" she asked. "Yes." "Then I remember it. She wore a small black hat with a red quill with that dress. You might look for the hat." She followed me back to the room and stood in the doorway while I searched. The hat was gone, too. "Perhaps, after all, he's telling the truth," she said thoughtfully. "Her fur coat isn't in the closet, is it?" _It_ was gone. It is strange that, all day, I had never thought of looking over her clothes and seeing what was missing. I hadn't known all she had, of course, but I had seen her all winter in her fur coat and admired it. It was a striped fur, brown and gray, and very unusual. But with the coat missing, and a dress and hat gone, it began to look as if I had been making a fool of myself, and stirring up a tempest in a teacup. Miss Hope was as puzzled as I was. "Anyhow, if he didn't kill her," she said, "it isn't because he did not want to. Only last week she had hysterics in my dressing-room, and said he had threatened to poison her. It was all Mr. Bronson, the business manager, and I could do to quiet her." She looked at her watch, and exclaimed that she was late, and would have to hurry. I saw her down to her boat. The river had been falling rapidly for the last hour or two, and I heard the boat scrape as it went over the door-sill. I did not know whether to be glad that the water was going down and I could live like a Christian again, or to be sorry, for fear of what we might find in the mud that was always left. Peter was lying where I had put him, on a folded blanket laid in a clothes-basket. I went back to him, and sat down beside the basket. "Peter!" I said. "Poor old Peter! Who did this to you? Who hurt you?" He looked at me and whined, as if he wanted to tell me, if only he could. "Was it Mr. Ladley?" I asked, and the poor thing cowered close to his bed and shivered. I wondered if it had been he, and, if it had, why he had come back. Perhaps he had remembered the towel. Perhaps he would come again and spend the night there. I was like Peter: I cowered and shivered at the very thought. At nine o'clock I heard a boat at the door. It had stuck there, and its occupant was scolding furiously at the boatman. Soon after I heard splashing, and I knew that whoever it was was wading back to the stairs through the foot and a half or so of water still in the hall. I ran back to my room and locked myself in, and then stood, armed with the stove-lid-lifter, in case it should be Ladley and he should break the door in. The steps came up the stairs, and Peter barked furiously. It seemed to me that this was to be my end, killed like a rat in a trap and thrown out the window, to float, like my kitchen chair, into Mollie Maguire's kitchen, or to be found lying in the ooze of the yard after the river had gone down. The steps hesitated at the top of the stairs, and turned back along the hall. Peter redoubled his noise; he never barked for Mr. Reynolds or the Ladleys. I stood still, hardly able to breathe. The door was thin, and the lock loose: one good blow, and-- The door-knob turned, and I screamed. I recall that the light turned black, and that is all I _do_ remember, until I came to, a half-hour later, and saw Mr. Holcombe stooping over me. The door, with the lock broken, was standing open. I tried to move, and then I saw that my feet were propped up on the edge of Peter's basket. "Better leave them up." Mr. Holcombe said. "It sends the blood back to the head. Half the damfool people in the world stick a pillow under a fainting woman's shoulders. How are you now?" "All right," I said feebly. "I thought you were Mr. Ladley." He helped me up, and I sat in a chair and tried to keep my lips from shaking. And then I saw that Mr. Holcombe had brought a suit case with him, and had set it inside the door. "Ladley is safe, until he gets bail, anyhow," he said. "They picked him up as he was boarding a Pennsylvania train bound east." "For murder?" I asked. "As a suspicious character," he replied grimly. "That does as well as anything for a time." He sat down opposite me, and looked at me intently. "Mrs. Pitman," he said, "did you ever hear the story of the horse that wandered out of a village and could not be found?" I shook my head. "Well, the best wit of the village failed to locate the horse. But one day the village idiot walked into town, leading the missing animal by the bridle. When they asked him how he had done it, he said: 'Well, I just thought what I'd do if I was a horse, and then I went and did it.'" "I see," I said, humoring him. "You _don't_ see. Now, what are we trying to do?" "We're trying to find a body. Do you intend to become a corpse?" He leaned over and tapped on the table between us. "We are trying to prove a crime. I intend for the time to be the criminal." He looked so curious, bent forward and glaring at me from under his bushy eyebrows, with his shoes on his knee--for he had taken them off to wade to the stairs--and his trousers rolled to his knees, that I wondered if he was entirely sane. But Mr. Holcombe, eccentric as he might be, was sane enough. "Not _really_ a criminal!" "As really as lies in me. Listen, Mrs. Pitman. I want to put myself in Ladley's place for a day or two, live as he lived, do what he did, even think as he thought, if I can. I am going to sleep in his room to-night, with your permission." I could not see any reason for objecting, although I thought it silly and useless. I led the way to the front room, Mr. Holcombe following with his shoes and suit case. I lighted a lamp, and he stood looking around him. "I see you have been here since we left this afternoon," he said. "Twice," I replied. "First with Mr. Graves, and later--" The words died on my tongue. Some one had been in the room since my last visit there. "He has been here!" I gasped. "I left the room in tolerable order. Look at it!" "When were you here last?" "At seven-thirty, or thereabouts." "Where were you between seven-thirty and eight-thirty?" "In the kitchen with Peter." I told him then about the dog, and about finding him shut in the room. The wash-stand was pulled out. The sheets of Mr. Ladley's manuscript, usually an orderly pile, were half on the floor. The bed coverings had been jerked off and flung over the back of a chair. Peter, imprisoned, _might_ have moved the wash-stand and upset the manuscript--Peter had never put the bed-clothing over the chair, or broken his own leg. "Humph!" he said, and getting out his note-book, he made an exact memorandum of what I had told him, and of the condition of the room. That done, he turned to me. "Mrs. Pitman," he said, "I'll thank you to call me Mr. Ladley for the next day or so. I am an actor out of employment, forty-one years of age, short, stout, and bald, married to a woman I would like to be quit of, and I am writing myself a play in which the Shuberts intend to star me, or in which I intend the Shuberts to star me." "Very well, Mr. Ladley," I said, trying to enter into the spirit of the thing, and, God knows, seeing no humor in it. "Then you'll like your soda from the ice-box?" "Soda? For what?" "For your whisky and soda, before you go to bed, sir." "Oh, certainly, yes. Bring the soda. And--just a moment, Mrs. Pitman: Mr. Holcombe is a total abstainer, and has always been so. It is Ladley, not Holcombe, who takes this abominable stuff." I said I quite understood, but that Mr. Ladley could skip a night, if he so wished. But the little gentleman would not hear to it, and when I brought the soda, poured himself a double portion. He stood looking at it, with his face screwed up, as if the very odor revolted him. "The chances are," he said, "that Ladley--that I--having a nasty piece of work to do during the night, would--will take a larger drink than usual." He raised the glass, only to put it down. "Don't forget," he said, "to put a large knife where you left the one last night. I'm sorry the water has gone down, but I shall imagine it still at the seventh step. Good night, Mrs. Pitman." "Good night, Mr. Ladley," I said, smiling, "and remember, you are three weeks in arrears with your board." His eyes twinkled through his spectacles. "I shall imagine it paid," he said. I went out, and I heard him close the door behind me. Then, through the door, I heard a great sputtering and coughing, and I knew he had got the whisky down somehow. I put the knife out, as he had asked me to, and went to bed. I was ready to drop. Not even the knowledge that an imaginary Mr. Ladley was about to commit an imaginary crime in the house that night could keep me awake. Mr. Reynolds came in at eleven o'clock. I was roused when he banged his door. That was all I knew until morning. The sun on my face wakened me. Peter, in his basket, lifted his head as I moved, and thumped his tail against his pillow in greeting. I put on a wrapper, and called Mr. Reynolds by knocking at his door. Then I went on to the front room. The door was closed, and some one beyond was groaning. My heart stood still, and then raced on. I opened the door and looked in. Mr. Holcombe was on the bed, fully dressed. He had a wet towel tied around his head, and his face looked swollen and puffy. He opened one eye and looked at me. "What a night!" he groaned. "What happened! What did you find?" He groaned again. "Find!" he said. "Nothing, except that there was something wrong with that whisky. It poisoned me. I haven't been out of the house!" So for that day, at least, Mr. Ladley became Mr. Holcombe again, and as such accepted ice in quantities, a mustard plaster over his stomach, and considerable nursing. By evening he was better, but although he clearly intended to stay on, he said nothing about changing his identity again, and I was glad enough. The very name of Ladley was horrible to me. The river went down almost entirely that day, although there was still considerable water in the cellars. It takes time to get rid of that. The lower floors showed nothing suspicious. The papers were ruined, of course, the doors warped and sprung, and the floors coated with mud and debris. Terry came in the afternoon, and together we hung the dining-room rug out to dry in the sun. As I was coming in, I looked over at the Maguire yard. Molly Maguire was there, and all her children around her, gaping. Molly was hanging out to dry a sodden fur coat, that had once been striped, brown and gray. I went over after breakfast and claimed the coat as belonging to Mrs. Ladley. But she refused to give it up. There is a sort of unwritten law concerning the salvage of flood articles, and I had to leave the coat, as I had my kitchen chair. But it was Mrs. Ladley's, beyond a doubt. I shuddered when I thought how it had probably got into the water. And yet it was curious, too, for if she had had it on, how did it get loose to go floating around Molly Maguire's yard? And if she had not worn it, how did it get in the water? CHAPTER VI The newspapers were full of the Ladley case, with its curious solution and many surprises. It was considered unique in many ways. Mr. Pitman had always read all the murder trials, and used to talk about the _corpus delicti_ and writs of _habeas corpus_--_corpus_ being the legal way, I believe, of spelling corpse. But I came out of the Ladley trial--for it came to trial ultimately--with only one point of law that I was sure of: that was, that it is mighty hard to prove a man a murderer unless you can show what he killed. And that was the weakness in the Ladley case. There was a body, but it could not be identified. The police held Mr. Ladley for a day or two, and then, nothing appearing, they let him go. Mr. Holcombe, who was still occupying the second floor front, almost wept with rage and despair when he read the news in the papers. He was still working on the case, in his curious way, wandering along the wharves at night, and writing letters all over the country to learn about Philip Ladley's previous life, and his wife's. But he did not seem to get anywhere. The newspapers had been full of the Jennie Brice disappearance. For disappearance it proved to be. So far as could be learned, she had not left the city that night, or since, and as she was a striking-looking woman, very blond, as I have said, with a full voice and a languid manner, she could hardly have taken refuge anywhere without being discovered. The morning after her disappearance a young woman, tall like Jennie Brice and fair, had been seen in the Union Station. But as she was accompanied by a young man, who bought her magazines and papers, and bade her an excited farewell, sending his love to various members of a family, and promising to feed the canary, this was not seriously considered. A sort of general alarm went over the country. When she was younger she had been pretty well known at the Broadway theaters in New York. One way or another, the Liberty Theater got a lot of free advertising from the case, and I believe Miss Hope's salary was raised. The police communicated with Jennie Brice's people--she had a sister in Olean, New York, but she had not heard from her. The sister wrote--I heard later--that Jennie had been unhappy with Philip Ladley, and afraid he would kill her. And Miss Hope told the same story. But--there was no _corpus_, as the lawyers say, and finally the police had to free Mr. Ladley. Beyond making an attempt to get bail, and failing, he had done nothing. Asked about his wife, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said she had left him, and would turn up all right. He was unconcerned: smoked cigarettes all day, ate and slept well, and looked better since he had had nothing to drink. And two or three days after the arrest, he sent for the manuscript of his play. Mr. Howell came for it on the Thursday of that week. I was on my knees scrubbing the parlor floor, when he rang the bell. I let him in, and it seemed to me that he looked tired and pale. "Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, smiling, "what did you find in the cellar when the water went down?" "I'm glad to say that I didn't find what I feared, Mr. Howell." "Not even the onyx clock?" "Not even the clock," I replied. "And I feel as if I'd lost a friend. A clock is a lot of company." "Do you know what I think?" he said, looking at me closely. "I think you put that clock away yourself, in the excitement, and have forgotten all about it." "Nonsense." "Think hard." He was very much in earnest. "You knew the water was rising and the Ladleys would have to be moved up to the second floor front, where the clock stood. You went in there and looked around to see if the room was ready, and you saw the clock. And knowing that the Ladleys quarreled now and then, and were apt to throw things--" "Nothing but a soap-dish, and that only once." "--you took the clock to the attic and put it, say, in an old trunk." "I did nothing of the sort. I went in, as you say, and I put up an old splasher, because of the way he throws ink about. Then I wound the clock, put the key under it, and went out." "And the key is gone, too!" he said thoughtfully. "I wish I could find that clock, Mrs. Pitman." "So do I." "Ladley went out Sunday afternoon about three, didn't he--and got back at five?" I turned and looked at him. "Yes, Mr. Howell," I said. "Perhaps _you_ know something about that." "I?" He changed color. Twenty years of dunning boarders has made me pretty sharp at reading faces, and he looked as uncomfortable as if he owed me money. "I!" I knew then that I had been right about the voice. It had been his. "You!" I retorted. "You were here Sunday morning and spent some time with the Ladleys. I am the old she-devil. I notice you didn't tell your friend, Mr. Holcombe, about having been here on Sunday." He was quick to recover. "I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Pitman," he said smilingly. "You see, all my life, I have wished for an onyx clock. It has been my ambition, my _Great Desire_. Leaving the house that Sunday morning, and hearing the ticking of the clock up-stairs, I recognized that it was an _onyx_ clock, clambered from my boat through an upper window, and so reached it. The clock showed fight, but after stunning it with a chair--" "Exactly!" I said. "Then the thing Mrs. Ladley said she would not do was probably to wind the clock?" He dropped his bantering manner at once. "Mrs. Pitman," he said, "I don't know what you heard or did not hear. But I want you to give me a little time before you tell anybody that I was here that Sunday morning. And, in return, I'll find your clock." I hesitated, but however put out he was, he didn't look like a criminal. Besides, he was a friend of my niece's, and blood is thicker even than flood-water. "There was nothing wrong about my being here," he went on, "but--I don't want it known. Don't spoil a good story, Mrs. Pitman." I did not quite understand that, although those who followed the trial carefully may do so. Poor Mr. Howell! I am sure he believed that it was only a good story. He got the description of my onyx clock and wrote it down, and I gave him the manuscript for Mr. Ladley. That was the last I saw of him for some time. That Thursday proved to be an exciting day. For late in the afternoon Terry, digging the mud out of the cellar, came across my missing gray false front near the coal vault, and brought it up, grinning. And just before six, Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let himself in. I found him in the lower hall, looking around. "Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "has our friend come back yet?" "She was no friend of mine." "Not _she_. Ladley. He'll be out this evening, and he'll probably be around for his clothes." I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of. "He may want to stay here," said Mr. Graves. "In fact, I think that's just what he _will_ want." "Not here," I protested. "The very thought of him makes me quake." "If he comes here, better take him in. I want to know where he is." I tried to say that I wouldn't have him, but the old habit of the ward asserted itself. From taking a bottle of beer or a slice of pie, to telling one where one might or might not live, the police were autocrats in that neighborhood. And, respectable woman that I am, my neighbors' fears of the front office have infected me. "All right, Mr. Graves," I said. He pushed the parlor door open and looked in, whistling. "This is the place, isn't it?" "Yes. But it was up-stairs that he--" "I see. Tall woman, Mrs. Ladley?" "Tall and blond. Very airy in her manner." He nodded and still stood looking in and whistling. "Never heard her speak of a town named Horner, did you?" "Horner? No." "I see." He turned and wandered out again into the hall, still whistling. At the door, however, he stopped and turned. "Look anything like this?" he asked, and held out one of his hands, with a small kodak picture on the palm. It was a snap-shot of a children's frolic in a village street, with some onlookers in the background. Around one of the heads had been drawn a circle in pencil. I took it to the gas-jet and looked at it closely. It was a tall woman with a hat on, not unlike Jennie Brice. She was looking over the crowd, and I could see only her face, and that in shadow. I shook my head. "I thought not," he said. "We have a lot of stage pictures of her, but what with false hair and their being retouched beyond recognition, they don't amount to much." He started out, and stopped on the door-step to light a cigar. "Take him on if he comes," he said. "And keep your eyes open. Feed him well, and he won't kill you!" I had plenty to think of when I was cooking Mr. Reynolds' supper: the chance that I might have Mr. Ladley again, and the woman at Horner. For it had come to me like a flash, as Mr. Graves left, that the "Horn--" on the paper slip might have been "Horner." CHAPTER VII After all, there was nothing sensational about Mr. Ladley's return. He came at eight o'clock that night, fresh-shaved and with his hair cut, and, although he had a latch-key, he rang the door-bell. I knew his ring, and I thought it no harm to carry an old razor of Mr. Pitman's with the blade open and folded back on the handle, the way the colored people use them, in my left hand. But I saw at once that he meant no mischief. "Good evening," he said, and put out his hand. I jumped back, until I saw there was nothing in it and that he only meant to shake hands. I didn't do it; I might have to take him in, and make his bed, and cook his meals, but I did not have to shake hands with him. "You, too!" he said, looking at me with what I suppose he meant to be a reproachful look. But he could no more put an expression of that sort in his eyes than a fish could. "I suppose, then, there is no use asking if I may have my old room? The front room. I won't need two." I didn't want him, and he must have seen it. But I took him. "You may have it, as far as I'm concerned," I said. "But you'll have to let the paper-hanger in to-morrow." "Assuredly." He came into the hall and stood looking around him, and I fancied he drew a breath of relief. "It isn't much yet," he said, "but it's better to look at than six feet of muddy water." "Or than stone walls," I said. He looked at me and smiled. "Or than stone walls," he repeated, bowing, and went into his room. So I had him again, and if I gave him only the dull knives, and locked up the bread-knife the moment I had finished with it, who can blame me? I took all the precaution I could think of: had Terry put an extra bolt on every door, and hid the rat poison and the carbolic acid in the cellar. Peter would not go near him. He hobbled around on his three legs, with the splint beating a sort of tattoo on the floor, but he stayed back in the kitchen with me, or in the yard. It was Sunday night or early Monday morning that Jennie Brice disappeared. On Thursday evening, her husband came back. On Friday the body of a woman was washed ashore at Beaver, but turned out to be that of a stewardess who had fallen overboard from one of the Cincinnati packets. Mr. Ladley himself showed me the article in the morning paper, when I took in his breakfast. "Public hysteria has killed a man before this," he said, when I had read it. "Suppose that woman had been mangled, or the screw of the steamer had cut her head off! How many people do you suppose would have been willing to swear that it was my--was Mrs. Ladley?" "Even without a head, I should know Mrs. Ladley," I retorted. He shrugged his shoulders. "Let's trust she's still alive, for my sake," he said. "But I'm glad, anyhow, that this woman had a head. You'll allow me to be glad, won't you?" "You can be anything you want, as far as I'm concerned," I snapped, and went out. Mr. Holcombe still retained the second-story front room. I think, although he said nothing more about it, that he was still "playing horse." He wrote a good bit at the wash-stand, and, from the loose sheets of manuscript he left, I believe actually tried to begin a play. But mostly he wandered along the water-front, or stood on one or another of the bridges, looking at the water and thinking. It is certain that he tried to keep in the part by smoking cigarettes, but he hated them, and usually ended by throwing the cigarette away and lighting an old pipe he carried. On that Thursday evening he came home and sat down to supper with Mr. Reynolds. He ate little and seemed much excited. The talk ran on crime, as it always did when he was around, and Mr. Holcombe quoted Spencer a great deal--Herbert Spencer. Mr. Reynolds was impressed, not knowing much beyond silks and the National League. "Spencer," Mr. Holcombe would say--"Spencer shows that every occurrence is the inevitable result of what has gone before, and carries in its train an equally inevitable series of results. Try to interrupt this chain in the smallest degree, and what follows? Chaos, my dear sir, chaos." "We see that at the store," Mr. Reynolds would say. "Accustom a lot of women to a silk sale on Fridays and then make it toothbrushes. That's chaos, all right." Well, Mr. Holcombe came in that night about ten o'clock, and I told him Ladley was back. He was almost wild with excitement; wanted to have the back parlor, so he could watch him through the keyhole, and was terribly upset when I told him there was no keyhole, that the door fastened with a thumb bolt. On learning that the room was to be papered the next morning, he grew calmer, however, and got the paper-hanger's address from me. He went out just after that. Friday, as I say, was very quiet. Mr. Ladley moved to the back parlor to let the paper-hanger in the front room, smoked and fussed with his papers all day, and Mr. Holcombe stayed in his room, which was unusual. In the afternoon Molly Maguire put on the striped fur coat and went out, going slowly past the house so that I would be sure to see her. Beyond banging the window down, I gave her no satisfaction. At four o'clock Mr. Holcombe came to my kitchen, rubbing his hands together. He had a pasteboard tube in his hand about a foot long, with an arrangement of small mirrors in it. He said it was modeled after the something or other that is used on a submarine, and that he and the paper-hanger had fixed a place for it between his floor and the ceiling of Mr. Ladley's room, so that the chandelier would hide it from below. He thought he could watch Mr. Ladley through it; and as it turned out, he could. "I want to find his weak moment," he said excitedly. "I want to know what he does when the door is closed and he can take off his mask. And I want to know if he sleeps with a light." "If he does," I replied, "I hope you'll let me know, Mr. Holcombe. The gas bills are a horror to me as it is. I think he kept it on all last night. I turned off all the other lights and went to the cellar. The meter was going around." "Fine!" he said. "Every murderer fears the dark. And our friend of the parlor bedroom is a murderer, Mrs. Pitman. Whether he hangs or not, he's a murderer." The mirror affair, which Mr. Holcombe called a periscope, was put in that day and worked amazingly well. I went with him to try it out, and I distinctly saw the paper-hanger take a cigarette from Mr. Ladley's case and put it in his pocket. Just after that, Mr. Ladley sauntered into the room and looked at the new paper. I could both see and hear him. It was rather weird. "God, what a wall-paper!" he said. CHAPTER VIII That was Friday afternoon. All that evening, and most of Saturday and Sunday, Mr. Holcombe sat on the floor, with his eye to the reflecting mirror and his note-book beside him. I have it before me. On the first page is the "dog meat--two dollars" entry. On the next, the description of what occurred on Sunday night, March fourth, and Monday morning, the fifth. Following that came a sketch, made with a carbon sheet, of the torn paper found behind the wash-stand: And then came the entries for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Friday evening: 6:30--Eating hearty supper. 7:00--Lights cigarette and paces floor. Notice that when Mrs. P. knocks, he goes to desk and pretends to be writing. 8:00--Is examining book. Looks like a railway guide. 8:30--It is a steamship guide. 8:45--Tailor's boy brings box. Gives boy fifty cents. Query. Where does he get money, now that J.B. is gone? 9:00--Tries on new suit, brown. 9:30--Has been spending a quarter of an hour on his knees looking behind furniture and examining base-board. 10:00--He has the key to the onyx clock. Has hidden it twice, once up the chimney flue, once behind base-board. 10:15--He has just thrown key or similar small article outside window into yard. 11:00--Has gone to bed. Light burning. Shall sleep here on floor. 11:30--He can not sleep. Is up walking the floor and smoking. 2:00 A.M.--Saturday. Disturbance below. He had had nightmare and was calling "Jennie!" He got up, took a drink, and is now reading. 8:00 A.M.--Must have slept. He is shaving. 12:00 M.--Nothing this morning. He wrote for four hours, sometimes reading aloud what he had written. 2:00 P.M.--He has a visitor, a man. Can not hear all--word now and then. "Llewellyn is the very man." "Devil of a risk--" "We'll see you through." "Lost the slip--" "Didn't go to the hotel. She went to a private house." "Eliza Shaeffer." Who went to a private house? Jennie Brice? 2:30--Can not hear. Are whispering. The visitor has given Ladley roll of bills. 4:00--Followed the visitor, a tall man with a pointed beard. He went to the Liberty Theater. Found it was Bronson, business manager there. Who is Llewellyn, and who is Eliza Shaeffer? 4:15--Had Mrs. P. bring telephone book: six Llewellyns in the book; no Eliza Shaeffer. Ladley appears more cheerful since Bronson's visit. He has bought all the evening papers and is searching for something. Has not found it. 7:00--Ate well. Have asked Mrs. P. to take my place here, while I interview the six Llewellyns. 11:00--Mrs. P. reports a quiet evening. He read and smoked. Has gone to bed. Light burning. Saw five Llewellyns. None of them knew Bronson or Ladley. Sixth--a lawyer--out at revival meeting. Went to the church and walked home with him. He knows something. Acknowledged he knew Bronson. Had met Ladley. Did not believe Mrs. Ladley dead. Regretted I had not been to the meeting. Good sermon. Asked me for a dollar for missions. 9:00 A.M.--Sunday. Ladley in bad shape. Apparently been drinking all night. Can not eat. Sent out early for papers, and has searched them all. Found entry on second page, stared at it, then flung the paper away. Have sent out for same paper. 10:00 A.M.--Paper says: "Body of woman washed ashore yesterday at Sewickley. Much mutilated by flood débris." Ladley in bed, staring at ceiling. Wonder if he sees tube? He is ghastly. That is the last entry in the note-book for that day. Mr. Holcombe called me in great excitement shortly after ten and showed me the item. Neither of us doubted for a moment that it was Jennie Brice who had been found. He started for Sewickley that same afternoon, and he probably communicated with the police before he left. For once or twice I saw Mr. Graves, the detective, sauntering past the house. Mr. Ladley ate no dinner. He went out at four, and I had Mr. Reynolds follow him. But they were both back in a half-hour. Mr. Reynolds reported that Mr. Ladley had bought some headache tablets and some bromide powders to make him sleep. Mr. Holcombe came back that evening. He thought the body was that of Jennie Brice, but the head was gone. He was much depressed, and did not immediately go back to the periscope. I asked if the head had been cut off or taken off by a steamer; he was afraid the latter, as a hand was gone, too. It was about eleven o'clock that night that the door-bell rang. It was Mr. Graves, with a small man behind him. I knew the man; he lived in a shanty-boat not far from my house--a curious affair with shelves full of dishes and tinware. In the spring he would be towed up the Monongahela a hundred miles or so and float down, tying up at different landings and selling his wares. Timothy Senft was his name. We called him Tim. Mr. Graves motioned me to be quiet. Both of us knew that behind the parlor door Ladley was probably listening. "Sorry to get you up, Mrs. Pitman," said Mr. Graves, "but this man says he has bought beer here to-day. That won't do, Mrs. Pitman." "Beer! I haven't such a thing in the house. Come in and look," I snapped. And the two of them went back to the kitchen. "Now," said Mr. Graves, when I had shut the door, "where's the dog's-meat man?" "Up-stairs." "Bring him quietly." I called Mr. Holcombe, and he came eagerly, note-book and all. "Ah!" he said, when he saw Tim. "So you've turned up!" "Yes, sir." "It seems, Mr. Dog's--Mr. Holcombe," said Mr. Graves, "that you are right, partly, anyhow. Tim here _did_ help a man with a boat that night--" "Threw him a rope, sir," Tim broke in. "He'd got out in the current, and what with the ice, and his not knowing much about a boat, he'd have kept on to New Orleans if I hadn't caught him--or Kingdom Come." "Exactly. And what time did you say this was?" "Between three and four last Sunday night--or Monday morning. He said he couldn't sleep and went out in a boat, meaning to keep in close to shore. But he got drawn out in the current." "Where did you see him first?" "By the Ninth Street bridge." "Did you hail him?" "He saw my light and hailed me. I was making fast to a coal barge after one of my ropes had busted." "You threw the line to him there?" "No, sir. He tried to work in to shore. I ran along River Avenue to below the Sixth Street bridge. He got pretty close in there and I threw him a rope. He was about done up." "Would you know him again?" "Yes, sir. He gave me five dollars, and said to say nothing about it. He didn't want anybody to know he had been such a fool." They took him quietly up stairs then and let him look through the periscope. _He identified Mr. Ladley absolutely_. When Tim and Mr. Graves had gone, Mr. Holcombe and I were left alone in the kitchen. Mr. Holcombe leaned over and patted Peter as he lay in his basket. "We've got him, old boy," he said. "The chain is just about complete. He'll never kick you again." But Mr. Holcombe was wrong, not about kicking Peter,--although I don't believe Mr. Ladley ever did that again,--but in thinking we had him. I washed that next morning, Monday, but all the time I was rubbing and starching and hanging out, my mind was with Jennie Brice. The sight of Molly Maguire, next door, at the window, rubbing and brushing at the fur coat, only made things worse. At noon when the Maguire youngsters came home from school, I bribed Tommy, the youngest, into the kitchen, with the promise of a doughnut. "I see your mother has a new fur coat," I said, with the plate of doughnuts just beyond his reach. "Yes'm." "She didn't buy it?" "She didn't buy it. Say, Mrs. Pitman, gimme that doughnut." "Oh, so the coat washed in!" "No'm. Pap found it, down by the Point, on a cake of ice. He thought it was a dog, and rowed out for it." Well, I hadn't wanted the coat, as far as that goes; I'd managed well enough without furs for twenty years or more. But it was a satisfaction to know that it had not floated into Mrs. Maguire's kitchen and spread itself at her feet, as one may say. However, that was not the question, after all. The real issue was that if it was Jennie Brice's coat, and was found across the river on a cake of ice, then one of two things was certain: either Jennie Brice's body wrapped in the coat had been thrown into the water, out in the current, or she herself, hoping to incriminate her husband, had flung her coat into the river. I told Mr. Holcombe, and he interviewed Joe Maguire that afternoon. The upshot of it was that Tommy had been correctly informed. Joe had witnesses who had lined up to see him rescue a dog, and had beheld his return in triumph with a wet and soggy fur coat. At three o'clock Mrs. Maguire, instructed by Mr. Graves, brought the coat to me for identification, turning it about for my inspection, but refusing to take her hands off it. "If her husband says to me that he wants it back, well and good," she said, "but I don't give it up to nobody but him. Some folks I know of would be glad enough to have it." I was certain it was Jennie Brice's coat, but the maker's name had been ripped out. With Molly holding one arm and I the other, we took it to Mr. Ladley's door and knocked. He opened it, grumbling. "I have asked you not to interrupt me," he said, with his pen in his hand. His eyes fell on the coat. "What's that?" he asked, changing color. "I think it's Mrs. Ladley's fur coat," I said. He stood there looking at it and thinking. Then: "It can't be hers," he said. "She wore hers when she went away." "Perhaps she dropped it in the water." He looked at me and smiled. "And why would she do that?" he asked mockingly. "Was it out of fashion?" "That's Mrs. Ladley's coat," I persisted, but Molly Maguire jerked it from me and started away. He stood there looking at me and smiling in his nasty way. "This excitement is telling on you, Mrs. Pitman," he said coolly. "You're too emotional for detective work." Then he went in and shut the door. When I went down-stairs, Molly Maguire was waiting in the kitchen, and had the audacity to ask me if I thought the coat needed a new lining! It was on Monday evening that the strangest event in years happened to me. I went to my sister's house! And the fact that I was admitted at a side entrance made it even stranger. It happened in this way: Supper was over, and I was cleaning up, when an automobile came to the door. It was Alma's car. The chauffeur gave me a note: "DEAR MRS PITMAN--I am not at all well, and very anxious. Will you come to see me at once? My mother is out to dinner, and I am alone. The car will bring you. Cordially, "LIDA HARVEY." I put on my best dress at once and got into the limousine. Half the neighborhood was out watching. I leaned back in the upholstered seat, fairly quivering with excitement. This was Alma's car; that was Alma's card-case; the little clock had her monogram on it. Even the flowers in the flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded me of Alma--a trifle showy, but good to look at! And I was going to her house! I was not taken to the main entrance, but to a side door. The queer dream-like feeling was still there. In this back hall, relegated from the more conspicuous part of the house, there were even pieces of furniture from the old home, and my father's picture, in an oval gilt frame, hung over my head. I had not seen a picture of him for twenty years. I went over and touched it gently. "Father, father!" I said. Under it was the tall hall chair that I had climbed over as a child, and had stood on many times, to see myself in the mirror above. The chair was newly finished and looked the better for its age. I glanced in the old glass. The chair had stood time better than I. I was a middle-aged woman, lined with poverty and care, shabby, prematurely gray, a little hard. I had thought my father an old man when that picture was taken, and now I was even older. "Father!" I whispered again, and fell to crying in the dimly lighted hall. Lida sent for me at once. I had only time to dry my eyes and straighten my hat. Had I met Alma on the stairs, I would have passed her without a word. She would not have known me. But I saw no one. Lida was in bed. She was lying there with a rose-shaded lamp beside her, and a great bowl of spring flowers on a little stand at her elbow. She sat up when I went in, and had a maid place a chair for me beside the bed. She looked very childish, with her hair in a braid on the pillow, and her slim young arms and throat bare. "I'm so glad you came!" she said, and would not be satisfied until the light was just right for my eyes, and my coat unfastened and thrown open. "I'm not really ill," she informed me. "I'm--I'm just tired and nervous, and--and unhappy, Mrs. Pitman." "I am sorry," I said. I wanted to lean over and pat her hand, to draw the covers around her and mother her a little,--I had had no one to mother for so long,--but I could not. She would have thought it queer and presumptuous--or no, not that. She was too sweet to have thought that. "Mrs. Pitman," she said suddenly, "_who was_ this Jennie Brice?" "She was an actress. She and her husband lived at my house." "Was she--was she beautiful?" "Well," I said slowly, "I never thought of that. She was handsome, in a large way." "Was she young?" "Yes. Twenty-eight or so." "That isn't very young," she said, looking relieved. "But I don't think men like very young women. Do you?" "I know one who does," I said, smiling. But she sat up in bed suddenly and looked at me with her clear childish eyes. "I don't want him to like me!" she flashed. "I--I want him to hate me." "Tut, tut! You want nothing of the sort." "Mrs. Pitman," she said, "I sent for you because I'm nearly crazy. Mr. Howell was a friend of that woman. He has acted like a maniac since she disappeared. He doesn't come to see me, he has given up his work on the paper, and I saw him to-day on the street--he looks like a ghost." That put me to thinking. "He might have been a friend," I admitted. "Although, as far as I know, he was never at the house but once, and then he saw both of them." "When was that?" "Sunday morning, the day before she disappeared. They were arguing something." She was looking at me attentively. "You know more than you are telling me, Mrs. Pitman," she said. "You--do you think Jennie Brice is dead, and that Mr. Howell knows--who did it?" "I think she is dead, and I think possibly Mr. Howell suspects who did it. He does not _know_, or he would have told the police." "You do not think he was--was in love with Jennie Brice, do you?" "I'm certain of that," I said. "He is very much in love with a foolish girl, who ought to have more faith in him than she has." [Illustration: She sat up in bed suddenly.] She colored a little, and smiled at that, but the next moment she was sitting forward, tense and questioning again. "If that is true, Mrs. Pitman," she said, "who was the veiled woman he met that Monday morning at daylight, and took across the bridge to Pittsburgh? I believe it was Jennie Brice. If it was not, who was it?" "I don't believe he took any woman across the bridge at that hour. Who says he did?" "Uncle Jim saw him. He had been playing cards all night at one of the clubs, and was walking home. He says he met Mr. Howell face to face, and spoke to him. The woman was tall and veiled. Uncle Jim sent for him, a day or two later, and he refused to explain. Then they forbade him the house. Mama objected to him, anyhow, and he only came on sufferance. He is a college man of good family, but without any money at all save what he earns.. And now--" I had had some young newspaper men with me, and I knew what they got. They were nice boys, but they made fifteen dollars a week. I'm afraid I smiled a little as I looked around the room, with its gray grass-cloth walls, its toilet-table spread with ivory and gold, and the maid in attendance in her black dress and white apron, collar and cuffs. Even the little nightgown Lida was wearing would have taken a week's salary or more. She saw my smile. "It was to be his chance," she said. "If he made good, he was to have something better. My Uncle Jim owns the paper, and he promised me to help him. But--" So Jim was running a newspaper! That was a curious career for Jim to choose. Jim, who was twice expelled from school, and who could never write a letter without a dictionary beside him! I had a pang when I heard his name again, after all the years. For I had written to Jim from Oklahoma, after Mr. Pitman died, asking for money to bury him, and had never even had a reply. "And you haven't seen him since?" "Once. I--didn't hear from him, and I called him up. We--we met in the park. He said everything was all right, but he couldn't tell me just then. The next day he resigned from the paper and went away. Mrs. Pitman, it's driving me crazy! For they have found a body, and they think it is hers. If it is, and he was with her--" "Don't be a foolish girl," I protested. "If he was with Jennie Brice, she is still living, and if he was _not_ with Jennie Brice--" "If it was _not_ Jennie Brice, then I have a right to know who it was," she declared. "He was not like himself when I met him. He said such queer things: he talked about an onyx clock, and said he had been made a fool of, and that no matter what came out, I was always to remember that he had done what he did for the best, and that--that he cared for me more than for anything in this world or the next." "That wasn't so foolish!" I couldn't help it; I leaned over and drew her nightgown up over her bare white shoulder. "You won't help anything or anybody by taking cold, my dear," I said. "Call your maid and have her put a dressing-gown around you." I left soon after. There was little I could do. But I comforted her as best I could, and said good night. My heart was heavy as I went down the stairs. For, twist things as I might, it was clear that in some way the Howell boy was mixed up in the Brice case. Poor little troubled Lida! Poor distracted boy! I had a curious experience down-stairs. I had reached the foot of the staircase and was turning to go back and along the hall to the side entrance, when I came face to face with Isaac, the old colored man who had driven the family carriage when I was a child, and whom I had seen, at intervals since I came back, pottering around Alma's house. The old man was bent and feeble; he came slowly down the hall, with a bunch of keys in his hand. I had seen him do the same thing many times. He stopped when he saw me, and I shrank back from the light, but he had seen me. "Miss Bess!" he said. "Foh Gawd's sake, Miss Bess!" "You are making a mistake, my friend," I said, quivering. "I am not 'Miss Bess'!" He came close to me and stared into my face. And from that he looked at my cloth gloves, at my coat, and he shook his white head. "I sure thought you was Miss Bess," he said, and made no further effort to detain me. He led the way back to the door where the machine waited, his head shaking with the palsy of age, muttering as he went. He opened the door with his best manner, and stood aside. "Good night, ma'am," he quavered. I had tears in my eyes. I tried to keep them back. "Good night," I said. "Good night, _Ikkie_." It had slipped out, my baby name for old Isaac! "Miss Bess!" he cried. "Oh, praise Gawd, it's Miss Bess again!" He caught my arm and pulled me back into the hall, and there he held me, crying over me, muttering praises for my return, begging me to come back, recalling little tender things out of the past that almost killed me to hear again. But I had made my bed and must lie in it. I forced him to swear silence about my visit; I made him promise not to reveal my identity to Lida; and I told him--Heaven forgive me!--that I was well and prosperous and happy. Dear old Isaac! I would not let him come to see me, but the next day there came a basket, with six bottles of wine, and an old daguerreotype of my mother, that had been his treasure. Nor was that basket the last. CHAPTER IX The coroner held an inquest over the headless body the next day, Tuesday. Mr. Graves telephoned me in the morning, and I went to the morgue with him. I do not like the morgue, although some of my neighbors pay it weekly visits. It is by way of excursion, like nickelodeons or watching the circus put up its tents. I have heard them threaten the children that if they misbehaved they would not be taken to the morgue that week! I failed to identify the body. How could I? It had been a tall woman, probably five feet eight, and I thought the nails looked like those of Jennie Brice. The thumb-nail of one was broken short off. I told Mr. Graves about her speaking of a broken nail, but he shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. There was a curious scar over the heart, and he was making a sketch of it. It reached from the center of the chest for about six inches across the left breast, a narrow thin line that one could hardly see. It was shaped like this: I felt sure that Jennie Brice had had no such scar, and Mr. Graves thought as I did. Temple Hope, called to the inquest, said she had never heard of one, and Mr. Ladley himself, at the inquest, swore that his wife had had nothing of the sort. I was watching him, and I did not think he was lying. And yet--the hand was very like Jennie Brice's. It was all bewildering. Mr. Ladley's testimoney at the inquest was disappointing. He was cool and collected: said he had no reason to believe that his wife was dead, and less reason to think she had been drowned; she had left him in a rage, and if she found out that by hiding she was putting him in an unpleasant position, she would probably hide indefinitely. To the disappointment of everybody, the identity of the woman remained a mystery. No one with such a scar was missing. A small woman of my own age, a Mrs. Murray, whose daughter, a stenographer, had disappeared, attended the inquest. But her daughter had had no such scar, and had worn her nails short, because of using the typewriter. Alice Murray was the missing girl's name. Her mother sat beside me, and cried most of the time. One thing was brought out at the inquest: the body had been thrown into the river _after_ death. There was no water in the lungs. The verdict was "death by the hands of some person or persons unknown." Mr. Holcombe was not satisfied. In some way or other he had got permission to attend the autopsy, and had brought away a tracing of the scar. All the way home in the street-car he stared at the drawing, holding first one eye shut and then the other. But, like the coroner, he got nowhere. He folded the paper and put it in his note-book. "None the less, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "that is the body of Jennie Brice; her husband killed her, probably by strangling her; he took the body out in the boat and dropped it into the swollen river above the Ninth Street bridge." "Why do you think he strangled her?" "There was no mark on the body, and no poison was found." "Then if he strangled her, where did the blood come from?" "I didn't limit myself to strangulation," he said irritably. "He may have cut her throat." "Or brained her with my onyx clock," I added with a sigh. For I missed the clock more and more. He went down in his pockets and brought up a key. "I'd forgotten this," he said. "It shows you were right--that the clock was there when the Ladleys took the room. I found this in the yard this morning." It was when I got home from the inquest that I found old Isaac's basket waiting. I am not a crying woman, but I could hardly see my mother's picture for tears.--Well, after all, that is not the Brice story. I am not writing the sordid tragedy of my life. That was on Tuesday. Jennie Brice had been missing nine days. In all that time, although she was cast for the piece at the theater that week, no one there had heard from her. Her relatives had had no word. She had gone away, if she had gone, on a cold March night, in a striped black and white dress with a red collar, and a red and black hat, without her fur coat, which she had worn all winter. She had gone very early in the morning, or during the night. How had she gone? Mr. Ladley said he had rowed her to Federal Street at half after six and had brought the boat back. After they had quarreled violently all night, and when she was leaving him, wouldn't he have allowed her to take herself away? Besides, the police had found no trace of her on an early train. And then at daylight, between five and six, my own brother had seen a woman with Mr. Howell, a woman who might have been Jennie Brice. But if it was, why did not Mr. Howell say so? Mr. Ladley claimed she was hiding, in revenge. But Jennie Brice was not that sort of woman; there was something big about her, something that is found often in large women--a lack of spite. She was not petty or malicious. Her faults, like her virtues, were for all to see. In spite of the failure to identify the body, Mr. Ladley was arrested that night, Tuesday, and this time it was for murder. I know now that the police were taking long chances. They had no strong motive for the crime. As Mr. Holcombe said, they had provocation, but not motive, which is different. They had opportunity, and they had a lot of straggling links of clues, which in the total made a fair chain of circumstantial evidence. But that was all. That is the way the case stood on Tuesday night, March the thirteenth. Mr. Ladley was taken away at nine o'clock. He was perfectly cool, asked me to help him pack a suit case, and whistled while it was being done. He requested to be allowed to walk to the jail, and went quietly, with a detective on one side and I think a sheriff's officer on the other. Just before he left, he asked for a word or two with me, and when he paid his bill up to date, and gave me an extra dollar for taking care of Peter, I was almost overcome. He took the manuscript of his play with him, and I remember his asking if he could have any typing done in the jail. I had never seen a man arrested for murder before, but I think he was probably the coolest suspect the officers had ever seen. They hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Reynolds and I had a cup of tea after all the excitement, and were sitting at the dining-room table drinking it, when the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell! He half staggered into the hall when I opened the door, and was for going into the parlor bedroom without a word. "Mr. Ladley's gone, if you want him," I said. I thought his face cleared. "Gone!" he said. "Where?" "To jail." He did not reply at once. He stood there, tapping the palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other. He was dirty and unshaven. His clothes looked as if he had been sleeping in them. "So they've got him!" he muttered finally, and turning, was about to go out the front door without another word, but I caught his arm. "You're sick, Mr. Howell," I said. "You'd better not go out just yet." "Oh, I'm all right." He took his handkerchief out and wiped his face. I saw that his hands were shaking. "Come back and have a cup of tea, and a slice of home-made bread." He hesitated and looked at his watch. "I'll do it, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "I suppose I'd better throw a little fuel into this engine of mine. It's been going hard for several days." He ate like a wolf. I cut half a loaf into slices for him, and he drank the rest of the tea. Mr. Reynolds creaked up to bed and left him still eating, and me still cutting and spreading. Now that I had a chance to see him, I was shocked. The rims of his eyes were red, his collar was black, and his hair hung over his forehead. But when he finally sat back and looked at me, his color was better. "So they've canned him!" he said. "Time enough, too," said I. He leaned forward and put both his elbows on the table. "Mrs. Pitman," he said earnestly, "I don't like him any more than you do. But he never killed that woman." "Somebody killed her." "How do you know? How do you know she is dead?" Well, I didn't, of course--I only felt it. "The police haven't even proved a crime. They can't hold a man for a supposititious murder." "Perhaps they can't but they're doing it," I retorted. "If the woman's alive, she won't let him hang." "I'm not so sure of that," he said heavily, and got up. He looked in the little mirror over the sideboard, and brushed back his hair. "I look bad enough," he said, "but I feel worse. Well, you've saved my life, Mrs. Pitman. Thank you." "How is my--how is Miss Harvey?" I asked, as we started out. He turned and smiled at me in his boyish way. "The best ever!" he said. "I haven't seen her for days, and it seems like centuries. She--she is the only girl in the world for me, Mrs. Pitman, although I--" He stopped and drew a long breath. "She is beautiful, isn't she?" "Very beautiful," I answered. "Her mother was always--" "Her mother!" He looked at me curiously. "I knew her mother years ago," I said, putting the best face on my mistake that I could. "Then I'll remember you to her, if she ever allows me to see her again. Just now I'm _persona non grata_." "If you'll do the kindly thing, Mr. Howell," I said, "you'll _forget_ me to her." He looked into my eyes and then thrust out his hand. "All right," he said. "I'll not ask any questions. I guess there are some curious stories hidden in these old houses." Peter hobbled to the front door with him. He had not gone so far as the parlor once while Mr. Ladley was in the house. * * * * * They had had a sale of spring flowers at the store that day, and Mr. Reynolds had brought me a pot of white tulips. That night I hung my mother's picture over the mantel in the dining-room, and put the tulips beneath it. It gave me a feeling of comfort; I had never seen my mother's grave, or put flowers on it. CHAPTER X I have said before that I do not know anything about the law. I believe that the Ladley case was unusual, in several ways. Mr. Ladley had once been well known in New York among the people who frequent the theaters, and Jennie Brice was even better known. A good many lawyers, I believe, said that the police had not a leg to stand on, and I know the case was watched with much interest by the legal profession. People wrote letters to the newspapers, protesting against Mr. Ladley being held. And I believe that the district attorney, in taking him before the grand jury, hardly hoped to make a case. But he did, to his own surprise, I fancy, and the trial was set for May. But in the meantime, many curious things happened. In the first place, the week following Mr. Ladley's arrest my house was filled up with eight or ten members of a company from the Gaiety Theater, very cheerful and jolly, and well behaved. Three men, I think, and the rest girls. One of the men was named Bellows, John Bellows, and it turned out that he had known Jennie Brice very well. From the moment he learned that, Mr. Holcombe hardly left him. He walked to the theater with him and waited to walk home again. He took him out to restaurants and for long street-car rides in the mornings, and on the last night of their stay, Saturday, they got gloriously drunk together--Mr. Holcombe, no doubt, in his character of Ladley--and came reeling in at three in the morning, singing. Mr. Holcombe was very sick the next day, but by Monday he was all right, and he called me into the room. "We've got him, Mrs. Pitman," he said, looking mottled but cheerful. "As sure as God made little fishes, we've got him." That was all he would say, however. It seemed he was going to New York, and might be gone for a month. "I've no family," he said, "and enough money to keep me. If I find my relaxation in hunting down criminals, it's a harmless and cheap amusement, and--it's my own business." He went away that night, and I must admit I missed him. I rented the parlor bedroom the next day to a school-teacher, and I found the periscope affair very handy. I could see just how much gas she used; and although the notice on each door forbids cooking and washing in rooms, I found she was doing both: making coffee and boiling an egg in the morning, and rubbing out stockings and handkerchiefs in her wash-bowl. I'd much rather have men as boarders than women. The women are always lighting alcohol lamps on the bureau, and wanting the bed turned into a cozy corner so they can see their gentlemen friends in their rooms. Well, with Mr. Holcombe gone, and Mr. Reynolds busy all day and half the night getting out the summer silks and preparing for remnant day, and with Mr. Ladley in jail and Lida out of the city--for I saw in the papers that she was not well, and her mother had taken her to Bermuda--I had a good bit of time on my hands. And so I got in the habit of thinking things over, and trying to draw conclusions, as I had seen Mr. Holcombe do. I would sit down and write things out as they had happened, and study them over, and especially I worried over how we could have found a slip of paper in Mr. Ladley's room with a list, almost exact, of the things we had discovered there. I used to read it over, "rope, knife, shoe, towel, Horn--" and get more and more bewildered. "Horn"--might have been a town, or it might not have been. There _was_ such a town, according to Mr. Graves, but apparently he had made nothing of it. _Was_ it a town that was meant? The dictionary gave only a few words beginning with "horn"--hornet, hornblende, hornpipe, and horny--none of which was of any assistance. And then one morning I happened to see in the personal column of one of the newspapers that a woman named Eliza Shaeffer, of Horner, had day-old Buff Orpington and Plymouth Rock chicks for sale, and it started me to puzzling again. Perhaps it had been Horner, and possibly this very Eliza Shaeffer-- I suppose my lack of experience was in my favor, for, after all, Eliza Shaeffer is a common enough name, and the "Horn" might have stood for "hornswoggle," for all I knew. The story of the man who thought of what he would do if he were a horse, came back to me, and for an hour or so I tried to think I was Jennie Brice, trying to get away and hide from my rascal of a husband. But I made no headway. I would never have gone to Horner, or to any small town, if I had wanted to hide. I think I should have gone around the corner and taken a room in my own neighborhood, or have lost myself in some large city. It was that same day that, since I did not go to Horner, Horner came to me. The bell rang about three o'clock, and I answered it myself. For, with times hard and only two or three roomers all winter, I had not had a servant, except Terry to do odd jobs, for some months. There stood a fresh-faced young girl, with a covered basket in her hand. "Are you Mrs. Pitman?" she asked. "I don't need anything to-day," I said, trying to shut the door. And at that minute something in the basket cheeped. Young women selling poultry are not common in our neighborhood. "What have you there?" I asked more agreeably. "Chicks, day-old chicks, but I'm not trying to sell you any. I--may I come in?" It was dawning on me then that perhaps this was Eliza Shaeffer. I led her back to the dining-room, with Peter sniffing at the basket. "My name is Shaeffer," she said. "I've seen your name in the papers, and I believe I know something about Jennie Brice." Eliza Shaeffer's story was curious. She said that she was postmistress at Horner, and lived with her mother on a farm a mile out of the town, driving in and out each day in a buggy. On Monday afternoon, March the fifth, a woman had alighted at the station from a train, and had taken luncheon at the hotel. She told the clerk she was on the road, selling corsets, and was much disappointed to find no store of any size in the town. The woman, who had registered as Mrs. Jane Bellows, said she was tired and would like to rest for a day or two on a farm. She was told to see Eliza Shaeffer at the post-office, and, as a result, drove out with her to the farm after the last mail came in that evening. Asked to describe her--she was over medium height, light-haired, quick in her movements, and wore a black and white striped dress with a red collar, and a hat to match. She carried a small brown valise that Miss Shaeffer presumed contained her samples. Mrs. Shaeffer had made her welcome, although they did not usually take boarders until June. She had not eaten much supper, and that night she had asked for pen and ink, and had written a letter. The letter was not mailed until Wednesday. All of Tuesday Mrs. Bellows had spent in her room, and Mrs. Shaeffer had driven to the village in the afternoon with word that she had been crying all day, and bought some headache medicine for her. On Wednesday morning, however, she had appeared at breakfast, eaten heartily, and had asked Miss Shaeffer to take her letter to the post-office. It was addressed to Mr. Ellis Howell, in care of a Pittsburgh newspaper! That night when Miss Eliza went home, about half past eight, the woman was gone. She had paid for her room and had been driven as far as Thornville, where all trace of her had been lost. On account of the disappearance of Jennie Brice being published shortly after that, she and her mother had driven to Thornville, but the station agent there was surly as well as stupid. They had learned nothing about the woman. Since that time, three men had made inquiries about the woman in question. One had a pointed Vandyke beard; the second, from the description, I fancied must have been Mr. Graves. The third without doubt was Mr. Howell. Eliza Shaeffer said that this last man had seemed half frantic. I brought her a photograph of Jennie Brice as "Topsy" and another one as "Juliet". She said there was a resemblance, but that it ended there. But of course, as Mr. Graves had said, by the time an actress gets her photograph retouched to suit her, it doesn't particularly resemble her. And unless I had known Jennie Brice myself, I should hardly have recognized the pictures. Well, in spite of all that, there seemed no doubt that Jennie Brice had been living three days after her disappearance, and that would clear Mr. Ladley. But what had Mr. Howell to do with it all? Why had he not told the police of the letter from Horner? Or about the woman on the bridge? Why had Mr. Bronson, who was likely the man with the pointed beard, said nothing about having traced Jennie Brice to Horner? I did as I thought Mr. Holcombe would have wished me to do. I wrote down on a clean sheet of note-paper all that Eliza Shaeffer said: the description of the black and white dress, the woman's height, and the rest, and then I took her to the court-house, chicks and all, and she told her story there to one of the assistant district attorneys. The young man was interested, but not convinced. He had her story taken down, and she signed it. He was smiling as he bowed us out. I turned in the doorway. "This will free Mr. Ladley, I suppose?" I asked. "Not just yet," he said pleasantly. "This makes just eleven places where Jennie Brice spent the first three days after her death." "But I can positively identify the dress." "My good woman, that dress has been described, to the last stilted arch and Colonial volute, in every newspaper in the United States!" That evening the newspapers announced that during a conference at the jail between Mr. Ladley and James Bronson, business manager at the Liberty Theater, Mr. Ladley had attacked Mr. Bronson with a chair, and almost brained him. CHAPTER XI Eliza Shaeffer went back to Horner, after delivering her chicks somewhere in the city. Things went on as before. The trial was set for May. The district attorney's office had all the things we had found in the house that Monday afternoon--the stained towel, the broken knife and its blade, the slipper that had been floating in the parlor, and the rope that had fastened my boat to the staircase. Somewhere--wherever they keep such things--was the headless body of a woman with a hand missing, and with a curious scar across the left breast. The slip of paper, however, which I had found behind the base-board, was still in Mr. Holcombe's possession, nor had he mentioned it to the police. Mr. Holcombe had not come back. He wrote me twice asking me to hold his room, once from New York and once from Chicago. To the second letter he added a postscript: "Have not found what I wanted, but am getting warm. If any news, address me at Des Moines, Iowa, General Delivery. H." It was nearly the end of April when I saw Lida again. I had seen by the newspapers that she and her mother were coming home. I wondered if she had heard from Mr. Howell, for I had not, and I wondered, too, if she would send for me again. But she came herself, on foot, late one afternoon, and the school-teacher being out, I took her into the parlor bedroom. She looked thinner than before, and rather white. My heart ached for her. "I have been away," she explained. "I thought you might wonder why you did not hear from me. But, you see, my mother--" she stopped and flushed. "I would have written you from Bermuda, but--my mother watched my correspondence, so I could not." No. I knew she could not. Alma had once found a letter of mine to Mr. Pitman. Very little escaped Alma. "I wondered if you have heard anything?" she asked. "I have heard nothing. Mr. Howell was here once, just after I saw you. I do not believe he is in the city. "Perhaps not, although--Mrs. Pitman, I believe he is in the city, hiding!" "Hiding! Why?" "I don't know. But last night I thought I saw him below my window. I opened the window, so if it were he, he could make some sign. But he moved on without a word. Later, whoever it was came back. I put out my light and watched. Some one stood there, in the shadow, until after two this morning. Part of the time he was looking up." "Don't you think, had it been he, he would have spoken when he saw you?" She shook her head. "He is in trouble," she said. "He has not heard from me, and he--thinks I don't care any more. Just look at me, Mrs. Pitman! Do I look as if I don't care?" She looked half killed, poor lamb. "He may be out of town, searching for a better position," I tried to comfort her. "He wants to have something to offer more than himself." "I only want him," she said, looking at me frankly. "I don't know why I tell you all this, but you are so kind, and I _must_ talk to some one." She sat there, in the cozy corner the school-teacher had made with a portière and some cushions, and I saw she was about ready to break down and cry. I went over to her and took her hand, for she was my own niece, although she didn't suspect it, and I had never had a child of my own. But after all, I could not help her much. I could only assure her that he would come back and explain everything, and that he was all right, and that the last time I had seen him he had spoken of her, and had said she was "the best ever." My heart fairly yearned over the girl, and I think she felt it. For she kissed me, shyly, when she was leaving. With the newspaper files before me, it is not hard to give the details of that sensational trial. It commenced on Monday, the seventh of May, but it was late Wednesday when the jury was finally selected. I was at the court-house early on Thursday, and so was Mr. Reynolds. The district attorney made a short speech. "We propose, gentlemen, to prove that the prisoner, Philip Ladley, murdered his wife," he said in part. "We will show first that a crime was committed; then we will show a motive for this crime, and, finally, we expect to show that the body washed ashore at Sewickley is the body of the murdered woman, and thus establish beyond doubt the prisoner's guilt." Mr. Ladley listened with attention. He wore the brown suit, and looked well and cheerful. He was much more like a spectator than a prisoner, and he was not so nervous as I was. Of that first day I do not recall much. I was called early in the day. The district attorney questioned me. "Your name?" "Elizabeth Marie Pitman." "Your occupation?" "I keep a boarding-house at 42 Union Street." "You know the prisoner?" "Yes. He was a boarder in my house." "For how long?" "From December first. He and his wife came at that time." "Was his wife the actress, Jennie Brice?" "Yes, sir." "Were they living together at your house the night of March fourth?" "Yes, sir." "In what part of the house?" "They rented the double parlors down-stairs, but on account of the flood I moved them up-stairs to the second floor front." "That was on Sunday? You moved them on Sunday?" "Yes, sir." "At what time did you retire that night?" "Not at all. The water was very high. I lay down, dressed, at one o'clock, and dropped into a doze." "How long did you sleep?" "An hour or so. Mr. Reynolds, a boarder, roused me to say he had heard some one rowing a boat in the lower hall." "Do you keep a boat around during flood times?" "Yes, sir." "What did you do when Mr. Reynolds roused you?" "I went to the top of the stairs. My boat was gone." "Was the boat secured?" "Yes, sir. Anyhow, there was no current in the hall." "What did you do then?" "I waited a time and went back to my room." "What examination of the house did you make--if any?" "Mr. Reynolds looked around." "What did he find?" "He found Peter, the Ladleys' dog, shut in a room on the third floor." "Was there anything unusual about that?" "I had never known it to happen before." "State what happened later." "I did not go to sleep again. At a quarter after four, I heard the boat come back. I took a candle and went to the stairs. It was Mr. Ladley. He said he had been out getting medicine for his wife." "Did you see him tie up the boat?" "Yes." "Did you observe any stains on the rope?" "I did not notice any." "What was the prisoner's manner at that time?" "I thought he was surly." "Now, Mrs. Pitman, tell us about the following morning." "I saw Mr. Ladley at a quarter before seven. He said to bring breakfast for one. His wife had gone away. I asked if she was not ill, and he said no; that she had gone away early; that he had rowed her to Federal Street, and that she would be back Saturday. It was shortly after that that the dog Peter brought in one of Mrs. Ladley's slippers, water-soaked." "You recognized the slipper?" "Positively. I had seen it often." "What did you do with it?" "I took it to Mr. Ladley." "What did he say?" "He said at first that it was not hers. Then he said if it was, she would never wear it again--and then added--because it was ruined." "Did he offer any statement as to where his wife was?" "No, sir. Not at that time. Before, he had said she had gone away for a few days." "Tell the jury about the broken knife." "The dog found it floating in the parlor, with the blade broken." "You had not left it down-stairs?" "No, sir. I had used it up-stairs, the night before, and left it on a mantel of the room I was using as a temporary kitchen." "Was the door of this room locked?" "No. It was standing open." "Were you not asleep in this room?" "Yes." "You heard no one come in?" "No one--until Mr. Reynolds roused me." "Where did you find the blade?" "Behind the bed in Mr. Ladley's room." "What else did you find in the room?" "A blood-stained towel behind the wash-stand. Also, my onyx clock was missing." "Where was the clock when the Ladleys were moved up into this room?" "On the mantel. I wound it just before they came up-stairs." "When you saw Mrs. Ladley on Sunday, did she say she was going away?" "No, sir." "Did you see any preparation for a journey?" "The black and white dress was laid out on the bed, and a small bag. She said she was taking the dress to the theater to lend to Miss Hope." "Is that all she said?" "No. She said she'd been wishing her husband would drown; that he was a fiend." I could see that my testimony had made an impression. CHAPTER XII The slipper, the rope, the towel, and the knife and blade were produced in court, and I identified them all. They made a noticeable impression on the jury. Then Mr. Llewellyn, the lawyer for the defense, cross-examined me. "Is it not true, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "that many articles, particularly shoes and slippers, are found floating around during a flood?" "Yes," I admitted. "Now, you say the dog found this slipper floating in the hall and brought it to you. Are you sure this slipper belonged to Jennie Brice?" "She wore it. I presume it belonged to her." "Ahem. Now, Mrs. Pitman, after the Ladleys had been moved to the upper floor, did you search their bedroom and the connecting room down-stairs?" "No, sir." "Ah. Then, how do you know that this slipper was not left on the floor or in a closet?" "It is possible, but not likely. Anyhow, it was not the slipper alone. It was the other things _and_ the slipper. It was--" "Exactly. Now, Mrs. Pitman, this knife. Can you identify it positively?" "I can." "But isn't it true that this is a very common sort of knife? One that nearly every housewife has in her possession?" "Yes, sir. But that knife handle has three notches in it. I put the notches there myself." "Before this presumed crime?" "Yes, sir." "For what purpose?" "My neighbors were constantly borrowing things. It was a means of identification." "Then this knife is yours?" "Yes." "Tell again where you left it the night before it was found floating down-stairs." "On a shelf over the stove." "Could the dog have reached it there?" "Not without standing on a hot stove." "Is it not possible that Mr. Ladley, unable to untie the boat, borrowed your knife to cut the boat's painter?" "No painter was cut that I heard about The paper-hanger--" "No, no. The boat's painter--the rope." "Oh! Well, he might have. He never said." "Now then, this towel, Mrs. Pitman. Did not the prisoner, on the following day, tell you that he had cut his wrist in freeing the boat, and ask you for some court-plaster?" "He did not," I said firmly. "You have not seen a scar on his wrist?" "No." I glanced at Mr. Ladley: he was smiling, as if amused. It made me angry. "And what's more," I flashed, "if he has a cut on his wrist, he put it there himself, to account for the towel." I was sorry the next moment that I had said it, but it was too late. The counsel for the defense moved to exclude the answer and I received a caution that I deserved. Then: "You saw Mr. Ladley when he brought your boat back?" "Yes." "What time was that?" "A quarter after four Monday morning." "Did he come in quietly, like a man trying to avoid attention?" "Not particularly. It would have been of no use. The dog was barking." "What did he say?" "That he had been out for medicine. That his wife was sick." "Do you know a pharmacist named Alexander--Jonathan Alexander?" "There is such a one, but I don't know him." I was excused, and Mr. Reynolds was called. He had heard no quarreling that Sunday night; had even heard Mrs. Ladley laughing. This was about nine o'clock. Yes, they had fought in the afternoon. He had not overheard any words, but their voices were quarrelsome, and once he heard a chair or some article of furniture overthrown. Was awakened about two by footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sound of oars in the lower hall. He told his story plainly and simply. Under cross-examination admitted that he was fond of detective stories and had tried to write one himself; that he had said at the store that he would like to see that "conceited ass" swing, referring to the prisoner; that he had sent flowers to Jennie Brice at the theater, and had made a few advances to her, without success. My head was going round. I don't know yet how the police learned it all, but by the time poor Mr. Reynolds left the stand, half the people there believed that he had been in love with Jennie Brice, that she had spurned his advances, and that there was more to the story than any of them had suspected. Miss Hope's story held without any alteration under the cross-examination. She was perfectly at ease, looked handsome and well dressed, and could not be shaken. She told how Jennie Brice had been in fear of her life, and had asked her, only the week before she disappeared, to allow her to go home with her--Miss Hope. She told of the attack of hysteria in her dressing-room, and that the missing woman had said that her husband would kill her some day. There was much wrangling over her testimony, and I believe at least a part of it was not allowed to go to the jury. But I am not a lawyer, and I repeat what I recall. "Did she say that he had attacked her?" "Yes, more than once. She was a large woman, fairly muscular, and had always held her own." "Did she say that these attacks came when he had been drinking?" "I believe he was worse then." "Did she give any reason for her husband's attitude to her?" "She said he wanted to marry another woman." There was a small sensation at this. If proved, it established a motive. "Did she know who the other woman was?" "I believe not. She was away most of the day, and he put in his time as he liked." "Did Miss Brice ever mention the nature of the threats he made against her?" "No, I think not." "Have you examined the body washed ashore at Sewickley?" "Yes--" in a low voice. "Is it the body of Jennie Brice?" "I can not say." "Does the remaining hand look like the hand of Jennie Brice?" "Very much. The nails are filed to points, as she wore hers." "Did you ever know of Jennie Brice having a scar on her breast?" "No, but that would be easily concealed." "Just what do you mean?" "Many actresses conceal defects. She could have worn flesh-colored plaster and covered it with powder. Also, such a scar would not necessarily be seen." "Explain that." "Most of Jennie Brice's décolleté gowns were cut to a point. This would conceal such a scar." Miss Hope was excused, and Jennie Brice's sister from Olean was called. She was a smaller woman than Jennie Brice had been, very lady-like in her manner. She said she was married and living in Olean; she had not seen her sister for several years, but had heard from her often. The witness had discouraged the marriage to the prisoner. "Why?" "She had had bad luck before." "She had been married before?" "Yes, to a man named John Bellows. They were in vaudeville together, on the Keith Circuit. They were known as The Pair of Bellows." I sat up at this for John Bellows had boarded at my house. "Mr. Bellows is dead?" "I think not. She divorced him." "Did you know of any scar on your sister's body?" "I never heard of one." "Have you seen the body found at Sewickley?" "Yes"--faintly. "Can you identify it?" "No, sir." A flurry was caused during the afternoon by Timothy Senft. He testified to what I already knew--that between three and four on Monday morning, during the height of the flood, he had seen from his shanty-boat a small skiff caught in the current near the Ninth Street bridge. He had shouted encouragingly to the man in the boat, running out a way on the ice to make him hear. He had told him to row with the current, and to try to steer in toward shore. He had followed close to the river bank in his own boat. Below Sixth Street the other boat was within rope-throwing distance. He had pulled it in, and had towed it well back out of the current. The man in the boat was the prisoner. Asked if the prisoner gave any explanation--yes, he said he couldn't sleep, and had thought to tire himself rowing. Had been caught in the current before he knew it. Saw nothing suspicious in or about the boat. As they passed the police patrol boat, prisoner had called to ask if there was much distress, and expressed regret when told there was. Tim was excused. He had made a profound impression. I would not have given a dollar for Mr. Ladley's chance with the jury, at that time. CHAPTER XIII The prosecution produced many witnesses during the next two days: Shanty-boat Tim's story withstood the most vigorous cross-examination. After him, Mr. Bronson from the theater corroborated Miss Hope's story of Jennie Brice's attack of hysteria in the dressing-room, and told of taking her home that night. He was a poor witness, nervous and halting. He weighed each word before he said it, and he made a general unfavorable impression. I thought he was holding something back. In view of what Mr. Pitman would have called the denouement, his attitude is easily explained. But I was puzzled then. So far, the prosecution had touched but lightly on the possible motive for a crime--the woman. But on the third day, to my surprise, a Mrs. Agnes Murray was called. It was the Mrs. Murray I had seen at the morgue. I have lost the clipping of that day's trial, but I remember her testimony perfectly. She was a widow, living above a small millinery shop on Federal Street, Allegheny. She had one daughter, Alice, who did stenography and typing as a means of livelihood. She had no office, and worked at home. Many of the small stores in the neighborhood employed her to send out their bills. There was a card at the street entrance beside the shop, and now and then strangers brought her work. Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of a play to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimes every day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time. Sometimes he came without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked a cigarette. They had thought him unmarried. On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, Alice Murray had disappeared. She had taken some of her clothing--not all, and had left a note. The witness read the note aloud in a trembling voice: "DEAR MOTHER: When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley. Don't worry. Will write again from N.Y. Lovingly, "ALICE." From that time until a week before, she had not heard from her daughter. Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, New York City. The card merely said: "Am well and working. ALICE." The defense was visibly shaken. They had not expected this, and I thought even Mr. Ladley, whose calm had continued unbroken, paled. So far, all had gone well for the prosecution. They had proved a crime, as nearly as circumstantial evidence could prove a crime, and they had established a motive. But in the identification of the body, so far they had failed. The prosecution "rested," as they say, although they didn't rest much, on the afternoon of the third day. The defense called, first of all, Eliza Shaeffer. She told of a woman answering the general description of Jennie Brice having spent two days at the Shaeffer farm at Horner. Being shown photographs of Jennie Brice, she said she thought it was the same woman, but was not certain. She told further of the woman leaving unexpectedly on Wednesday of that week from Thornville. On cross-examination, being shown the small photograph which Mr. Graves had shown me, she identified the woman in the group as being the woman in question. As the face was in shadow, knew it more by the dress and hat: she described the black and white dress and the hat with red trimming. The defense then called me. I had to admit that the dress and hat as described were almost certainly the ones I had seen on the bed in Jennie Brice's room the day before she disappeared. I could not say definitely whether the woman in the photograph was Jennie Brice or not; under a magnifying-glass thought it might be. Defense called Jonathan Alexander, a druggist who testified that on the night in question he had been roused at half past three by the prisoner, who had said his wife was ill, and had purchased a bottle of a proprietary remedy from him. His identification was absolute. The defense called Jennie Brice's sister, and endeavored to prove that Jennie Brice had had no such scar. It was shown that she was on intimate terms with her family and would hardly have concealed an operation of any gravity from them. The defense scored that day. They had shown that the prisoner had told the truth when he said he had gone to a pharmacy for medicine that night for his wife; and they had shown that a woman, answering the description of Jennie Brice, spent two days in a town called Horner, and had gone from there on Wednesday after the crime. And they had shown that this woman was attired as Jennie Brice had been. That was the way things stood on the afternoon of the fourth day, when court adjourned. Mr. Reynolds was at home when I got there. He had been very much subdued since the developments of that first day of the trial, sat mostly in his own room, and had twice brought me a bunch of jonquils as a peace-offering. He had the kettle boiling when I got home. "You have had a number of visitors," he said. "Our young friend Howell has been here, and Mr. Holcombe has arrived and has a man in his room." Mr. Holcombe came down a moment after, with his face beaming. "I think we've got him, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "The jury won't even go out of the box." But further than that he would not explain. He said he had a witness locked in his room, and he'd be glad of supper for him, as they'd both come a long ways. And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottle or two of beer. But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all that night in the second-story front room. I don't think the man knew he was a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial--an elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking. Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled in a blanket--not that I think his witness even thought of escaping, but the little man was taking no chances. At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. I admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I had not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. He was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he looked as if he had not slept for days. Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined. "You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?" I asked. "Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernal sleeping-cars--" His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture, with the jonquils beneath. "That's curious!" he said, going closer. "It--it looks almost like Lida Harvey." "My mother," I said simply. "Have you seen her lately?" "My mother?" I asked, startled. "No, Lida." "I saw her a few days ago." "Here?" "Yes. She came here, Mr. Howell, two weeks ago. She looks badly--as if she is worrying." "Not--about me?" he asked eagerly. "Yes, about you. What possessed you to go away as you did? When my--bro--when her uncle accused you of something, you ran away, instead of facing things like a man." "I was trying to find the one person who could clear me, Mrs. Pitman." He sat back, with his eyes closed; he looked ill enough to be in bed. "And you succeeded?" "No." I thought perhaps he had not been eating and I offered him food, as I had once before. But he refused it, with the ghost of his boyish smile. "I'm hungry, but it's not food I want. I want to see _her_," he said. I sat down across from him and tried to mend a table-cloth, but I could not sew. I kept seeing those two young things, each sick for a sight of the other, and, from wishing they could have a minute together, I got to planning it for them. "Perhaps," I said finally, "if you want it very much--" "Very much!" "And if you will sit quiet, and stop tapping your fingers together until you drive me crazy, I might contrive it for you. For five minutes," I said. "Not a second longer." He came right over and put his arms around me. "Who are you, anyhow?" he said. "You who turn to the world the frozen mask of a Union Street boarding-house landlady, who are a gentlewoman by every instinct and training, and a girl at heart? Who are you?" "I'll tell you what I am," I said. "I'm a romantic old fool, and you'd better let me do this quickly, before I change my mind." He freed me at that, but he followed to the telephone, and stood by while I got Lida. He was in a perfect frenzy of anxiety, turning red and white by turns, and in the middle of the conversation taking the receiver bodily from me and holding it to his own ear. She said she thought she could get away; she spoke guardedly, as if Alma were near, but I gathered that she would come as soon as she could, and, from the way her voice broke, I knew she was as excited as the boy beside me. She came, heavily coated and veiled, at a quarter after ten that night, and I took her back to the dining-room, where he was waiting. He did not make a move toward her, but stood there with his very lips white, looking at her. And, at first, she did not make a move either, but stood and gazed at him, thin and white, a wreck of himself. Then: "Ell!" she cried, and ran around the table to him, as he held out his arms. The school-teacher was out. I went into the parlor bedroom and sat in the cozy corner in the dark. I had done a wrong thing, and I was glad of it. And sitting there in the darkness, I went over my own life again. After all, it had been my own life; I had lived it; no one else had shaped it for me. And if it was cheerless and colorless now, it had had its big moments. Life is measured by big moments. If I let the two children in the dining-room have fifteen big moments, instead of five, who can blame me? CHAPTER XIV The next day was the sensational one of the trial. We went through every phase of conviction: Jennie Brice was living. Jennie Brice was dead. The body found at Sewickley could not be Jennie Brice's. The body found at Sewickley _was_ Jennie Brice's. And so it went on. The defense did an unexpected thing in putting Mr. Ladley on the stand. That day, for the first time, he showed the wear and tear of the ordeal. He had no flower in his button-hole, and the rims of his eyes were red. But he was quite cool. His stage training had taught him not only to endure the eyes of the crowd, but to find in its gaze a sort of stimulant. He made a good witness, I must admit. He replied to the usual questions easily. After five minutes or so Mr. Llewellyn got down to work. "Mr. Ladley, you have said that your wife was ill the night of March fourth?" "Yes." "What was the nature of her illness?" "She had a functional heart trouble, not serious." "Will you tell us fully the events of that night?" "I had been asleep when my wife wakened me. She asked for a medicine she used in these attacks. I got up and found the bottle, but it was empty. As she was nervous and frightened, I agreed to try to get some at a drug store. I went down-stairs, took Mrs. Pitman's boat, and went to several stores before I could awaken a pharmacist." "You cut the boat loose?" "Yes. It was tied in a woman's knot, or series of knots. I could not untie it, and I was in a hurry." "How did you cut it?" "With my pocket-knife." "You did not use Mrs. Pitman's bread-knife?" "I did not." "And in cutting it, you cut your wrist, did you?" "Yes. The knife slipped. I have the scar still." "What did you do then?" "I went back to the room, and stanched the blood with a towel." "From whom did you get the medicine?" "From Alexander's Pharmacy." "At what time?" "I am not certain. About three o'clock, probably." "You went directly back home?" Mr. Ladley hesitated. "No," he said finally. "My wife had had these attacks, but they were not serious. I was curious to see how the river-front looked and rowed out too far. I was caught in the current and nearly carried away." "You came home after that?" "Yes, at once. Mrs. Ladley was better and had dropped asleep. She wakened as I came in. She was disagreeable about the length of time I had been gone, and would not let me explain. We--quarreled, and she said she was going to leave me. I said that as she had threatened this before and had never done it, I would see that she really started. At daylight I rowed her to Federal Street." "What had she with her?" "A small brown valise." "How was she dressed?" "In a black and white dress and hat, with a long black coat." "What was the last you saw of her?" "She was going across the Sixth Street bridge." "Alone?" "No. She went with a young man we knew." There was a stir in the court room at this. "Who was the young man?" "A Mr. Howell, a reporter on a newspaper here." "Have you seen Mr. Howell since your arrest?" "No, sir. He has been out of the city." I was so excited by this time that I could hardly hear. I missed some of the cross-examination. The district attorney pulled Mr. Ladley's testimony to pieces. "You cut the boat's painter with your pocket-knife?" "I did." "Then how do you account for Mrs. Pitman's broken knife, with the blade in your room?" "I have no theory about it. She may have broken it herself. She had used it the day before to lift tacks out of a carpet." That was true; I had. "That early Monday morning was cold, was it not?" "Yes. Very." "Why did your wife leave without her fur coat?" "I did not know she had until we had left the house. Then I did not ask her. She would not speak to me." "I see. But is it not true that, upon a wet fur coat being shown you as your wife's, you said it could not be hers, as she had taken hers with her?" "I do not recall such a statement." "You recall a coat being shown you?" "Yes. Mrs. Pitman brought a coat to my door, but I was working on a play I am writing, and I do not remember what I said. The coat was ruined. I did not want it. I probably said the first thing I thought of to get rid of the woman." I got up at that. I'd held my peace about the bread-knife, but this was too much. However, the moment I started to speak, somebody pushed me back into my chair and told me to be quiet. "Now, you say you were in such a hurry to get this medicine for your wife that you cut the rope, thus cutting your wrist." "Yes. I have the scar still." "You could not wait to untie the boat, and yet you went along the river-front to see how high the water was?" "Her alarm had excited me. But when I got out, and remembered that the doctors had told us she would never die in an attack, I grew more composed." "You got the medicine first, you say?" "Yes." "Mr. Alexander has testified that you got the medicine at three-thirty. It has been shown that you left the house at two, and got back about four. Does not this show that with all your alarm you went to the river-front first?" "I was gone from two to four," he replied calmly. "Mr. Alexander must be wrong about the time I wakened him. I got the medicine first." "When your wife left you at the bridge, did she say where she was going?" "No." "You claim that this woman at Horner was your wife?" "I think it likely." "Was there an onyx clock in the second-story room when you moved into it?" "I do not recall the clock." "Your wife did not take an onyx clock away with her?" Mr. Ladley smiled. "No." The defense called Mr. Howell next. He looked rested, and the happier for having seen Lida, but he was still pale and showed the strain of some hidden anxiety. What that anxiety was, the next two days were to tell us all. "Mr. Howell," Mr. Llewellyn asked, "you know the prisoner?" "Slightly." "State when you met him." "On Sunday morning, March the fourth. I went to see him." "Will you tell us the nature of that visit?" "My paper had heard he was writing a play for himself. I was to get an interview, with photographs, if possible." "You saw his wife at that time?" "Yes." "When did you see her again?" "The following morning, at six o'clock, or a little later. I walked across the Sixth Street bridge with her, and put her on a train for Horner, Pennsylvania." "You are positive it was Jennie Brice?" "Yes. I watched her get out of the boat, while her husband steadied it." "If you knew this, why did you not come forward sooner?" "I have been out of the city." "But you knew the prisoner had been arrested, and that this testimony of yours would be invaluable to him." "Yes. But I thought it necessary to produce Jennie Brice herself. My unsupported word--" "You have been searching for Jennie Brice?" "Yes. Since March the eighth." "How was she dressed when you saw her last?" "She wore a red and black hat and a black coat. She carried a small brown valise." "Thank you." The cross-examination did not shake his testimony. But it brought out some curious things. Mr. Howell refused to say how he happened to be at the end of the Sixth Street bridge at that hour, or why he had thought it necessary, on meeting a woman he claimed to have known only twenty-four hours, to go with her to the railway station and put her on a train. The jury was visibly impressed and much shaken. For Mr. Howell carried conviction in every word he said; he looked the district attorney in the eye, and once when our glances crossed he even smiled at me faintly. But I saw why he had tried to find Jennie Brice, and had dreaded testifying. Not a woman in that court room, and hardly a man, but believed when he left the stand, that he was, or had been, Jennie Brice's lover, and as such was assisting her to leave her husband. "Then you believe," the district attorney said at the end,--"you believe, Mr. Howell, that Jennie Brice is living?" "Jennie Brice was living on Monday morning, March the fifth," he said firmly. "Miss Shaeffer has testified that on Wednesday this woman, who you claim was Jennie Brice, sent a letter to you from Horner. Is that the case?" "Yes." "The letter was signed 'Jennie Brice'?" "It was signed 'J.B.'" "Will you show the court that letter?" "I destroyed it." "It was a personal letter?" "It merely said she had arrived safely, and not to let any one know where she was." "And yet you destroyed it?" "A postscript said to do so." "Why?" "I do not know. An extra precaution probably." "You were under the impression that she was going to stay there?" "She was to have remained for a week." "And you have been searching for this woman for two months?" He quailed, but his voice was steady. "Yes," he admitted. He was telling the truth, even if it was not all the truth. I believe, had it gone to the jury then, Mr. Ladley would have been acquitted. But, late that afternoon, things took a new turn. Counsel for the prosecution stated to the court that he had a new and important witness, and got permission to introduce this further evidence. The witness was a Doctor Littlefield, and proved to be my one-night tenant of the second-story front. Holcombe's prisoner of the night before took the stand. The doctor was less impressive in full daylight; he was a trifle shiny, a bit bulbous as to nose and indifferent as to finger-nails. But his testimony was given with due professional weight. "You are a doctor of medicine, Doctor Littlefield?" asked the district attorney. "Yes." "In active practise?" "I have a Cure for Inebriates in Des Moines, Iowa. I was formerly in general practise in New York City." "You knew Jennie Ladley?" "I had seen her at different theaters. And she consulted me professionally at one time in New York." "You operated on her, I believe?" "Yes. She came to me to have a name removed. It had been tattooed over her heart." "You removed it?" "Not at once. I tried fading the marks with goat's milk, but she was impatient. On the third visit to my office she demanded that the name be cut out." "You did it?" "Yes. She refused a general anesthetic and I used cocaine. The name was John--I believe a former husband. She intended to marry again." A titter ran over the court room. People strained to the utmost are always glad of an excuse to smile. The laughter of a wrought-up crowd always seems to me half hysterical. "Have you seen photographs of the scar on the body found at Sewickley? Or the body itself?" "No, I have not." "Will you describe the operation?" "I made a transverse incision for the body of the name, and two vertical ones--one longer for the _J_, the other shorter, for the stem of the _h_. There was a dot after the name. I made a half-inch incision for it." "Will you sketch the cicatrix as you recall it?" The doctor made a careful drawing on a pad that was passed to him. The drawing was much like this. Line for line, dot for dot, it was the scar on the body found at Sewickley. "You are sure the woman was Jennie Brice?" "She sent me tickets for the theater shortly after. And I had an announcement of her marriage to the prisoner, some weeks later." "Were there any witnesses to the operation?" "My assistant; I can produce him at any time." That was not all of the trial, but it was the decisive moment. Shortly after, the jury withdrew, and for twenty-four hours not a word was heard from them. CHAPTER XV After twenty-four hours' deliberation, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty. It was a first-degree verdict. Mr. Howell's unsupported word had lost out against a scar. Contrary to my expectation, Mr. Holcombe was not jubilant over the verdict. He came into the dining-room that night and stood by the window, looking out into the yard. "It isn't logical," he said. "In view of Howell's testimony, it's ridiculous! Heaven help us under this jury system, anyhow! Look at the facts! Howell knows the woman: he sees her on Monday morning, and puts her on a train out of town. The boy is telling the truth. He has nothing to gain by coming forward, and everything to lose. Very well: she was alive on Monday. We know where she was on Tuesday and Wednesday. Anyhow, during those days her gem of a husband was in jail. He was freed Thursday night, and from that time until his rearrest on the following Tuesday, I had him under observation every moment. He left the jail Thursday night, and on Saturday the body floated in at Sewickley. If it was done by Ladley, it must have been done on Friday, and on Friday he was in view through the periscope all day!" Mr. Reynolds came in and joined us. "There's only one way out that I see," he said mildly. "Two women have been fool enough to have a name tattooed over their hearts. No woman ever thought enough of me to have _my_ name put on her." "I hope not," I retorted. Mr. Reynold's first name is Zachariah. But, as Mr. Holcombe said, all that had been proved was that Jennie Brice was dead, probably murdered. He could not understand the defense letting the case go to the jury without their putting more stress on Mr. Howell's story. But we were to understand that soon, and many other things. Mr. Holcombe told me that evening of learning from John Bellows of the tattooed name on Jennie Brice and of how, after an almost endless search, he had found the man who had cut the name away. At eight o'clock the door-bell rang. Mr. Reynolds had gone to lodge, he being an Elk and several other things, and much given to regalia in boxes, and having his picture in the newspapers in different outlandish costumes. Mr. Pitman used to say that man, being denied his natural love for barbaric adornment in his every-day clothing, took to the different fraternities as an excuse for decking himself out. But this has nothing to do with the door-bell. It was old Isaac. He had a basket in his hand, and he stepped into the hall and placed it on the floor. "Evening, Miss Bess," he said. "Can you see a bit of company to-night?" "I can always see you," I replied. But he had not meant himself. He stepped to the door, and opening it, beckoned to some one across the street. It was Lida! She came in, her color a little heightened, and old Isaac stood back, beaming at us both; I believe it was one of the crowning moments of the old man's life--thus to see his Miss Bess and Alma's child together. "Is--is he here yet?" she asked me nervously. "I did not know he was coming." There was no need to ask which "he." There was only one for Lida. "He telephoned me, and asked me to come here. Oh, Mrs. Pitman, I'm so afraid for him!" She had quite forgotten Isaac. I turned to the school-teacher's room and opened the door. "The woman who belongs here is out at a lecture," I said. "Come in here, Ikkie, and I'll find the evening paper for you. "'Ikkie'!" said Lida, and stood staring at me. I think I went white. "The lady heah and I is old friends," Isaac said, with his splendid manner. "Her mothah, Miss Lida, her mothah--" But even old Isaac choked up at that, and I closed the door on him. "How queer!" Lida said, looking at me. "So Isaac knew your mother? Have you lived always in Allegheny, Mrs. Pitman?" "I was born in Pittsburgh," I evaded. "I went away for a long time, but I always longed for the hurry and activity of the old home town. So here I am again." Fortunately, like all the young, her own affairs engrossed her. She was flushed with the prospect of meeting her lover, tremulous over what the evening might bring. The middle-aged woman who had come back to the hurry of the old town, and who, pushed back into an eddy of the flood district, could only watch the activity and the life from behind a "Rooms to Let" sign, did not concern her much. Nor should she have. Mr. Howell came soon after. He asked for her, and going back to the dining-room, kissed her quietly. He had an air of resolve, a sort of grim determination, that was a relief from the half-frantic look he had worn before. He asked to have Mr. Holcombe brought down, and so behold us all, four of us, sitting around the table--Mr. Holcombe with his note-book, I with my mending, and the boy with one of Lida's hands frankly under his on the red table-cloth. "I want to tell all of you the whole story," he began. "To-morrow I shall go to the district attorney and confess, but--I want you all to have it first. I can't sleep again until I get it off my chest. Mrs. Pitman has suffered through me, and Mr. Holcombe here has spent money and time--" Lida did not speak, but she drew her chair closer, and put her other hand over his. "I want to get it straight, if I can. Let me see. It was on Sunday, the fourth, that the river came up, wasn't it? Yes. Well, on the Thursday before that I met you, Mr. Holcombe, in a restaurant in Pittsburgh. Do you remember?" Mr. Holcombe nodded. "We were talking of crime, and I said no man should be hanged on purely circumstantial evidence. You affirmed that a well-linked chain of circumstantial evidence could properly hang a man. We had a long argument, in which I was worsted. There was a third man at the table--Bronson, the business manager of the Liberty Theater." "Who sided with you," put in Mr. Holcombe, "and whose views I refused to entertain because, as publicity man for a theater, he dealt in fiction rather than in fact." "Precisely. You may recall, Mr. Holcombe, that you offered to hang any man we would name, given a proper chain of circumstantial evidence against him?" "Yes." "After you left, Bronson spoke to me. He said business at the theater was bad, and complained of the way the papers used, or would not use, his stuff. He said the Liberty Theater had not had a proper deal, and that he was tempted to go over and bang one of the company on the head, and so get a little free advertising. "I said he ought to be able to fake a good story; but he maintained that a newspaper could smell a faked story a mile away, and that, anyhow, all the good stunts had been pulled off. I agreed with him. I remember saying that nothing but a railroad wreck or a murder hit the public very hard these days, and that I didn't feel like wrecking the Pennsylvania Limited. "He leaned over the table and looked at me. 'Well, how about a murder, then?' he said. 'You get the story for your paper, and I get some advertising for the theater. We need it, that's sure.' "I laughed it off, and we separated. But at two o'clock Bronson called me up again. I met him in his office at the theater, and he told me that Jennie Brice, who was out of the cast that week, had asked for a week's vacation. She had heard of a farm at a town called Horner, and she wanted to go there to rest. "'Now the idea is this,' he said. 'She's living with her husband, and he has threatened her life more than once. It would be easy enough to frame up something to look as if he'd made away with her. We'd get a week of excitement, more advertising than we'd ordinarily get in a year; you get a corking news story, and find Jennie Brice at the end, getting the credit for that. Jennie gets a hundred dollars and a rest, and Ladley, her husband, gets, say, two hundred.' "Mr. Bronson offered to put up the money, and I agreed. The flood came just then, and was considerable help. It made a good setting. I went to my city editor, and got an assignment to interview Ladley about this play of his. Then Bronson and I went together to see the Ladleys on Sunday morning, and as they needed money, they agreed. But Ladley insisted on fifty dollars a week extra if he had to go to jail. We promised it, but we did not intend to let things go so far as that. "In the Ladleys' room that Sunday morning, we worked it all out. The hardest thing was to get Jennie Brice's consent; but she agreed, finally. We arranged a list of clues, to be left around, and Ladley was to go out in the night and to be heard coming back. I told him to quarrel with his wife that afternoon,--although I don't believe they needed to be asked to do it,--and I suggested also the shoe or slipper, to be found floating around." "Just a moment," said Mr. Holcombe, busy with his note-book. "Did you suggest the onyx clock?" "No. No clock was mentioned. The--the clock has puzzled me." "The towel?" "Yes. I said no murder was complete without blood, but he kicked on that--said he didn't mind the rest, but he'd be hanged if he was going to slash himself. But, as it happened, he cut his wrist while cutting the boat loose, and so we had the towel." "Pillow-slip?" asked Mr. Holcombe. "Well, no. There was nothing said about a pillow-slip. Didn't he say he burned it accidentally?" "So he claimed." Mr. Holcombe made another entry in his book. "Then I said every murder had a weapon. He was to have a pistol at first, but none of us owned one. Mrs. Ladley undertook to get a knife from Mrs. Pitman's kitchen, and to leave it around, not in full view, but where it could be found." "A broken knife?" "No. Just a knife." "He was to throw the knife into the water?" "That was not arranged. I only gave him a general outline. He was to add any interesting details that might occur to him. The idea, of course, was to give the police plenty to work on, and just when they thought they had it all, and when the theater had had a lot of booming, and I had got a good story, to produce Jennie Brice, safe and well. We were not to appear in it at all. It would have worked perfectly, but we forgot to count on one thing--Jennie Brice hated her husband." "Not really hated him!" cried Lida. "_Hated_ him. She is letting him hang. She could save him by coming forward now, and she won't do it. She is hiding so he will go to the gallows." There was a pause at that. It seemed too incredible, too inhuman. "Then, early that Monday morning, you smuggled Jennie Brice out of the city?" "Yes. That was the only thing we bungled. We fixed the hour a little too late, and I was seen by Miss Harvey's uncle, walking across the bridge with a woman." "Why did you meet her openly, and take her to the train?" Mr. Howell bent forward and smiled across at the little man. "One of your own axioms, sir," he said. "Do the natural thing; upset the customary order of events as little as possible. Jennie Brice went to the train, because that was where she wanted to go. But as Ladley was to protest that his wife had left town, and as the police would be searching for a solitary woman, I went with her. We went in a leisurely manner. I bought her a magazine and a morning paper, asked the conductor to fix her window, and, in general, acted the devoted husband seeing his wife off on a trip. I even"--he smiled--"I even promised to feed the canary." Lida took her hands away. "Did you kiss her good-by?" she demanded. "Not even a chaste salute," he said. His spirits were rising. It was, as often happens, as if the mere confession removed the guilt. I have seen little boys who have broken a window show the same relief after telling about it. "For a day or two Bronson and I sat back, enjoying the stir-up. Things turned out as we had expected. Business boomed at the theater. I got a good story, and some few kind words from my city editor. Then--the explosion came. I got a letter from Jennie Brice saying she was going away, and that we need not try to find her. I went to Horner, but I had lost track of her completely. Even then, we did not believe things so bad as they turned out to be. We thought she was giving us a bad time, but that she would show up. "Ladley was in a blue funk for a time. Bronson and I went to him. We told him how the thing had slipped up. We didn't want to go to the police and confess if we could help it. Finally, he agreed to stick it out until she was found, at a hundred dollars a week. It took all we could beg, borrow and steal. But now--we have to come out with the story anyhow." Mr. Holcombe sat up and closed his note-book with a snap. "I'm not so sure of that," he said impressively. "I wonder if you realize, young man, that, having provided a perfect defense for this man Ladley, you provided him with every possible inducement to make away with his wife? Secure in your coming forward at the last minute and confessing the hoax to save him, was there anything he might not have dared with impunity?" "But I tell you I took Jennie Brice out of town on Monday morning." "_Did you_?" asked Mr. Holcombe sternly. But at that, the school-teacher, having come home and found old Isaac sound asleep in her cozy corner, set up such a screaming for the police that our meeting broke up. Nor would Mr. Holcombe explain any further. CHAPTER XVI Mr. Holcombe was up very early the next morning. I heard him moving around at five o'clock, and at six he banged at my door and demanded to know at what time the neighborhood rose: he had been up for an hour and there were no signs of life. He was more cheerful after he had had a cup of coffee, commented on Lida's beauty, and said that Howell was a lucky chap. "That is what worries me, Mr. Holcombe," I said. "I am helping the affair along and--what if it turns out badly?" He looked at me over his glasses. "It isn't likely to turn out badly," he said. "I have never married, Mrs. Pitman, and I have missed a great deal out of life." "Perhaps you're better off: if you had married and lost your wife--" I was thinking of Mr. Pitman. "Not at all," he said with emphasis. "It's better to have married and lost than never to have married at all. Every man needs a good woman, and it doesn't matter how old he is. The older he is, the more he needs her. I am nearly sixty." I was rather startled, and I almost dropped the fried potatoes. But the next moment he had got out his note-book and was going over the items again. "Pillow-slip," he said, "knife _broken_, onyx clock--wouldn't think so much of the clock if he hadn't been so damnably anxious to hide the key, the discrepancy in time as revealed by the trial--yes, it is as clear as a bell. Mrs. Pitman, does that Maguire woman next door sleep all day?" "She's up now," I said, looking out the window. He was in the hall in a moment, only to come to the door later, hat in hand. "Is she the only other woman on the street who keeps boarders?" "She's the only woman who doesn't," I snapped. "She'll keep anything that doesn't belong to her--except boarders." "Ah!" He lighted his corn-cob pipe and stood puffing at it and watching me. He made me uneasy: I thought he was going to continue the subject of every man needing a wife, and I'm afraid I had already decided to take him if he offered, and to put the school-teacher out and have a real parlor again, but to keep Mr. Reynolds, he being tidy and no bother. But when he spoke, he was back to the crime again: "Did you ever work a typewriter?" he asked. What with the surprise, I was a little sharp. "I don't play any instrument except an egg-beater," I replied shortly, and went on clearing the table. "I wonder--do you remember about the village idiot and the horse? But of course you do, Mrs. Pitman; you are a woman of imagination. Don't you think you could be Alice Murray for a few moments? Now think--you are a stenographer with theatrical ambitions: you meet an actor and you fall in love with him, and he with you." "That's hard to imagine, that last." "Not so hard," he said gently. "Now the actor is going to put you on the stage, perhaps in this new play, and some day he is going to marry you." "Is that what he promised the girl?" "According to some letters her mother found, yes. The actor is married, but he tells you he will divorce the wife; you are to wait for him, and in the meantime he wants you near him; away from the office, where other men are apt to come in with letters to be typed, and to chaff you. You are a pretty girl." "It isn't necessary to overwork my imagination," I said, with a little bitterness. I had been a pretty girl, but work and worry-- "Now you are going to New York very soon, and in the meantime you have cut yourself off from all your people. You have no one but this man. What would you do? Where would you go?" "How old was the girl?" "Nineteen." "I think," I said slowly, "that if I were nineteen, and in love with a man, and hiding, I would hide as near him as possible. I'd be likely to get a window that could see his going out and coming in, a place so near that he could come often to see me." "Bravo!" he exclaimed. "Of course, with your present wisdom and experience, you would do nothing so foolish. But this girl was in her teens; she was not very far away, for he probably saw her that Sunday afternoon, when he was out for two hours. And as the going was slow that day, and he had much to tell and explain, I figure she was not far off. Probably in this very neighborhood." During the remainder of that morning I saw Mr. Holcombe, at intervals, going from house to house along Union Street, making short excursions into side thoroughfares, coming back again and taking up his door-bell ringing with unflagging energy. I watched him off and on for two hours. At the end of that time he came back flushed and excited. "I found the house," he said, wiping his glasses. "She was there, all right, not so close as we had thought, but as close as she could get." "And can you trace her?" I asked. His face changed and saddened. "Poor child!" he said. "She is dead, Mrs. Pitman!" "Not she--at Sewickley!" "No," he said patiently. "That was Jennie Brice." "But--Mr. Howell--" "Mr. Howell is a young ass," he said with irritation. "He did not take Jennie Brice out of the city that morning. He took Alice Murray in Jennie Brice's clothing, and veiled." Well, that is five years ago. Five times since then the Allegheny River, from being a mild and inoffensive stream, carrying a few boats and a great deal of sewage, has become, a raging destroyer, and has filled our hearts with fear and our cellars with mud. Five times since then Molly Maguire has appropriated all that the flood carried from my premises to hers, and five times have I lifted my carpets and moved Mr. Holcombe, who occupies the parlor bedroom, to a second-floor room. A few days ago, as I said at the beginning, we found Peter's body floating in the cellar, and as soon as the yard was dry, I buried him. He had grown fat and lazy, but I shall miss him. Yesterday a riverman fell off a barge along the water-front and was drowned. They dragged the river for his body, but they did not find him. But they found something--an onyx clock, with the tattered remnant of a muslin pillow-slip wrapped around it. It only bore out the story, as we had known it for five years. The Murray girl had lived long enough to make a statement to the police, although Mr. Holcombe only learned this later. On the statement being shown to Ladley in the jail, and his learning of the girl's death, he collapsed. He confessed before he was hanged, and his confession, briefly, was like this: He had met the Murray girl in connection with the typing of his play, and had fallen in love with her. He had never cared for his wife, and would have been glad to get rid of her in any way possible. He had not intended to kill her, however. He had planned to elope with the Murray girl, and awaiting an opportunity, had persuaded her to leave home and to take a room near my house. Here he had visited her daily, while his wife was at the theater. They had planned to go to New York together on Monday, March the fifth. On Sunday, the fourth, however, Mr. Bronson and Mr. Howell had made their curious proposition. When he accepted, Philip Ladley maintained that he meant only to carry out the plan as suggested. But the temptation was too strong for him. That night, while his wife slept, he had strangled her. I believe he was frantic with fear, after he had done it. Then it occurred to him that if he made the body unrecognizable, he would be safe enough. On that quiet Sunday night, when Mr. Reynolds reported all peaceful in the Ladley room, he had cut off the poor wretch's head and had tied it up in a pillow-slip weighted with my onyx clock! It is a curious fact about the case that the scar which his wife incurred to enable her to marry him was the means of his undoing. He insisted, and I believe he was telling the truth, that he did not know of the scar: that is, his wife had never told him of it, and had been able to conceal it. He thought she had probably used paraffin in some way. In his final statement, written with great care and no little literary finish, he told the story in detail: of arranging the clues as Mr. Howell and Mr. Bronson had suggested; of going out in the boat, with the body, covered with a fur coat, in the bottom of the skiff: of throwing it into the current above the Ninth Street bridge, and of seeing the fur coat fall from the boat and carried beyond his reach; of disposing of the head near the Seventh Street bridge: of going to a drug store, as per the Howell instructions, and of coming home at four o'clock, to find me at the head of the stairs. [Illustration: While his wife slept.] Several points of confusion remained. One had been caused by Temple Hope's refusal to admit that the dress and hat that figured in the case were to be used by her the next week at the theater. Mr. Ladley insisted that this was the case, and that on that Sunday afternoon his wife had requested him to take them to Miss Hope; that they had quarreled as to whether they should be packed in a box or in the brown valise, and that he had visited Alice Murray instead. It was on the way there that the idea of finally getting rid of Jennie Brice came to him. And a way--using the black and white striped dress of the dispute. Another point of confusion had been the dismantling of his room that Monday night, some time between the visit of Temple Hope and the return of Mr. Holcombe. This was to obtain the scrap of paper containing the list of clues as suggested by Mr. Howell, a clue that might have brought about a premature discovery of the so-called hoax. To the girl he had told nothing of his plan. But he had told her she was to leave town on an early train the next morning, going as his wife; that he wished her to wear the black and white dress and hat, for reasons that he would explain later, and to be veiled heavily, that to the young man who would put her on the train, and who had seen Jennie Brice only once, she was to be Jennie Brice; to say as little as possible and not to raise her veil. Her further instructions were simple: to go to the place at Horner where Jennie Brice had planned to go, but to use the name of "Bellows" there. And after she had been there for a day or two, to go as quietly as possible to New York. He gave her the address of a boarding-house where he could write her, and where he would join her later. He reasoned in this way: That as Alice Murray was to impersonate Jennie Brice, and Jennie Brice hiding from her husband, she would naturally discard her name. The name "Bellows" had been hers by a previous marriage and she might easily resume it. Thus, to establish his innocence, he had not only the evidence of Howell and Bronson that the whole thing was a gigantic hoax; he had the evidence of Howell that he had started Jennie Brice to Horner that Monday morning, that she had reached Horner, had there assumed an incognito, as Mr. Pitman would say, and had later disappeared from there, maliciously concealing herself to work his undoing. In all probability he would have gone free, seeing no one in the church in all that throng but the boy who waited at the end of the long church aisle--I wanted to run out and claim her, my own blood, my more than child. I sat down and covered my face. And from the pew behind me some one leaned over and patted my shoulder. "Miss Bess!" old Isaac said gently. "Don't take on, Miss Bess!" He came the next day and brought me some lilies from the bride's bouquet, that she had sent me, and a bottle of champagne from the wedding supper. I had not tasted champagne for twenty years! That is all of the story. On summer afternoons sometimes, when the house is hot, I go to the park and sit. I used to take Peter, but now he is dead. I like to see Lida's little boy; the nurse knows me by sight, and lets me talk to the child. He can say "Peter" quite plainly. But he does not call Alma "Grandmother." The nurse says she does not like it. He calls her "Nana." Lida does not forget me. Especially at flood-times, apologies, the chiffon gown her mother had worn at her wedding. Alma had never worn it but once, and now she was too stout for it. I took it; I am not proud, and I should like Molly Maguire to see it. Mr. Holcombe asked me last night to marry him. He says he needs me, and that I need him. I am a lonely woman, and getting old, and I'm tired of watching the gas meter; and besides, with Peter dead, I need a man in the house all the time. The flood district is none too orderly. Besides, when I have a wedding dress laid away and a bottle of good wine, it seems a pity not to use them. I think I shall do it. THE END 
54979	----	Google Books (the University of Wisconsin-Madison) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page Scan Source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=oILQAAAAMAAJ (the University of Wisconsin-Madison) [Illustration: Cover] POPULAR NOVELS BY FERGUS HUME ============================= A COIN OF EDWARD VII. _The Philadelphia Item_ says: "This book is quite up to the level of the high standard which Mr. Hume has set for himself in 'The Mystery of a Hansom Cab' and 'The Rainbow Feather.' It is a brilliant, stirring adventure, showing the author's prodigious inventiveness, his well of imagination never running dry." 12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25 THE PAGAN'S CUP _The Nashville American_ says: "The plot is intricate with mystery and probability neatly dovetailed and the solution is a series of surprises skillfully retarded to whet the interest of the reader. It is excellently written and the denouement so skillfully concealed that one's interest and curiosity are kept on edge till the very last. It will certainly be a popular book with a very large class of readers." 12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25 Paper covers, 50cts. THE RAINBOW FEATHER _The Boston Ideas_ says "The plot is worked out very effectively and each character serves the author's purpose very forcibly. The narration is brisk and experienceful, and renders the tale thoroughly enjoyable. It is strongly written, and excellently colored in all its features." 12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25 Paper covers, 50cts. CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE _The Philadelphia Item_ says: "It is a very clever story, which runs on smoothly from start to finish, holding the reader's interest--as do every solitary one of the Hume stories, to the very last sentence. Everybody who likes good detective fiction or who has read Mr. Hume before should not miss this excellent story." Paper cover, 50cts. ======================== G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK [Illustration: Lola pulled a white packet from her breast and ran with it to the fire. George shot past her, snatched them out before they could catch alight, and thrust them into his pocket.--(_Page 296_.)] THE YELLOW HOLLY BY FERGUS HUME AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER," "A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP," "CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE," ETC. G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1903, by G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY _Issued October 1, 1908_ CONTENTS CHAPTER I. "MRS. JERSEY RECEIVES" II. BRENDON'S STORY III. THE NEXT MORNING IV. A NINE-DAYS' WONDER V. A LOVERS' MEETING VI. WHAT MR. IRELAND KNEW VII. THE RED MAN VIII. A BACCHANTE IX. CLEVER MRS. WARD X. DIPLOMACY XI. MR. BAWDSEY AT HOME XII. A FIRESIDE TYRANT XIII. A WOMAN SCORNED XIV. MRS. WARD'S TRUMP CARD XV. A RECOGNITION XVI. THE PIPE OF PEACE XVII. LORD DERRINGTON EXPLAINS XVIII. MISS BULL'S STORY XIX. THE INQUIRY AGENT XX. THE TROUBLE OF LOLA XXI. THE CONFESSION OF A JEALOUS WOMAN XXII. WHO BAWDSEY WAS XXIII. THE TURNING OF THE LANE XXIV. A STARTLING SURPRISE XXV. THE TRUTH THE YELLOW HOLLY CHAPTER I "MRS. JERSEY RECEIVES" She did not put the sacramental phrase on her cards, as no invitations were sent out. These were delivered verbally by boarders desirous of seeing their friends present on Friday evening. Mrs. Jersey dignified her gatherings with the name of "At Homes," but in truth the term was too majestic for the very mild entertainment she provided weekly. It was really a scratch party of nobodies, and they assembled as usual in the drawing-room on this especial evening, to play and not to work. Mrs. Taine laid aside her eternal knitting; Miss Bull dispensed with her game of "Patience;" Mr. Granger sang his one song of the early Victorian Epoch--sometimes twice when singers were scarce; and Mr. Harmer wore his antiquated dress-suit. On these festive occasions it was tacitly understood that all were to be more or less "dressy," as Mrs. Jersey put it, and her appearance in "the diamonds" signalized the need of unusual adornment. These jewels were the smallest and most inferior of stones; but diamonds they undeniably were, and the boarders alluded to them as they would have done to the Kohinoor. In her black silk gown, her lace cap, and "the diamonds" Mrs. Jersey looked--so they assured her--quite the lady. Was she a lady? No one ever asked that leading question, as it would have provoked an untruth or a most unpleasant reply. She admitted in expansive moments to having seen "better days," but what her actual past had been--and from her looks she had one--none ever discovered. The usual story, produced by an extra glass of negus, varied so greatly in the telling that the most innocent boarder doubted. But Mrs. Jersey was always treated with respect, and the boarders called her "Madame" in quite a French way. Why they should do so, no one ever knew, and Mrs. Jersey herself could not have explained. But the term had become traditional, and in that conservative mansion tradition was all-powerful. Few friends presented themselves on this particular Friday evening, for it was extremely foggy, and none of them could afford cabs. Even those who patronized the nearest bus line, had some distance to walk before they knocked at the Jersey door, and thus ran a chance of losing their way. Either in light or darkness the house was hard to find, for it occupied the corner of a particularly private square far removed from the Oxford Street traffic. As a kind of haven or back-water, it received into its peace those who found the current of the River of Life running too strong. Decayed ladies, disappointed spinsters, superannuated clerks, retired army officers, bankrupt dreamers--these were the derelicts which had drifted hither. Mrs. Jersey called these social and commercial failures "paying guests," which flattered their pride and cost nothing. She was something of a humbug, and always ready with the small change of politeness. It was quite an asylum for old age. None of the guests were under fifty, save a newcomer who had arrived the previous week, and they wondered why he came amongst them. He was young, though plain-looking; he was fashionably dressed, though stout, and he chatted a West-End jargon, curiously flippant when contrasted with their prim conversation. This was the first time he had been present at Madame's reception, and he was explaining his reasons for coming to Bloomsbury. Mrs. Jersey introduced him as "Leonard Train, the distinguished novelist," although he had published only one book at his own cost, and even that production was unknown to the boarders. They read _Thackeray_ and his contemporaries, and manifested a proper scorn for the up-to-date novelist and his analytical methods. Mr. Train, with a complacency which showed that he entertained the highest opinion of his own powers, stood on the hearth-rug, and delivered himself of his errand to Bloomsbury. "Fashionable novelists," said he, in a still, small voice, which contrasted curiously with his massive proportions, "have overdone the business of society and epigrams. We must revert to the Dickens style. I have therefore taken up my residence here for a brief period to study Old-World types." Here he looked round with a beaming smile. "I am glad to find so rich a field to glean." This doubtful compliment provoked weak smiles. The boarders did not wish to be rude, but they felt it was impossible to approve of the young man. Not being sufficiently modern to court notoriety, one and all disliked the idea of being "put in a book." Mrs. Taine, conscious of her weak grammar, looked uneasily at Miss Bull, who smiled grimly and then glared at Train. Granger drew himself up and pulled his gray mustache; he was the buck of the establishment, and Harmer nodded, saying, "Well, well!" his usual remark when he did not understand what was going on. Only Madame spoke. Train had taken a sitting-room as well as a bedroom, therefore he must be rich, and as he had not haggled over terms it was necessary that he should be flattered. Mrs. Jersey saw a chance of making money out of him. "How delightful," she said in her motherly manner; "I hope you will say nice things about us, Mr. Train." "I shall tell the truth, Madame. The truth does not flatter." Mrs. Jersey became still more motherly and paid a compliment. "That depends, Mr. Train. If the truth were spoken about you, for instance." It was really a very nice compliment; but Miss Bull, with malice aforethought, spoilt it in the utterance by laughing pointedly. Train, who had already set his face for a smile, grew red, and Madame darted a look at Miss Bull quite out of keeping with her motherly manner. More than this, she spoke her mind. "I hope, Mr. Train, that you will speak the whole truth of _some_ of us." Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders, and in direct contradiction to the traditions of the evening produced her pack of cards. She played a complicated game called "The Demon," and never went to bed until she had achieved success at least thrice. Even when driven from the drawing-room she would finish the game in her bedroom, and sometimes sat up half the night when her luck was bad. To abstain on this society evening always annoyed her, and since Madame had been rude Miss Bull seized the opportunity to show her indifference, and enjoy, by doing so, her favorite pastime. She was a small, thin, dry old maid, with a pallid face and bright black eyes. Her mouth was hard, and smiled treacherously. No one liked her save Margery, the niece of Mrs. Jersey. But Margery was supposed to be queer, so her approval of Miss Bull mattered little. "Perhaps Mr. Granger will oblige us with a song," suggested Madame, smoothing her face, but still inwardly furious. Mr. Granger, who had been waiting for this moment, was only too happy. He knew but one song, and had sung it dozens of times in that very room. It was natural to suppose that he knew it by heart. All the same he produced his music, and read the words as he sang. Margery played his accompaniment without looking at the notes. She was as familiar with them as she was with the moment when Mr. Granger's voice would crack. This night he cracked as usual, apologized as usual, and his hearers accepted the apology as usual, so it was all very pleasant. "'The Death of Nelson,'" said Granger, "is a difficult song to sing when the singer is not in voice. The fog, you know----" "Quite so," murmured Train, politely. "Do you know 'Will-o-the-Wisp,' Mr. Granger?" Mr. Granger did not, much to his regret, and Mr. Harmer joined in the conversation. "Now there's a song," said he--"'Will-o-the-Wisp.' I knew a man who could bring the roof down with that song. Such lungs!" "I don't love that loud shouting, myself," said Mrs. Taine in her fat voice. "Give me something soft and low, like 'My Pretty Jane!'" "Ah! you should have heard Sims Reeves sing it," said Harmer. "I have heard him," said Leonard, to whom the remark was addressed. Harmer was annoyed. "Perhaps you have heard Grisi and Mario also?" "No, sir. But my grandfather did." "Probably," said Harmer, glancing at his fresh face and bald head in a near mirror. "I was a mere child myself when I heard them. Do you know much about music, Mr. Train?" "I have heard it a good deal talked about," replied Leonard, with the air of saying something clever. "And great rubbish they talk," put in Mrs. Taine, smoothing one hand over the other. "In my young days we talked of Wagner and Weber. Now it is all Vagner and Veber--such affectation." "Ah! manners are not what they used to be," sighed another old lady, who prided herself on her straight back and clear eyesight. "Nor singers," said Mr. Granger. "There are no voices nowadays, none." "What about Calve and Melba?" asked Leonard. "Those are foreigners," said Mr. Granger, getting out of the difficulty. "I speak of our native talent, sir." "Melba comes from Australia." "She is not English--a foreigner, I tell you. Don't talk to me, sir." Mr. Granger was becoming restive at being thus contradicted, and privately thought Leonard an impertinent young man. Madame, seeing that the old gentleman was ruffled, hastily intervened. "If Mrs. Taine will play us the 'Canary Bird Quadrilles' how pleased we shall be." Mrs. Taine obliged, and Harmer hung over the piano, quite enraptured at these airs which recalled his hot youth. Afterward he begged for the "Mabel Waltz." Meantime Margery was sitting in the corner with Miss Bull, and both were engrossed with "Patience." Madame, under cover of the music, talked with Train. "You mustn't mind the guests," she said; "they are old and require to be humored." "It's most amusing, Madame. I shall stop here three weeks to pick up types." "Oh! you must stay longer than that," said Madame, smiling and patting his hand, still in a motherly way; "now, that you have found us out, we cannot lose you. By the way--" here Mrs. Jersey's eyes became very searching--"how did you find us out?" "It was a friend of mine, Madame. He knew that I wanted to get into the Dickens world, and suggested this house. I am not disappointed--oh, not at all--" and Leonard glanced at Margery, who was fat, dull and stupid in her looks. She certainly resembled one of Dickens's characters, but he could not recollect which at the moment. "Do I know the gentleman?" asked Madame, who seemed anxious. "I don't think so. But he is coming to see me to-night." "You must ask him in here and introduce him. I should like to thank him for having recommended my house." "We were going to have a conversation in my room," said Train, dubiously; "he's such a shy fellow that I don't think he'll come in." "Oh! but, he must; I love young people." Madame looked round and shrugged. "It is rather dreary here at times, Mr. Train." "I can quite believe that," replied Leonard, who already was beginning to find the Dickens types rather boring. "Who is that tall old man with the long hair?" "Hush! He may hear you. His name is Rasper. A great inventor, a most distinguished man." "What has he invented?" "Oh, all sorts of things," replied Mrs. Jersey, vaguely. "His name is quite a household word in Clapham. See, he's inventing something now." Mr. Rasper, who had rather a haggard appearance, as though he used his brains too much, was glooming over the back of an envelope and the stump of a pencil. He frowned as he chewed this latter, and seemed bent upon working out an abstruse problem. "But it will really will not do, Mr. Train," said Madame, shaking her head till "the diamonds" twinkled; "this is our evening of relaxation. But Miss Bull, against all precedent, is playing 'Patience,' and here is Mr. Rasper inventing." She rose to interrupt Mr. Rasper, but remained to ask Leonard if his friend was stopping the night. "He will if he comes at all," replied Leonard, looking at his watch; "but if the fog is very thick I don't know if he'll turn up. It is now nine o'clock." "We usually disperse at eleven," said Madame, "but on this night I must break up at ten, as I have--" she hesitated--"I have business to do." "I won't trouble you, Madame," said Train; "my friend and I can have supper in my room." "That's just it," said Madame, and her voice became rather hard. "I beg, Mr. Train, that you and your friend will not sit up late." "Why not? We both wish to smoke and talk." "You can do that in the daytime, Mr. Train. But my house is most respectable, and I hope you will be in bed before eleven." Leonard would have protested, as he objected to this sort of maternal government, but Mrs. Jersey rustled away, and he was left to make the best of it. Before he could collect his wits a message came that he was wanted. "By Jove! it's George," he said and hurried out of the room. Mrs. Jersey overheard the name. "I suppose his friend is called George," she thought, and frowned. Her recollections of that name were not pleasant. However, she thought no more about the matter, but rebuked Mr. Rasper for his inattention to the 'Mabel Waltz.' "It is so sweet of Mrs. Taine to play it." "I beg pardon--beg pardon," stuttered Rasper, putting away his envelope and looking up with a dreamy eye. "I was inventing a new bootjack. I hope to make my fortune out of it." Madame smiled pityingly. She had heard that prophecy before, but poor Rasper's inventions had never succeeded in getting him the house in Park Lane he was always dreaming about. But she patted his shoulder and then sailed across to Miss Bull. "The music doesn't please you, Miss Bull," she said in rather an acid tone. "It's very nice," replied the old maid, dealing the cards, "but I have heard the 'Mabel Waltz' before." "You may not have the chance of hearing it again," said Madame. Miss Bull shrugged her shoulders to signify that it did not matter. "I suppose that means Mrs. Taine is about to leave us, she said. "There may be changes in the establishment soon, Miss Bull." "It's a world of change," replied Miss Bull, in her sharp voice. "Margery, was that a heart?" Margery pointed a fat finger to the card in question, and Miss Bull muttered something about her eyesight getting worse. Madame knew that this was just done to annoy her, as Miss Bull's sight was excellent. To revenge herself she took Margery away. "Go and tell the servants to send up the negus and sandwiches," she said sharply. Margery rose heavily. She was a huge girl of twenty years of age, and apparently very stupid. Why sharp little Miss Bull, who loved no one, had taken to her no one knew; but the two were inseparable. Seeing this, Madame usually kept Margery hard at work in other quarters so as to part her from the old maid. But with the cunning of an animal--and Margery was very much of that type--the girl managed to see a great deal of her one friend. Madame had an idea of the reason for this, but at the present moment did not think it was necessary to interfere. She was quite capable of crushing Miss Bull when the need arose. Meantime she vented her temper by sending Margery away. The girl departed with a scowl and an angry look at her aunt. But Miss Bull never raised her eyes, though she was well aware of what was going on. Madame was not to be beaten. "I tell you what, dear Miss Bull," she said, smiling graciously, "since you have broken through our rule, and have produced the cards, you shall tell all our fortunes." "Yours?" asked Miss Bull, looking up for the first time. Madame shook her head. "I know mine. Tell Mr. Rasper if his invention will succeed. Or, perhaps, Mr. Granger?" "I am at Miss Bull's service," said the polite old gentleman bowing. Miss Bull swept the cards into a heap. "I'm quite willing," she said in a voice almost pleasant for her. "Anything to oblige dear Madame." Mrs. Jersey smiled still more graciously and sailed away to send Mr. Harmer to the cards. But she wondered inwardly why Miss Bull had given way so suddenly. There was some reason for it, as Miss Bull never did anything without a reason. But Mrs. Jersey kept her own counsel, and still continued to smile. She had quite made up her mind how to act. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, standing in the middle of the drawing-room, "we must disperse to-night at ten. I have some business to attend to, so I request you will all retire at that hour. In the mean time, Miss Bull has kindly consented to tell your fortunes." It was extraordinary to see how those withered old people crowded round the table. Their several fates had long since been settled, so what they could expect the cards to tell them, save that they would one and all die soon, it is difficult to say. Yet so ineradicable is the wish to know the future in the human breast that they were as eager as youth to hear what would befall them. And Miss Bull, wholly unmoved by their senile excitement, dealt the cards with the air of a sphinx. Madame meantime retired to her throne, and saw that the servants arranged the tray properly. She had a gigantic chair, which was jokingly called her throne, and here she received strangers in quite a majestic way. It was a sort of Lady Blessington reception on a small scale, as Mr. Harmer assured her, and, as he had been to Gore House in his youth, he knew what he was talking about. Knowing his courtly manners, and being greedy of compliments, Mrs. Jersey always tried to make him say that she resembled Lady Blessington. But this Mr. Harmer refused to do. Not that Mrs. Jersey was bad-looking. She had a fresh-colored face, bright black eyes, and plenty of white hair like spun silk. Her figure was stout, but she yet retained a certain comeliness which showed that she must have been a handsome woman in her youth. Her manners were motherly, but she showed a stern face toward Margery, and did not treat the girl so kindly as she might have done. As a rule, she had great self-command, but sometimes gave way to paroxysms of passion, which were really terrifying. But Margery alone had been witness of these, and Mrs. Jersey passed for a dear, gentle old lady. "Mr. Harmer is to be married," announced Mrs. Taine, leaving the circle round the card-table; "how extraordinary!" "So extraordinary that it can't possibly be true," said Mr. Harmer, dryly; "unless Madame will accept me," he added, bowing. "I should recommend Miss Bull," replied Madame very sweetly, but with a venomous note in her voice. She might as well have thought to rouse the dead, for Miss Bull paid not the slightest attention. In many ways the self-composed old maid was a match for Madame. At this moment Train entered, and after him came a tall young man, fair-haired and stalwart. He was handsome, but seemed to be ill at ease, and pulled his yellow mustache nervously as Train led him to the throne. "This is my friend," said Leonard, presenting him. "He just managed to get here, for the fog is so thick----" Here he was interrupted. "Madame!" cried Mrs. Taine, "what is the matter? Mr. Harmer, the water--wine--quick." There was need of it. Mrs. Jersey had fallen back on the throne with a white face and twitching lips. She appeared as though about to faint, but restraining herself with a powerful effort she waved her hand to intimate that she needed nothing. At the same time her eyes were fastened, not so much on the face of the stranger as on a piece of yellow holly he wore in his coat. "I am perfectly well," said Mrs. Jersey. "This is only one of my turns. I am glad to see you, Mr.----" "Brendon," said the stranger, who seemed astonished at this reception. "George Brendan," interpolated Train, who was alive with curiosity; "have you seen him before, Madame?" Mrs. Jersey laughed artificially. "Certainly not," she replied calmly, "and yours is not a face I should forget, Mr.----Brendon." She uttered the name with a certain amount of hesitation as though she was not sure it was the right one. George nodded. "My name is Brendan," he said rather unnecessarily, and Mrs. Jersey nodded in her most gracious manner. "I bid you welcome sir; any friend of Mr. Train's is also my friend. If there is anything to amuse you here?" She waved her hand. "We are simple people. Fortune-telling--a little music and the company of my guests. Mrs. Taine, Mr. Harmer!" She introduced them, but every now and then her eyes were on the yellow holly. Brendan remarked it. "You are noticing my flower, Mrs. Jersey," he said. "It is rather rare." "Most extraordinary," replied Mrs. Jersey, coolly. "I have seen holly with red berries before, but this yellow----" "There was a great bush of it in my father's garden," said Mr. Harmer, "but I have not seen any for years." "Perhaps you would like it, Mrs. Jersey," said Brendan, taking it from his coat. She hastily waved her hand. "No! no! I am too old for flowers. Keep it, Mr. Brendan. It suits better with your youth," she looked at his face keenly. "I have seen a face like yours before." Brendan laughed. "I am of a commonplace type, I fear," he said. "No; not so very common. Fair hair and dark eyes do not usually go together. Perhaps I have met your father?" "Perhaps," replied George, phlegmatically. "Or your mother," persisted Mrs. Jersey. "I dare say!" Then he turned the conversation. "What a delightful old house you have here!" Mrs. Jersey bit her lip on finding her inquiries thus baffled, but taking her cue expanded on the subject of the house. "It was a fashionable mansion in the time of the Georges," she said. "Some of the ceilings are wonderfully painted, and there are all kinds of queer rooms and cupboards and corners in it. And so quiet. I dare say," she went on, "this room was filled with beaux and belles in powder and patches. What a sight, Mr. Brendon--what a sight! Will you have some negus? Port-wine negus, Mr. Brendan." She was evidently talking at random, and offered him a glass of negus with a trembling hand. Brendan; evidently more and more astonished at her manner, drank off the wine. He made few remarks, being a man who spoke little in general company. Train had long ago gone to hear Miss Bull tell fortunes and, from the laughter, it was evident that his future was being prophesied. "No! no!" cried Train, "I shall never marry. A literary man should keep himself away from the fascinations of female society." "Do you agree with that, Mr. Brendan?" asked Mrs. Jersey, curiously. He shook his head and laughed. "I am not a hermit, Mrs. Jersey." "Then Miss Bull must prophesy about your marriage. Come!" At first Brendon was unwilling to go, but after some persuasion he submitted to be led to the table. Miss Bull was quite willing to do what was asked of her, and spread out the cards. Brendon waited beside Mrs. Jersey with a most indifferent air. She was far more anxious to hear the fortune than he was. "You are in trouble," announced Miss Bull in a sepulchral tone, "and the trouble will grow worse. But in the end all will be well. She will aid you to get free and will bestow her hand on you." "She?" asked Brendon, looking puzzled. Miss Bull did not raise her eyes. "The lady you are thinking of." Brendon was rather taken aback, but seeing Mrs. Jersey's curious look he crushed down his emotion. "At my age we are always thinking of ladies," he said, laughing. Train touched his arm. "It is----" he began, but Brendon frowned, and Leonard was quick enough to take the hint. Miss Bull went on telling the fortune. There were the usual dark and fair people, the widow, the journey, the money, and all the rest of the general events and happenings which are usually foretold. But there was always trouble, trouble, and again trouble. "But you will come out right in the end," said Miss Bull. "Keep a brave heart." "I am sure Mr. Brendon will do that," said Madame, graciously. While George bowed to the compliment, Miss Bull again shuffled the cards and fastened her keen black eyes on Madame. "Will you have your fortune told?" she asked coldly. "Oh, certainly!" said Mrs. Jersey in a most gushing manner; "anything to amuse. But my fortune has been told so often, and has never come true--never," and she sighed in an effective manner. Miss Bull continued her mystic counting. She told Madame a lot of things about the house which were known to most present. Mrs. Jersey laughed and sneered. Suddenly Miss Bull turned up a black card, "You will meet with a violent death," she said, and every one shuddered. CHAPTER II BRENDON'S STORY If Miss Bull wished to make Madame uncomfortable she certainly succeeded. From being voluble, Mrs. Jersey became silent, the fresh color died out of her face, and her lips moved nervously. Twice did she make an effort to overcome her emotion, but each time failed. Afterward she took a seat by the fire, and stared into the flames with an anxious look, as though she saw therein a fulfillment of the dismal prophecy. Her depression communicated itself to the rest of the company, and shortly before ten the friends took their departure. The idea of being alone seemed to cheer Mrs. Jersey, and she accompanied her departing guests to the front door. It was a comparatively thick fog, yet not so bad but that the visitors might hope to reach their homes. For some time Mrs. Jersey stood in the doorway at the top of the steps, and shook hands with those who were going. The boarders, who were old and chilly, were too wise to venture outside on such a dreary night, so Mrs. Jersey had the door-step all to herself. "If you lose your ways," she called out to the visitors "come back. You can tell the house by the red light." She pointed to the fanlight of crimson glass behind which gas was burning. "I will keep that alight for another hour." The voices of thanks came back muffled by the fog, but Leonard and George waited to hear no more. They walked upstairs to Train's sitting-room, which was on the first floor. The windows looked out on to a back garden, wherein grew a few scrubby trees, so that the prospect was not cheering. But on this night the faded crimson curtains were drawn, the fire was lighted, and a round table in the middle of the apartment was spread for supper. On one side a door led to Leonard's bedroom, on the other side was the room wherein George was to sleep. As the fire-light played on the old-fashioned furniture and on the mellow colors of curtains and carpet, Leonard rubbed his hands. "It is rather quaint," he said cheerfully, and lighted the lamp. "Not such a palace as your diggings in Duke Street," said Brendon, stretching his long legs on the chintz-covered sofa. "One must suffer in the cause of art," said Train, putting the shade on the lamp. "I am picking up excellent types here. What do you think?" "There's plenty of material," growled Brendon, getting out his pipe. "Don't smoke yet, George," interposed Train, glancing at the clock. "We must have supper first. After that, we can smoke till eleven, and then we must go to bed." "You keep early hours here, Leonard." "I don't. Mrs. Jersey asked me particularly to be in bed at eleven." "Why?" Brendon started, and looked hard at his friend. "I don't know, but she did." "Is it an understood thing that you retire at that hour?" Train shook his head and drew in his chair. "By no means. I have sat up till two before now. But on this night Mrs. Jersey wants the house to be considered respectable, and therefore asked me to retire early. Perhaps it's on account of you, old man." Here he smiled in an amused manner. "She hopes to get you as a boarder." "I wouldn't come here for the world," retorted Brendon, with quite unnecessary violence. "Why not? Have some tongue!" "Thanks," responded George, passing his plate. "Because I don't like the house, and I don't care for Mrs. Jersey." "Why did you advise me to come here, then?" asked Train, pouring out a glass of claret. "Well, you wanted something in the style of Dickens, and this was the only place I knew." "How did you know about it?" George deliberated for a moment, and then fastened his eyes on his plate. "I lived here once," he said in a low voice. "Dear me," gasped Train, "what an extraordinary thing." "Why so? One must live somewhere." "But you didn't like Mrs. Jersey." "She was not here then." "Who was here?" "My grandfather on the mother's side. That's fifteen years ago." Leonard looked at the handsome, moody face of his friend, musingly. "I never knew you had a grandfather," he said at last. "Do you know anything at all about me?" asked Brendon. "No. Now I come to think of it, I don't. I met you three years ago at Mrs. Ward's house, and we have been friends ever since." "Acquaintances, rather. Men are not friends until they become confidential with one another. Well, Train," George pushed back his chair and wiped his mouth, "to-night I intend to turn you from a mere acquaintance into a friend." "I shall be delighted," said Train, rather bewildered. "Won't you have more supper?" Brendon shook his head, lighted his pipe, and again stretched himself on the sofa. Train, being curious to know what he had to say, was on the point of joining him. But he was yet hungry, so could not bring himself to leave the table. He therefore continued his supper, and, as Brendon seemed disinclined to talk, held his peace. Train's parents were dead, and had left him a snug little income of five thousand a year. Not being very strong-minded, and being more than a trifle conceited as to his literary abilities, his money speedily attracted round him a number of needy hangers-on, who flattered him to the top of his bent. They praised him to his face, sneered at him behind his back; ate his meat, borrowed his money, and kept him in a fools' paradise regarding human nature. Poor Leonard thought that all women were angels, and all men good fellows with a harmless tendency to borrow. Such a Simple Simon could not but be the prey of every scoundrel in London, and it said much for his moral nature that he touched all this pitch without being defiled. He was called a fool by those he fed, but none could call him a rogue. It was this simplicity which inspired Brendon with a pitying friendship; and Brendon had done much to save him from the harpies who preyed on this innocent. In several cases he had opened Train's eyes, at the cost of quarreling with those who lost by the opening. But George was well able to hold his own, and none could say that he benefited pecuniarily by the trust and confidence which Leonard reposed in him. To avert all suspicion of this sort he had refused to become Train's secretary and companion at an excellent salary. Brendon was poor and wanted that salary; but he valued his independence, and so preferred to fight for his own hand. However, he continued his services to Leonard as a kind of unofficial mentor. Now that Train came to think of it, Brendon was rather a mysterious person. He lived by writing articles for the papers, and was always well dressed. His rooms were in Kensington, and he seemed to know many people whom he did not cultivate. Train would have given his ears to enter the houses at which Brendon was a welcome guest. But for the most part George preferred to live alone with his pipe and his books. He was writing a novel, and hoped to make a successful career as a literary man. But as he was barely thirty years of age, and had been settled only five years in London, his scheme of life was rather in embryo. He appeared to have some secret trouble, but what it was Train never knew, as Brendon was a particularly reticent man. Why he should propose to be frank on this especial night Leonard could not understand. After supper he put the question to him. "Well," said Brendon, without moving or taking his eyes from the fire, "it's this way, Train. I know you are a kind-hearted man, and although you talk very freely about your own affairs, yet I know you can keep the secret of a friend." "You can depend upon that, George. Anything you tell me will never be repeated." Brendon nodded his thanks. "Also," he continued, "I wish you to lend me three hundred pounds." "A thousand if you will." "Three hundred will be sufficient. I'll repay you when I come into my property." Train opened his eyes. "Are you coming into money?" he asked. "That I can't say. It all depends! Do you know why I suggested this house to you, Leonard?" he asked suddenly. "To help me in my literary work." "That was one reason certainly, but I had another and more selfish one, connected--" George sat up to finish the sentence--"connected with Mrs. Jersey," he said quietly. This remark was so unexpected that Leonard did not know what to say for the moment. "I thought you did not know her," he gasped out. "Nor do I." "Does she know you?" "Not as George Brendon, or as I am now." "What do you mean?" Train was more puzzled than ever. "It's a long story. I don't know that I can tell you the whole." Train looked annoyed. "Trust me----" "All in all, or not at all," finished Brendon; "quite so." He paused and drew hard at his pipe. "Since I want money I must trust you." "Is it only for that reason that you consider me worthy of your confidence?" asked Leonard, much mortified. George leaned forward and patted him on the knee. "No, old man. I wish you to help me also." "In what way?" "With Dorothy Ward," replied George, looking closely at his pipe. "Was she in your mind to-night when that old maid was telling the cards?" asked Train, sitting up with a look of interest. Brendon nodded. "But I do not wish you to mention her name. That was why----" "I know. I was foolish. Well, she's a pretty girl, and as good as she is pretty." "Which is marvelous," said Brendon, "considering the fashionable mother she has." Train smiled. "Mrs. Ward is certainly a leader of fashion." "And as heartless as any woman I know," observed Brendon. He glanced affectionately at the yellow holly. "Dorothy gave me this to-night." "Did you see her before you came here?" "Yes. I went to afternoon tea. We--" Brendon examined his pipe again--"we understand one another," he said. Leonard sprang to his feet. "My dear chap, I congratulate you." "Thanks! but it's too early for congratulation as yet. Mrs. Ward wants her daughter to make a good marriage. George Brendon will not be the husband of her choice, but Lord Derrington!" "Does she want her daughter to marry that old thing?" "You don't understand, Leonard. I mean that if I become Lord Derrington when the old man dies Mrs. Ward will consent." Train sat down helplessly and stared. "I don't understand," he said. "I'll put the thing in a nutshell," explained Brendon. "Lord Derrington is my grandfather." "Your--but he never lived here?" "No. The grandfather who lived here, and with whom I stayed, was my mother's father. He was called Lockwood. Derrington is my father's father. Now do you understand?" "Not quite! How can you become Lord Derrington when he has a grandson--that young rip Walter Vane!" "Walter Vane is the son of my father's brother, and my father was the elder and the heir to the title." "Then, if Lord Derrington dies you become----" "Exactly. But the difficulty is that I have to establish my birth." Leonard jumped up and clutched his hair. "Here's a mystery," he said, staring at his friend. "What does it all mean?" "Sit down and I'll tell you!" Leonard resumed his seat and glanced at the clock. "We have a quarter of an hour," he said, "but I think we'll defy Mrs. Jersey and sit up this night." "No," said Brendon, hastily; "we may as well do what she wants. I wish to conciliate her. She is the only person who can help to prove my mother's marriage." "Humph! I thought there was something queer about her. Who was she?" "My mother's maid! But I had better tell you from the beginning." Train sat down and produced a cigarette. "Go on," he said; "no, wait! I want to know before you begin why Mrs. Jersey was so struck with that yellow holly?" This time it was Brendon who looked puzzled. "I can't say, Leonard." "Do you think she connected it with some disaster?" asked Train. "From her looks, when she set eyes on it, I should think so!" "Does Miss Ward know Mrs. Jersey?" "No. She knows nothing about her." "And it was Miss Ward who gave you the yellow holly?" "Yes. When I was at afternoon tea." "Then I can't see why Mrs. Jersey should have made such a spectacle of herself," said Leonard, lighting his cigarette. "Tell your story." "I'll do so as concisely as possible," said Brendon, staring into the fire. "My mother was the daughter of Anthony Lockwood, who was a teacher of singing, and lived here. She--I am talking of my mother--was very beautiful, and also became famous as a singer at concerts. The son of Lord Derrington, Percy Vane, saw her and loved her. He subsequently eloped with her. She died in Paris two years later, shortly after I was born." "And you came to live here?" "Not immediately. I was but an infant in arms, but my father would not part with me. He kept Mrs. Jersey--she was my mother's maid, remember--as my nurse, and we went to Monte Carlo. I am afraid my poor father was a bit of a scamp. He was at all events a gambler, and lost all his money at the tables. He became poor, and his father, Lord Derrington, refused to help him." "He was angry at the marriage, I suppose?" "That's the point. Was there a marriage? But to make things clear I had better go on as I started. My father went to San Remo, and from that place he sent me home to my grandfather Lockwood." "With Mrs. Jersey?" "No. By that time Mrs. Jersey had left; I had another nurse, and it was she who took me to this house. My grandfather was delighted to have me, as he always insisted that there was a marriage. I grew up here, and went to school, afterward to college. My grandfather died, but there was just enough money to finish my education. The house was sold, and by a curious coincidence Mrs. Jersey took it as a boarding establishment. Where she got the money I don't know. But I passed out of her life as a mere infant, and I don't suppose she thought anything more about me. Perhaps she recognized me to-night from my likeness to my father, as she mentioned that she had seen my face before. But I can't say." "What became of your father?" "That is the tragic part of the story. He was murdered at a masked ball at San Remo. The assassin was never discovered, but it was supposed to be some passionate Italian lover. My grandfather Lockwood was so angry at the way in which his daughter had been treated that he never stood up for my rights. I would not do so, either, but that I love Miss Ward. Now, it is my intention to see Mrs. Jersey to-morrow and get the truth out of her." "What does she know?" "She knows where the marriage was celebrated, and can prove that my birth is legitimate. That is why I came here, Leonard." "Why did you not speak to her to-night?" "I think it is better she should be in a quieter frame of mind," said Brendon. "She has never seen me since I was a small child, and my name of Brendon is quite unknown to her." "Why do you call yourself Brendon?" asked Train. George began to pace up and down the room. "Pride made me do that," he declared. "When my father was murdered at San Remo, Lord Derrington denied the marriage, and refused to do anything for me. My grandfather Lockwood gave me his own name, and I was called George Lockwood for many a long day. At the age of fifteen Mr. Lockwood died, and then a note came to my guardian saying that Lord Derrington proposed to allow me a small income." "For what reason?" "I can't say. Perhaps it was remorse." Train shook his head. "I have met Lord Derrington, and if such an old Tartar feels remorse, then there is a chance that pigs may fly." "That's an elegant illustration, Leonard," observed George, with a smile; "but to continue (as I see it is nearly eleven), even as a boy I felt the indignity put upon me. I refused, with the permission of my guardian, the offered sum, and continued at school. When I left to go to college I changed my name so that Lord Derrington should not have the chance of insulting me further or of knowing who I was. My guardian suggested Brendon, so as that was as good a name as another I took it. Hence Mrs. Jersey can't possibly know me, or why I came to see her. She will be wiser in the morning," added Brendon grimly. "But she evidently saw in you some likeness to your father." "Evidently. From all I have heard Mrs. Jersey was in love with my father, even though she was only a lady's maid. But I know very little about her. My business here is to learn. "But why has she kept silent all these years?" Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "She has had no inducement to speak out," he said; "that is why I wish you to lend me three hundred pounds, Leonard. She will require a bribe." "And a larger one than that, George. A woman like Mrs. Jersey would not part with such a secret for so small a sum." "Oh, I can pay her what she demands when in possession of the estates. But at present she will want to see the color of my money." Train stared into the fire meditating on this queer story, which was quite a romance. Then he saw an obstacle. "George," he said, "even if you prove that you are the heir you won't get any money. Lord Derrington is still living." "Yes, and from all accounts he means to go on living like the truculent old tyrant he is. But the estates are entailed, and must come to me when he dies, and, of course, the title is mine, too, when he is done with it. If Mrs. Jersey learns these facts, she will come to terms, on a promise of money when I inherit." "Then you will speak to her in the morning?" "Yes. She is the only person who can right me. But I mean to be the husband of Dorothy Ward, and my only chance to get round the mother is to prove my legitimacy." "I don't think Miss Ward cares much for her mother." "Who could?" asked Brendon, cynically. "She is a worthless little canary-bird. But I tell you, Leonard, that frivolous as Mrs. Ward appears to be, she is a most determined woman, with an iron will. She will make her daughter do as she is bid, and will sell her to the highest bidder. As Lord Derrington's grandson and acknowledged heir, I have a good chance. As George Brendon--" he stopped as the clock struck eleven--"as George Brendon I am going to bed." Train rose to light the candles which stood on a side-table, yawning as he did so. He was much interested in Brendon's story, but the telling of it had tired him. "I shall sleep like a top to-night." "Well, get to bed. I'll put out the lamp," said George, and did so. "No," said Leonard, taking a candlestick in either hand. "I'll see you to your virtuous couch," and he preceded him into the bedroom. It was a quaint apartment, with heavy mahogany furniture and a Turkey carpet. Entering from the sitting-room, George saw that the bed was directly opposite the door. "It's been moved since my time." "What?" cried Leonard, setting down the candles, "Is the furniture the same your grandfather had?" "Yes. Mrs. Jersey bought the house and its contents. They are old-fashioned enough in all conscience. Look at that ugly wardrobe." He pointed to one against the inner wall and opposite the window. "The mirror in that used to frighten me as a little chap. It looked so ghostly in the moonlight. Humph! it's years and years since I slept in my old bed," said Brendon, taking off his coat. "I should dream the dreams of childhood now that I am back again. But you needn't say anything of this, Leonard." "Of course not," replied the other. "And you need not smash your yellow holly by leaving it in your coat all night. Put it in water." "No." George stopped the too officious Leonard. "Dorothy put it into my coat, and there it shall remain. The berries are firm and won't fall. I'll see to that. Hush!" "What's the matter?" asked Train, startled. For answer, Brendon quickly extinguished both candles, and pointed to the door of the sitting-room, which stood half open. "Not a word," he murmured to Train, grasping his wrist to enforce attention. "I heard a footstep." The two men stood in the darkness, silent and with beating hearts. A glimmer of light came from the fire and struck across into the bedroom. Leonard listened with all his ears. He distinctly heard stealthy footsteps coming along the passage, which was on the other side of the wall against which stood the wardrobe. The footsteps paused at the sitting-room door. They heard this open, and scarcely dared to breathe. Some one entered the room, and waited for a moment or so, evidently listening. Then the door was opened and closed again, and the footsteps died away. Even then Brendon stopped Leonard from lighting the candles. "Go to bed in the dark," he said softly. "Was it Mrs. Jersey?" asked Leonard. "Of course it was. She came to see if you were in bed." "But why should she?" "I can't say. There's something queer about that old woman. Get to bed, Leonard. You can light your candle in your own room. I shall not light mine." Train was bursting with indignation. "But it's absurd to be treated like a couple of schoolboys," he said, taking his candlestick. "There's more in it than that," said Brendon, pushing him to the door. "Get to bed, and make no noise. We can talk in the morning." Train darted across the sitting-room, and retired. Brendon closed his door softly, and listened again. There was no return of the footsteps, so he slipped into bed without relighting the candle. The clock in the sitting-room chimed a quarter past eleven. CHAPTER III THE NEXT MORNING "Fogs and smokes and chokes," said the fat cook, her elbows on the table, and a saucer of tea at her lips. "I wish I were back in Essex, that I do." "The fogs come from there," cried Jarvey, who was page-boy in the Jersey mansion, and knew more than was good for him. "If they drained them marshes, fogs wouldn't come here. Old Rasper says so, and knows a lot, he does." "He don't know Essex," grunted the cook. "A lovely county----" "For frogs," sniggered Jarvey, devouring his slice of bread. The housemaid joined in and declared for Devon, whence she came. The Swiss manservant talked of his native mountains, and was sneered at by the company generally as a foreigner. Jarvey was particularly insolent, and poor Fritz was reduced to swearing in his own language, whereupon they laughed the more. It was a most inspiriting beginning to the day's work. The kitchen in the basement was a large stone apartment, and even on the brightest of days not very well lighted. On this particular morning the gas was burning, and was likely to continue alight during the day, as the fog was as thick as ever. The servants collected round the table were having an early cup of tea. To assist the progress of digestion they conversed as above, and gradually drifted into talking of their mistress and of the boarders. Miss Bull in particular seemed to be disliked. "She's a sly cat, with that white face of hers," said the cook. "Twice she said the soup was burnt. I never liked her." "Madame don't, either," said Jarvey, ruffling his short hair. "They've been quarreling awful. I shouldn't wonder if Madame gave her notice." "Ah! Miss Margery will have something to say to that," chimed in the housemaid; "she likes Miss Bull." "'Cause Miss Bull makes much of her, and no one else does." "Well, for my part," said the cook, "I'm always civil to Miss Bull, though she is a cat. If the mistress died, Miss Margery would govern the house, and Miss Bull governs her. I don't want to lose no good situation through bad manners." "Madame ain't likely to die," said Jarvey; "she's as healthy as a stray dog, and as sharp. I don't care for old Miss Bull, or for stopping here, as I'm a-going to get a place as waiter at a club." "Ach, leetle boy, you will be no vaiter," said Fritz. "Shut your mouth, froggy," snapped Jarvey, and produced a cigarette. "Don't you smoke here, you brat," shrieked the cook, and, snatching it from his mouth, flung it into the fire. "Here's Madame's tea. Take it to her sitting-room. She's sure to be up and waiting." Jarvey showed fight at first, but as the cook had a strong arm he thought discretion the better part of valor, and went grumbling up the stairs. Mrs. Jersey was an early riser, and usually had a cup of tea in her sitting-room at seven o'clock. After this refresher she gave audience to the cook, looked over her tradesmen's books, and complained generally that the servants were not doing their duty. Madame was not at her best in the morning, and Jarvey went up most unwillingly. The housemaid should have gone, but when she could she sent Jarvey, and when he refused to go Fritz was dispatched to bear the brunt of Madame's anger. She usually scolded Fritz in French. When the boy went the servants continued chatting and eating. It was just on seven, and they were reluctantly rising to begin their duties, when a crash was heard and then a clatter of boots, "There," cried the cook, "that brat's been and smashed the tray. Won't Madame give it to him? Mercy! mercy!"--her voice leaped an octave--"he's mad!" This was because Jarvey, with his hair on end and his face perfectly white, tore into the kitchen. He raced round and round the table, his eyes starting from his head. The servants huddled together in fear, and the cook seized the toasting-fork. They all agreed with her that the page was mad. Suddenly Jarvey tumbled in a heap, and began to moan, with his face on the floor. "Oh! the blood--the blood!" "What's he saying about blood?" asked the scared cook. Jarvey leaped to his feet. "She's dead--she's murdered!" he shrieked. "I see her all covered with blood. Oh--mother--oh, I want my mother!" and down he dropped on the floor again, kicking and screaming. The boy was scared out of his life, and Fritz laid hold of him, while the other servants, headed by the valiant cook, ran up the stairs and burst into Madame's sitting-room, which was on the ground floor, and no great distance from the front door. The next moment they were out again, all shrieking murder and calling loudly for the police. The sleeping boarders took the alarm, and in the lightest of attire appeared on the stairs with white faces. The terrible word shrieked by a dozen voices through the silent house curdled the blood in their aged veins. What with the early hour, the fog, the gas, and the crying of the servants, it was like a nightmare. An hour later the police were in the house, summoned by Miss Bull, who alone of the boarders retained her head. As Margery, who was next in command after her aunt, could not be brought to do anything, Miss Bull took charge. It was Miss Bull who first ventured into the sitting-room where Madame, huddled up in a chair drawn to the table, lay face downward in such a position as to reveal a gaping wound in her neck. And it was Miss Bull who sent the servants back to the kitchen, who closed the door of the death-chamber, and who told Jarvey to fetch the nearest policeman. Consequently it was Miss Bull whom the inspector addressed, as she seemed to be the sole person in authority. Mrs. Taine retreated to her bedroom with a prayer-book, Mr. Granger went for a walk in the fog, Margery sat in a stupor, her eyes dull and her slack mouth awry. The little old maid, from being a nonentity, became a person of first-class importance. She displayed perfect tact and self-control in dealing with the terrified old men and women, and no one would have given her credit for such generalship. But the hour had come for Miss Bull to assert herself, and she proved to be equal to the occasion. "Now, then," said the inspector, when he had posted his men and was alone with Miss Bull in the drawing-room, "what do you know of this?" Miss Bull, her face white and drawn, her eyes sharper than ever, and her manner perfectly composed, shook her head. "I know absolutely nothing," she said in her monotonous voice. "Last night we had our usual reception, but it broke up at ten o'clock. Madame dismissed the guests at that hour, and stood in the doorway to do so. I retired to my bedroom with Madame's niece, and after a game of 'Patience' I went to bed." "Does Mrs. Jersey's niece sleep with you?" "Margery? No! She sleeps in a room above. It was a few minutes to eleven when she left me. I was in bed shortly after the clock struck the hour. I am sure Margery had nothing to do with it. She was quite devoted to her aunt, and as the poor girl has no money, I don't know how she will live now that Madame is dead." The inspector thought for a moment. He was a tall, thin man, rather military in appearance, and with a wooden, expressionless face, which he found of great service in hiding his thoughts when examining those he suspected. He certainly did not suspect Miss Bull, and seemed inclined to make her his coadjutor. In proof of this he made her accompany him to the room wherein Mrs. Jersey lay dead. "It's not far from the front door," mused Inspector Quex. "Could any one have entered?" "No, I am sure of that," put in Miss Bull, emphatically. "Madame always locked the front door every night herself and kept the key. It could not be opened in the morning until she chose." "Who opened it this morning?" "I did. I knew that the key would be in Madame's pocket." "And it was?" "Yes. She must have locked the door as usual, and then have gone to put the light out in her sitting-room before going upstairs." "Was that before eleven?" "I can't say. I did not leave my room after ten. But Margery may have seen some one as she went up to her bedroom when she left me." "I'll question the girl," said Quex, and entered the sitting-room. It was of no great size, with one window, which looked out onto the square. This was locked, and, even if it had not been, no one could have climbed in, as Quex saw that the area was below. "And Madame chained the area gate every night with her own hands," explained Miss Bull, who was watching him. The inspector turned suddenly toward her. "It seems to me that the deceased was over-cautious. Was she afraid?" "I think she was," admitted Miss Bull. "She had a habit of looking over her shoulder, and, as I have stated, was particular as to bolts and bars. But she was a secretive woman, and never said anything to me about her fears, if she had any." "Were you great friends?" "No," replied the old maid, bluntly, "we were not. Madame behaved in an extremely rude manner, and had she lived I should have given her notice. I never liked her," added Miss Bull, with feminine spite. "You'll be all the more likely to speak the truth then," said Quex, cynically, and turned to examine the body. Madame was still in the black-silk dress which she wore on the previous night. Seated at the round center-table, she had evidently been struck from behind, and killed before she had time to cry out. Her arms were on the table, and her head had fallen forward. The furniture of the room was not in disorder, the red table-cloth was not even ruffled. The murder had been committed without haste or noise, as Quex pointed out to Miss Bull. "Whosoever murdered her must have been a friend," said he. "It doesn't seem a friendly act to kill a defenseless woman," said Miss Bull, looking coldly on the limp figure. "You don't quite understand. What I mean is that Mrs. Jersey knew the person who killed her." Miss Bull shook her head. "I don't agree with you," she observed, and Quex was astonished that she should dare to contradict. "She was struck from behind, before she had time to turn her head." "Quite so. But the assassin must have entered the room, and unless the deceased was deaf----" "Madame had particularly sharp ears." "Then that makes it all the more certain. Had any one unexpected entered she would have been on the alert; there would have been a struggle. Now we see that the furniture is not disturbed, therefore we can argue from this that Mrs. Jersey was in friendly conversation with the assassin. She was seated at the table, and the assassin was at her back, which shows a certain amount of trust. In fact, Miss Bull, the person who committed this murder was the last person Mrs. Jersey expected to hurt her in any way." "She had no enemies that I knew of." "I talk rather of friends," said Quex, coolly. "You have not been listening to my argument." "Oh, I quite understand. But I don't fancy that Madame had any friends either. She was a woman who kept very much to herself." "Do you know anything of her past?" "Absolutely nothing. She took this house some fourteen or fifteen years ago, I believe. I have been here ten, and was very comfortable, save that Madame and I disagreed on many points. She was always rude to me, and I don't think she was a lady." Miss Bull drew herself up. "My father was a general," she declared proudly. But Quex was too busy examining the room to attend to Miss Bull's family history. He searched for the weapon with which the crime had been committed, but could find none. There was no blood on the furniture, although some had trickled down from the wound onto the table-cloth. The blow must have been struck strongly and surely, and with the power of a deadly hatred. It was at this moment that the doctor arrived, and, turning the body over to him, Quex conducted Miss Bull back to the drawing-room, where he examined all who were in the house. "Has any one left this morning?" he asked. Jarvey had seen Mr. Granger go out, and said so. Even while he was speaking Mr. Granger returned, and, filled with suspicion, Quex examined him first. Granger, when he saw what the inspector was bent upon, expressed the greatest indignation. "How dare you accuse a gentleman of such a thing?" he cried. "I went out to compose my nerves." "Into the fog?" asked Quex, doubtfully. "Yes, sir, and I should have gone out into snow and hail if I had desired. There was no intimation that none were to leave the house. Had a notice been given to that effect I should have remained." "I beg your pardon," said Quex, seeing that the old gentleman was fuming, and seeing also that such a senile creature, with so sheeplike a face, was innocent enough, "but it is my duty to be suspicious." "But not to accuse innocent people of a crime, sir." "No. But, for the sake of an example, will you tell me what you did with yourself since leaving the drawing-room last night at ten?" "Certainly. I have no reason to conceal my doings, officer," said Mr. Granger, angrily. "I retired to my bedroom at ten and to bed. The last I saw of Madame she was standing on the door-step bidding farewell to her guests. In the morning I was awakened by the news of the murder, and went out to walk off the horror produced by the sight of that poor woman." "Did you see the body?" "We all saw the body, till Miss Bull----" "I turned them out and locked the door," put in Miss Bull, sharply. "It was as well that nothing should be disturbed in the room till the police arrived. That was my argument." "And a very good one," said Quex, approvingly. "You have a head on your shoulders, Miss." "My father was a general," replied the old maid, nodding, "and I inherit his talent for organization." The next witness examined was Margery, and she refused to open her mouth unless she sat by Miss Bull. The old maid held Margery's hand and coaxed her into answering when she proved recalcitrant. Quex could not but admire the way in which Miss Bull managed the lumpish creature. "You left the drawing-room with this lady?" he asked, indicating Miss Bull, and speaking in a persuasive tone. "Yes. We played 'Patience' in Miss Bull's bedroom. I did it twice." "At what time did you leave?" "About eleven--just before it." "Did the clock strike the hour when you were in your own bedroom?" "No," said Margery, trying to collect her wits, "when I was in the passage." "What were you doing in the passage? It would only take you a few minutes to get to your room, would it not?" "Yes," put in Miss Bull. "My bedroom is on the second floor, and Margery's is on the fourth, right above my head. You could easily have got to your room before the clock struck, Margery. "I did try to," admitted the girl, "but my aunt kept me talking." Quex sat up. "Did you speak to your aunt at that hour?" "Yes. She met me walking up to my room, and scolded me for being out of bed at that hour. I said I had been with Miss Bull, and----" "And Madame made polite remarks about me," said the old maid, grimly. "Oh, I can well understand what she said. But it would seem, Mr. Inspector, that Margery was the last person to see Madame alive." "We'll see," said Quex, who was not going to be taught his business even by so clever a person as Miss Bull. "Was there any one else about?" he asked Margery. "No. My aunt said that every one was in bed but me, and that she would not have it. The clock struck eleven, and she called me names. She then took me by the arm and pushed me into my room and locked the door. Yes, she did," nodded Margery, vindictively; "she locked the door." "Why did she do that?" asked Quex staring. "I don't know. I wasn't doing anything," grumbled Margery, "but she said she wouldn't have me wandering about the house at all hours of the night and locked me in. I couldn't get out this morning till Miss Bull let me out." "Margery usually brings me my cup of tea," explained Miss Bull, "and as she did not come this morning as usual I was anxious. When the alarm came I went to look for Margery in her room. The key was in the door, but the door was locked. I released Margery." "Oh, the key was in the door," mused Quex. "It would seem, then, that the deceased simply turned the key and left it. Humph! I wonder why she locked the girl in?" Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders. "It was spite on her part," she said. "Madame never cared to see Margery with me." "Because I love you so," said the girl with an adoring look, and Miss Bull patted her hand fondly. It was strange, thought the inspector, that so clever and refined a woman should love so stupid and coarse-looking a girl. But like does not always draw to like. While Quex was thus examining the witnesses, Train and Brendon were seated in the sitting-room of the former, discussing the crime. Brendon was gloomy, for in the unexpected death of Mrs. Jersey he saw the downfall of his hopes of proving his legitimacy. "There's no chance of my marrying Dorothy now," he said with a sigh. "I'll remain plain George Brendon to the end of my days, and a bachelor at that." "It's awful!" gasped Leonard, who was white and haggard. "I never expected that my search for types would lead me into the neighborhood of a tragedy. Who could have killed her?" "I can't say." "I wonder if her death has anything to do with your affairs?" Brendon looked up suddenly and with a stern, flushed face. "Train," he said sharply, "whatever you do, say nothing about what I told you last night." "Yes. But what you told me might lead to the discovery of the assassin." "I don't care if it does," said Brendon, angrily, and rising to his feet to emphasize his determination, "you are to keep my confidence." "Oh, I shan't say anything. But do you think----" "I think nothing. But I am sure that my affairs have nothing to do with this death. I came to see Mrs. Jersey, and this morning I should have had the truth out of her. But she is dead, and so all my projects go to the four winds. But I don't want them spoken of." "You can depend upon me," said Leonard, dominated by the strong will of his friend. "But who could have----" "I tell you I don't know," cried George, restlessly. "How you do harp on that subject." "It is the subject of the hour," retorted Train. "And a most unpleasant one. Here I shall have to remain until that police-officer questions me." "What story will you tell?" "Any story but the one I told to you," retorted Brendon. "Well," said Leonard, after a pause, "you can rely upon me. I shall not say anything to get you into trouble." Brendon laughed, but not pleasantly. "My good fellow, I have done nothing wrong. Even if my tale were told I could not be accused of having to do anything with this murder." "Oh, I didn't mean that for one moment," protested Train, uneasily. "I know you didn't. Nevertheless, if this police inspector knew that I told you he might get it into his stupid head that--well." Brendon broke off abruptly. "I don't know what he mightn't think. However, I shall answer his questions as to my visit here and then go away." "I'll go also," said Train with a shudder. "I can't stop here after what has occurred. It's terrible. To think of that poor woman murdered. How lucky I locked my door last night!" Brendon stopped in his walk and looked sharply at the young man. "Why did you lock your door?" he asked surprised. "Well, you see, after Mrs. Jersey came into the sitting-room I didn't like to think of her prowling about. One is so helpless when one is asleep," and Train shuddered. "Did you expect her to murder you?" asked Brendon, derisively. "I didn't expect anything," retorted Leonard, rather nettled, "but I didn't want her to come into my rooms, so I got out of bed and locked the sitting-room door." "Not your bedroom door?" "No, the sitting-room door; so both you and I were quite safe from her prying." Brendon looked steadily at Train and gave a short laugh. "Yes. As you locked the sitting-room door she could as little enter as you or I could go out. Leonard--" he paused and pinched his lip--"I do not think it will be wise for you to tell the inspector this." "Why not? You and I are innocent." "That goes without the saying," answered George, sharply; "but the less we have to do with this unpleasant matter the better. I suppose we in common with every one else here, will be called to give evidence at the inquest. Once that is done and Mrs. Jersey is safely buried I wash my hands of the whole affair." Train shuddered. "So do I," said he; "I am the last man in the world to wish to pursue the subject. But who can be guilty? It must be some one in the house!" "I suppose so," replied Brendon, "unless Mrs. Jersey had a visitor last night." "till have had," said Leonard. "When I locked the sitting-room door, and that was about half-past eleven I think, I heard the closing of the front door." "The deuce you did." "Yes, I put my head out and listened to see if all was quiet. I distinctly heard the front door close." "She must have had a visitor," said Brendon, thoughtfully; "yet as she alone could have let that visitor out, and as she must have been alive to do so, the visitor cannot be the assassin." "The visitor might have killed her and then have closed the door himself." "Himself? How do you know the visitor was a man? It might have been a woman. Besides, Miss Bull told me that the door was locked as usual, and that she took the key this morning to open it from Mrs. Jersey's pocket. No, Train, the person who killed Mrs. Jersey is in the house. But were I you I should say as little as possible to the inspector about this." Leonard took this advice, and, when questioned, simply stated that he had retired to bed at eleven and had heard nothing. Brendon made a similar statement, and Quex saw no reason to doubt their evidence. He questioned all the boarders and all the servants, but could learn nothing likely to throw any light on the darkness which concealed the crime. No one had heard a noise in the night, no one had heard a scream, and it was conclusively proved that every one in the house was in bed by eleven o'clock; the majority, indeed, before that hour. Jarvey had been the last to retire, at half-past ten o'clock, and then he had left Madame in her sitting-room with a book and a glass of negus. She sent him off in a hurry and with, as he expressed it, "a flea in his ear"--being somewhat out of temper. It was thus apparent that Margery, who saw Madame at the striking of the hour, was the last person to see her alive. Mrs. Jersey went to her own sitting-room and there had been struck down. "It was about twelve o'clock that she was stabbed," said the doctor, after he had made his examination; "but I can go only by the condition of the body. I should say a little before or after twelve. She was stabbed in the neck with a sharp instrument." "With a knife?" said the inspector. "No," rejoined the doctor, decisively, "it was with a dagger--by a kind of stiletto. It was not by an ordinary knife that the wound was inflicted," and then the doctor who loved to hear himself talk, went into technical details about the death. He proved beyond doubt that Mrs. Jersey must have died almost immediately with hardly a groan. For some reason Quex took one and all into the chamber of death and showed them the corpse. Perhaps he expected that the sight would shake the nerves of the murderer, supposing the murderer was among those who saw the body. But no one flinched in the way he expected. Mrs. Jersey was as dead as a door-nail, but no one knew and no one could prove who had struck the blow. CHAPTER IV A NINE-DAYS' WONDER On account of its mystery the murder of Mrs. Jersey made a great sensation. The season was dull, and there was nothing of interest in the newspapers, therefore the mysterious crime was a godsend to the reporters. They flocked in shoals to Amelia Square and haunted the Jersey mansion like unquiet ghosts. Whenever any boarder went out for a walk he or she would be questioned by eager gentlemen of the press. Idle sightseers of a morbid turn of mind came to look at the place where the crime had been committed, and pictures of the house appeared in several papers. From being a peaceful neighborhood, Amelia Square became quite lively. The boarders found all this most unpleasant. This rude awakening from their sleepy life was too much for them, and the majority made preparations to leave as soon as the inquest was over. Until then they were under police surveillance and could not leave the neighborhood, a restriction which in itself was sufficiently unpleasant. Brendon found it particularly so, as he was anxious to get back to his own rooms at Kensington and to his work. But even when he told Inspector Quex that he was merely a visitor and knew nothing about the matter, that zealous officer objected to his going. Perhaps, had Brendon insisted, he might have gained his point, but he did not think it was worth while to make the fact of his stay in the Jersey mansion too public, and therefore held his peace. He stopped with Leonard as usual, but the two men were not such friends as they had been. Why Train had changed toward him Brendon could not understand. But ever since Leonard had been submitted to the ordeal of seeing the corpse he had been an altered man. From being gay he was now dull; instead of talking volubly, as he usually did, he was silent for hours at a stretch, and he appeared to shun Brendon's company. George knew that Train was impressionable and sensitive, and thought that the sight of the dead and the ordeal of the examination had been too much for his weak nerves. This might have been the case, but Leonard never gave him the satisfaction of knowing if his diagnosis was correct. After a time George ceased to ply him with questions, and contented himself with the usual courtesies of life. But in his heart he felt the change deeply. Fool as Train was, Brendon liked him sufficiently to resent his altered demeanor. At the inquest nothing was discovered likely to elucidate the mystery. The boarders all gave the same evidence they had already given to Quex. Certainly it came out that Miss Bull had prophesied that Madame would die a violent death, but when questioned on this point she merely said that she had done so because the death card had been turned up. Taken in conjunction with another card, according to the reading employed by fortune-tellers, a violent death was assuredly prophesied. But, as Miss Bull said, no one was more astonished than herself at the speedy fulfillment of the prediction. "I told the fortunes on that night for amusement only," she said, "as I do not believe there is any sense in such things. It was mere chance, nothing more. I am not a believer in cards as prophets." But the coincidence was so extraordinary that several of the newspapers hinted that the old maid knew more than she chose to tell. Miss Bull was up in arms at once, and, after consulting her solicitor, threatened actions for libel until such statements were withdrawn. And certainly, on the face of it, the accusation was absurd. The majority of people who did believe in fortune-telling by the cards insisted that Miss Bull was quite an adept. Several urged her to set up in business, promising her their patronage, but the little old maid drew herself up, and, mentioning that her father had been a general, refused to entertain the idea. Beyond this episode there was little interest to be found in the details of the inquest. It appeared that every one was in bed by eleven, that every one had slept soundly more or less, and that all were astonished and shocked when the tragedy came to light next morning. Train could have created a sensation by stating that he had heard the front door open after eleven; but, true to his promise to George, he said nothing about this. Miss Bull, on the other hand, declared that the front door was locked as usual, and that she had taken the key from the dead woman's pocket to open it when the police entered. It would appear that Mrs. Jersey had been murdered by some one in the house. Yet not one scrap of evidence could be found to show that any one in the house could possibly be guilty. The boarders were all old, the servants all ordinary human beings, and no motive could be assigned to any one person for the committal of so cruel a crime. Moreover, the fact that the instrument used was a stiletto (and the doctor held to that) showed that the crime must have been committed by a foreigner. The only foreign person in the house on the night in question was Fritz, the Swiss waiter. But he would not have killed a fly, and, moreover, exculpated himself entirely with the aid of Jarvey, in whose room he slept. The jury brought in a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown, and that was all that could be done toward the elucidation of the Amelia Square crime. "There's only one thing that wasn't spoken of," said Quex, when he saw the boarders in the drawing-room for the last time; "it seems that Mrs. Jersey always put out the light above the door at eleven, or when the guests departed. On this occasion it burned all night, and, as it shines behind crimson glass, such a red window might be a guide to any one who did not know the house, but who had been given that sign whereby to distinguish it." "I can explain that," said Granger, who was present. "When Madame was bidding farewell to her guests she thought that some of them might be lost in the fog. Therefore she called out after them that she would let the light burn later so that any might be able to retrace their steps." "Well," said Quex, scratching his head, "that explanation is clear." "And there is no use for it," put in Miss Bull, "since the front door was locked and no one entered the house on that night." "That's just it," said the inspector, sagaciously. "As all you ladies and gentlemen are clearly innocent the crime must have been committed by some one from outside. Now, is there any one to whom Madame gave a latch-key?" "None of us had latch-keys," said Harmer. "Madame would not allow such a thing." "Oh, I don't mean you, or those like you, Mr. Harmer. At your age a latch-key is not necessary. But Mrs. Jersey may have given one to a friend of hers who came to see her on that night. Had she any friend in whom she would place such confidence?" "No," said Miss Bull, decisively. "She trusted no one that far. And I don't think she had a single friend outside this house." "And very few in it," muttered Mrs. Taine, who on various occasions had suffered from Madame's tongue. "In that case," said Quex, rising to take his leave, "there is nothing more to be discussed. Who killed Mrs. Jersey, or why she was killed, will probably never be known. Ladies and gentlemen, good-day," and the inspector bowed himself stiffly out of the room, with the air of a man who washed his hands of the whole concern. And, after all, what could he do? There was no proof likely to indicate any one as the assassin, and since Leonard kept silent on the point of the front door having been opened after eleven, it was impossible to say that the criminal had entered the house. Had Mr. Inspector known of this he might have made further inquiries; but he knew nothing and departed extremely perplexed. The Amelia Square crime was one of those mysterious murders which would have to be relegated to obscurity for sheer want of evidence. "When are you going back to Duke Street?" asked Brendon as he took his leave of Train. "This very day," replied the young man, gloomily. "I don't want to stop a moment longer than I can help in this awful house." "I expect many of the others are of your way of thinking, Train. But, so far as I can see, there is no hope of learning who killed the woman." "If you had only allowed me to tell Quex about the door being opened he might have traced the assassin." "I don't think so." Brendon shook his head. "It was a foggy night, and whosoever entered would be able to slink away without being seen." "I am not so sure of that. There is only one outlet to the square, and there stands a policeman on guard." "The policeman would not be there all the time," argued Brendon, "to say nothing of the fog, which would hide any one desirous of evading recognition, as the assassin assuredly must have wished." "All the same, I wish I had told Quex." "Well, then, tell him if you like," said George, vexed with this pertinacity. "But you asked me not to." "Only because I fear, with your weak nature, that one question will lead to another, until the whole of my private affairs will come to light. I don't want those to be known at Scotland Yard, let alone the chance that I might be accused of the crime." "Oh, that's ridiculous! You could not have left the sitting-room unless I had let you out, and there is no door from your bedroom." "That is true enough," answered Brendon, with an ironical smile, the significance of which was lost on Train. "But if the whole of my story came to light you might be accused of helping me to get rid of the woman." "I?" Leonard's hair almost rose on end. "How could I be mixed up in it?" "Well, see here," argued Brendon, who thought it just as well to make Train's own safety depend upon the discretion of too free a tongue. "I tell you about this house, and on my recommendation you come here. I come to stop with you and reveal my reasons for coming. These have to do with the possession of a secret by the murdered woman. All that, to a policeman, would be suspicious. What would be easier than for me to go down the stairs and, when the woman refused to confess as to my legitimacy, to stab her? Then I could return to my bed, and you could prove an alibi on my behalf by your tale of having locked the sitting-room door." Train shuddered. "I see how easily we can get into trouble. I shall say nothing. I wish I had not come here. I shall go abroad until all blows over." "Why," said Brendon, in scorn, "what is there to blow over? No more will be heard of this matter if you hold your tongue. The inquest is at an end, the woman will be buried shortly, and you will be back leading your own life. So far as I am concerned you know that I am not guilty, and that I could not have left my room since you locked that special door. Then, as to hearing the front door open, that may have been a hallucination on your part." "No. I am sure it wasn't. I heard distinctly." "Well--" Brendon shrugged his shoulders, but seemed uncomfortable--"I dare say the assassin came and went in that way. But if he, or she, did, the door was found fast locked in the morning, unless Miss Bull is telling a lie." "She might be." "I don't see what she has to gain. But there's no use talking any further. The matter is ended so far as I am concerned." "What will you do now?" "I am going to see Dorothy," said Brendon, "and tell her that there is no chance of our marriage. Nor is there, for I cannot see my way to prove my legitimacy. We must part, and I shall probably go down the country for six months or so, to finish my novel and to get rid of my heartache." Train remained silent, looking at the ground. Then he glanced at his friend in a doubtful way. "What has become of your yellow holly?" Brendon produced it from his pocket. "It withered, so I took it out of my coat and put it into this envelope." "Do you know if Miss Ward gave any one else a piece of yellow holly?" Brendon stared at this strange question. "Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?" Train shuffled his feet and looked down again. "It is an exceptionally rare sort of thing," he said uneasily, "and its effect on Mrs. Jersey was so strange that I wondered if she connected it with any trouble or disaster." "You made the same remark before," said Brendon, dryly, "and we could arrive at no conclusion. But in any case I don't see that Miss Ward giving me the holly has anything to do with Mrs. Jersey's alarm--if indeed she was alarmed." "I think she was," said Train, decisively, "and if I were you I would ask Miss Ward why she gave you the yellow holly." "What would be the sense in that?" "You might learn why Mrs. Jersey was startled." Brendon laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Your active brain is building up a perfect romance," he declared. "There can be no connection between Dorothy and Mrs. Jersey." "Did she know you were coming to stop here on that night?" "Yes. I told her so when I met her in the Park in the morning. It was then that she asked me to afternoon tea." "And at the afternoon tea she gave you the holly?" "Yes. You seem to think she did it on purpose that Mrs. Jersey----" Train interrupted him quickly. "It is you who are building up a romance now," he said. "I never thought anything of the sort. But I do say that the coincidence is strange." "What coincidence?" "That you should have in your coat a flower--I suppose one can call berried holly a flower--which awakens unpleasant recollections in Mrs. Jersey's breast." "In a word, Train, you fancy that an inquiry into the circumstances of the yellow holly may lead to a detection of the assassin." "I don't go so far as that. But I should not be surprised if something of that sort did eventuate." "Then you do go so far as that," said Brendon with a shrug. "However, there is nothing more to be said. My advice to you is to hold your tongue lest we should both get into trouble." "I am absolutely innocent." "So am I if it comes to that. All the same, the less said the better." Train shook hands with more cordiality than he had hitherto displayed. "I'll be silent for my own sake as well as for yours," he said, and the two parted, Leonard to pack up, and Brendon to journey with his bag for Kensington. Both men were conscious of a relief when they took leave of each other. "I wish he hadn't come here," said Train when Brendon departed. "I wish I had held my tongue," muttered George when he was in his cab. "That fool seems to think I know something about this matter." Of course the economy of the mansion was disordered when the crime was committed. But, thanks to the firm handling of Miss Bull, who now took the reins which had fallen from the hands of Madame, a few days put a different complexion on affairs. Margery knew where her aunt kept the money, and Miss Bull made several of the boarders behindhand pay up. Thus there was enough money to go on with, and Miss Bull decided to wait until after the funeral, before deciding what she intended to do herself. When Mrs. Jersey was buried her lawyer made his appearance with the will. It was read to Margery, and Miss Bull stopped beside the poor girl as the only friend she had in the world. The will was short and concise, as it seemed that there was very little to leave. The lawyer read it and then looked at Margery to hear what she had to say. The girl simply stared at him blankly, as though not comprehending his meaning, and Miss Bull touched her elbow. "Do you hear what he says?" she asked rebukingly. "Yes," replied Margery, "but I don't understand. Haven't I any money?" The lawyer would have read the will again, but Miss Bull held up her hand. "She is stunned with grief," said Miss Bull, "and is not capable of attending to business. Go and lie down, Margery, and I will speak to this gentleman." "You do exactly what you like, dear Miss Bull," said Margery, rising, and then turned to the lawyer. "Let Miss Bull do exactly as she likes. I leave all in her hands." "The most sensible thing you can do," said the legal adviser under his breath, and when Margery had left the room he turned to the old maid. "Is she an idiot?" "By no means. But she is not very clever. I have taken a great interest in her, as, to tell you the truth, Mr. James, she was badly treated by her aunt. If you will explain the will to me I will see what can be done to put things straight. I am sorry for the girl and she is devoted to me." "It is lucky she has such a friend," said Mr. James, heartily. He did not care much for Miss Bull, whose very presence seemed to inspire mistrust, but she was acting very well on this occasion. Moreover, as Margery was not likely to prove a lucrative client, Mr. James was anxious to shuffle the business onto Miss Bull's shoulders and get out of it as fast as he could. "What is it you wish to know?" he asked. "About this will," said Miss Bull, laying one thin finger on the document. "Madame leaves to Margery Watson, her niece, the money in the green box in her sitting-room, and also the jewels, which I presume mean the diamonds." "Yes. Also, if you will recollect, the clothes of the deceased lady. "Is there nothing else?" asked Miss Bull, raising her black eyes inquiringly. "What of the lease of this house?" "That is the property of Lord Derrington, and he only let the house to Mrs. Jersey by the year." "Is not that rather strange?" "Very strange. But the whole connection of Lord Derrington with my late client is strange. I know that she received from him an annuity of five hundred a year and the lease of this house--by the year, remember--from December to December. Now she is dead the annuity lapses, and the lease naturally will not be renewed after next month." "It is now the end of November," said Miss Bull, quite composed. "I understand you to say that the lease expires when December----" "It ends on the 31st of December," explained James, "and as Mrs. Jersey is dead it will not be renewed. Lord Derrington, so far as I know, has no interest in Miss Margery Watson." "What interest had he in Mrs. Jersey?" asked Miss Bull, scenting a scandal, and her eyes brightening. "I can't tell you that, and if I could I would not." "Quite right. I beg your pardon for asking, but you see in the interests of that poor girl I wish to know exactly how matters stand." "They stand as I tell you," said James, and rose to go. "I have nothing more to do in the matter and my connection with the late Mrs. Jersey ceases here." "One moment," said Miss Bull, quietly. "What of the furniture?" "That is also the property of Lord Derrington. He bought the house as it stood from the executor of the last owner, Mr. Anthony Lockwood, fifteen years ago. Mrs. Jersey wished to set up a boarding-house, so Lord Derrington placed her in here. Every stick in the place belongs to him. Should Miss Watson leave she goes with the jewels, the money in the green box, and with her deceased aunt's clothes." "A very poor outfit to start life on at her age," said Miss Bull, rising in her prim manner. "By the way, Mr. James, what is the name of the late Mr. Lockwood's executor?" "Roger Ireland," replied the lawyer, looking rather surprised. "Why do you ask?" "For my own satisfaction, Mr. James. If no one else will assist this poor girl I shall do so. Good-day." James departed with a better opinion of Miss Bull, although at any time he had no reason to have a bad one. But her manner inspired mistrust, and, kindly as she appeared to be acting towards Margery, he could not help thinking that there was more in her action than mere philanthropy. "You're a deep one," thought James. "I shouldn't wonder if we heard more of you." But so far as James was personally concerned he heard no more of the little woman. Miss Bull collected the boarders in the drawing-room after dinner and made a speech. She said that it was Margery Watson's intention to keep on the house, and that the terms would be as before. If any chose to stop they would be welcome, but those who decided to go could have their bills made out at once. Having thus acted as the mouthpiece of Margery, Miss Bull took the girl away to the sitting-room of the late Mrs. Jersey, the very one in which the tragedy had taken place. Margery was unwilling to enter, much less hold a conversation there, but Miss Bull, who had no nerves to speak of and a very strong will, laughed her out of this folly. "Now my dear Margery," she said, when the girl was seated, "I want you to pay the greatest attention to what I am about to say, and to repeat nothing of my conversation." "You are my best friend," said Margery, looking at the peaked white face with adoring eyes. "I shall do whatever you say." "Good child," said Miss Bull, patting the hand that was laid confidingly on her lap. "Listen, child. Lord Derrington is the owner of this house, and he leased it to your aunt by the year--a very strange arrangement, for which there ought to be some explanation. I am going to seek it from Lord Derrington." "But he won't tell you anything, Miss Bull." The old maid tightened her thin lips. "I think he will," she said in a rather ominous manner; "at all events, there is no harm in my trying. With regard to the annuity----" "What annuity?" "I forgot--you don't know about that. Well, there is no need that you should. But it seems that Lord Derrington allowed your late aunt an annuity of five hundred a year. I don't know the reason why he did so, and as such reason is not pertinent to matters in hand I do not wish to know, but the annuity must lapse. It is not likely that Lord Derrington will continue it to you." She paused and looked at the girl. "Your parents are dead, I believe, Margery?" "Yes. For many years I have been with my aunt. She was my only relative, dear Miss Bull." "All the better. I don't want other people interfering," said Miss Bull in her icy way. "Well, Margery, I shall see if I can get Lord Derrington to renew the lease to you, and I shall be your security. With the money in hand--I have counted it, and with that in the bank it amounts to two hundred pounds--we can continue the boarding-house. A few of the boarders will go, but many will remain, as they will not get anywhere so cheap a place. You will be the nominal head of the house, but in reality I shall manage. Do you agree?" "I am your slave," cried Margery with melodramatic intensity. "You are my friend," said Miss Bull, her thin lips relaxing. "I am a lonely woman, Margery, though I still have a surviving sister--" her lips tightened again as she said this--"and I love you, my dear, for your goodness. Well, we shall keep on the boarding-house, and you, poor child, will be preserved from the terrible life which would otherwise be your portion." "How good you are--how good you are!" "A little selfish also," said Miss Bull, kissing the girl. "I do not wish to leave this place or lose you. I am growing old, and a change would break my heart." She said this as though she really believed that she possessed such an organ. Mrs. Jersey always said that a heart was lacking in Miss Bull's maiden breast: but certainly the way in which the old woman was treating the helpless girl showed that she was better than she looked. And perhaps--as Mr. James considered--Miss Bull had an ax to grind on her own account. However this might be, from that moment Miss Bull was in charge of the Amelia Square establishment. Whatever means she used to induce Lord Derrington to consent, she certainly managed to get the lease renewed in Margery's name. Some of the boarders went; but others came in their place, and these being younger added to the gayety of the house. So all was settled, and Miss Bull became a person of importance. She was the power behind the throne, and ruled judiciously. In this way did she do away with the reputation of the house as a place where a crime had been committed. In a year all was forgotten. CHAPTER V A LOVERS' MEETING Every one who was any one knew the Honorable Mrs. Ward. She was a fluffy-haired kitten of a woman, more like a Dresden china shepherdess than a mere human being. Nothing could be prettier than her face and figure, and nothing more engaging than her manners. With her yellow hair, her charming face, and her melting blue eyes, she managed to hold her own against younger women. The late Mr. Ward, Lord Ransome's son, had been a fast young man, devoted to the turf and to his pretty wife. But he was killed when riding in a steeplechase two years after his marriage, and left his widow alone in the world with one daughter for consolation in her affliction. Mrs. Ward being in want of money--for her deceased father had been a general with nothing but his pay--played her cards so well with regard to her father-in-law, that he allowed her a good income and thought she was the most perfect of women. But Lord Ransome was the only one of the family who thought so, for the other relatives fought rather shy of the pretty, pleading widow. Not that Mrs. Ward minded. She characterized the women as frumps and the men as fools, and, having enough to live on comfortably, set up a house in Curzon Street. It was thought that she would marry again; and probably she would have done so had a sufficiently rich husband with a title been forthcoming. But somehow no one worth capturing ever came Mrs. Ward's way, and as time went on she chose to assume the role of a devoted mother, and--as she phrased it--to live again in her daughter. This was quite wrong, as Dorothy Ward was a slim, serious-minded girl of nineteen, not given to gayety, and was one who was anxious to marry a husband with mind rather than with money. How frivolous little Mrs. Ward came to have such a Puritan daughter no one ever could make out. She resembled her mother neither in face, nor in manner, nor in tastes. Mrs. Ward openly lamented that Dorothy was such a difficult girl to manage, which meant that Dorothy had refused several good matches, and had declined to be guided entirely by her mother's opinion. When the Earl of Summerslea proposed and was not accepted, Mrs. Ward was furious, but Dorothy said steadily that she would never marry a brute with a title. "You'll marry any one I choose," said Mrs. Ward when the two were discussing the matter. "Certainly not Lord Summerslea," rejoined Dorothy, steadily. "And certainly not that penniless George Brendon," retorted her mother. "You shall not throw yourself away on him." "He is a good man and a clever man, and a man whom any woman might be proud of winning, mother." "And a man with no money and no position. Who is he? What is his family? No one ever heard of him." "They will one day, when he becomes famous." "Oh, as a writing-person. As though any one cared two pins about that sort of thing. I want to see you a countess." "You shall never see me the Countess of Summerslea. I know all about that man. He is bad and dissipated." "O Lord! as if that mattered," cried Mrs. Ward with supreme contempt. "Your father was the same, yet we got on all right." "I am sure you did," said Dorothy, with bitter meaning, upon which Mrs. Ward showed her claws. Her friends called her a kitten, but she was a cat in reality and could scratch on occasions. But all her scratching could not make Dorothy Lady Summerslea. Hating Brendon, and knowing that her daughter liked him, it was supposed by Mrs. Ward's friends that the young man would be sent to the right-about, and that Dorothy would be kept out of his way. But Mrs. Ward knew her daughter too well to take such a disastrous course. "My dear," she said to an intimate friend, "if I did that, Dorothy is just the kind of annoying girl to run away with him and live in a garret. If I let them meet they will not think of marriage, and I dare say Dorothy will get tired of Brendon. He is so shabby in his dress, and so poor, that after a time she will cease to like him. No! No! I'll let him follow her wherever he likes, and meet her on all occasions. They will grow sick of one another." In an ordinary case this recipe might have answered. But Dorothy respected as well as loved George Brendon, and, every time she met him, grew to admire and love him more. Mrs. Ward became quite exasperated, and redoubled her efforts to sicken Dorothy of the "creature," as she called Brendon. She took to praising him on all occasions, and sometimes asked him to dinner. At the same time she constantly abused young Walter Vane, who was Lord Derrington's grandson and heir. He was the man she wished Dorothy to marry, as one day he would have a title and fifteen thousand a year. But in spite of this Machiavellian policy Dorothy still continued to love George, and expressed a hearty dislike for Walter Vane, whom she characterized as a "weakling." "If he had only the grit of his grandfather I might respect him." Mrs. Ward turned pale under her rouge when she heard this. "Oh, no, no! Lord Derrington is a terrible old man. Were Walter such as he is, I should not ask you to marry him." "You would marry me to the Prince of Darkness himself if it suited your purpose," said her daughter, calmly, from which speech it will be seen that Miss Ward had small respect for her fascinating mother. The two did not assimilate, as their dispositions were so different. Mrs. Ward complained that Dorothy was too religious, and Dorothy found the frivolous world in which her mother moved dull beyond words. It so happened that Dorothy stayed mostly at home or went out with one of her aunts, who was something of her type, while Mrs. Ward enjoyed herself at Hurlingham and Monte Carlo. The little woman always managed to keep on the right side, as she had no notion of losing her position in society, or the income which Lord Ransome allowed her; but within limits she was extremely fast. She generally had a number of young men at her heels, and made use of them in betting and in getting boxes for the theaters, for suppers at the Cecil, and gloves, when nothing else was to be had. But she managed all these things so discreetly that no one had a word to say, and the general impression was that she was a dear little woman with a stiff daughter--quite a trial. And if some old frumps did praise up Dorothy and condemn the mother, they were in the minority. Things were in this position when the murder of Mrs. Jersey took place. Dorothy read about it in the papers, and knowing that George had gone to stop in the house with Train, was extremely anxious to hear particulars. She wrote to his Kensington address asking him to call, but received no reply. Then she saw that he gave evidence at the inquest, and two days later George made his appearance at the Curzon Street house. Mrs. Ward, who had been voluble in her expressions regarding Brendon's "love for low company," so she put it, sailed toward him with open hands. She always welcomed Brendon in this bright, girlish, kittenish way, as it was part of her scheme. She thought so serious a man would never relish a frivolous mother-in-law, and hoped to get rid of him in this way. But Brendon was too much in love with Dorothy to mind the vagaries of her fashionable parent. "My dear Mr. Brendon," cried Mrs. Ward in her usual gushing manner, "I am so glad to see you. The murder, you know. I saw your name in the papers. How exciting! how romantic! Tell us all about it." "There is nothing to tell, Mrs. Ward," said George, glancing round the room and seeing that Dorothy was absent. "All I know is set forth in the papers." Mrs. Ward arranged herself on the sofa and laughed joyously. "Quite exciting it is," she said. "I wonder who killed the poor woman, and how did you come to be there on the very night she died?" This last question was asked sharply, and with a keen glance. George was rather taken aback, but not thinking she had any intention in what she said, answered, soberly enough: "I went to see a friend, Mrs. Ward. It was unfortunate that I chose that night." "Well, of course you didn't know," said Mrs. Ward, artlessly. "But fancy knowing any one living in an out-of-the-way place like that. But you do know such queer people." George thought he knew none queerer than Mrs. Ward herself, but he suppressed this speech as impolite. "My friend is Mr. Leonard Train." "Really! I think I have met him. His father made a fortune out of mustard, or coke, or something horrid. What was he doing there?" "Looking for characters for a book." "Oh!" Mrs. Ward opened her eyes. "Did he find any?" "I believe so. But he has left the house now." "I should think every one would leave it after the murder," said Mrs. Ward. "Dorothy will be down soon, but meantime tell me the whole thing from your own clever point of view." She was so pertinacious that Brendon had reluctantly to yield. He detailed events as they had been reported by the press, but concerning the confidence of Leonard he kept silent. Mrs. Ward expressed her disappointment when he finished. "You tell me nothing new." "I warned you that I would not," replied Brendon, wondering at her petulant speech. "But surely you can throw some light on the matter?" said Mrs. Ward. Brendon shook his head. "I fear not. I went to bed at eleven and slept soundly until I was awakened by the clamor." Mrs. Ward thought for a moment. "Does Mr. Train know anything?" "Nothing more than I have told you," declared Brendon, uncomfortably. He disliked deviating from the truth even in the smallest particular, but he dare not risk the story of his birth becoming public property. It was strange, he thought, that Mrs. Ward should take such a profound interest in this case. He had never before heard her talk on such a subject. To add to his perplexity, he saw that, in spite of her rouge, in spite of the shaded windows, she looked haggard. Yet it was impossible that she could be connected with the matter in any way. He ventured a leading question. "Why are you so anxious to know about this case?" Mrs. Ward's reply rather astonished him. "I am not blind," she said quietly, "and I know well enough that you admire my daughter. You are poor, you are unknown, and should Dorothy marry you she would make a very bad match." "I am aware of that," began George, "but----" "Wait," cried Mrs. Ward, raising her hand, "I have not yet done. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, I made up my mind to place no bar to your union with my daughter, as she seems to like you----" "She loves me, Mrs. Ward." "Nonsense. Dorothy is too young to know the meaning of the word. I say she likes you, so we can let it stand at that. But in spite of your poverty and obscurity--" Brendon winced, for Mrs. Ward's tone was insolent in the extreme--"I am not willing that you should marry Dorothy, unless----" She hesitated. "Unless?" queried George, looking steadily at her. "Now we come to the point. Unless your character is above suspicion." "What do you mean?" "You know well enough. Here you go to a low house, and while you are there the mistress of it is murdered." George rose with some indignation. "Good heavens, Mrs. Ward, you don't suspect me!" he cried. "Oh, dear, no. But it would be unpleasant for my daughter to have a husband mixed up with such a shady affair." "I am not mixed up with it, Mrs. Ward." "It's unpleasant," said Mrs. Ward, willfully holding to her opinion. "I don't like it. Find out who killed that woman and I say nothing. But until you do find out, and until the assassin is brought to justice, I must ask you to discontinue your visits to Dorothy." Brendon saw that she was simply making an excuse to rid herself of his presence so as to leave the way clear for Walter Vane. But he was too strong a man to be foiled in this way, and speedily made up his mind how to act. "Shall we leave the matter to Miss Ward?" "That means you wish to see her," said the mother cleverly. "Oh, well, there is no reason why you should not. But it will be for the last time, remember. Your character must bear inspection." "I think it does," cried George, rather nettled. Mrs. Ward, who by this time was nearly at the door, turned lightly and replied, in her most kittenish way, "Ah, my dear Mr. Brendon, I know more than you think. Lola Velez----" "Lola Velez." George looked and felt uneasy. "You change color. Oh, I have heard all about you and that dancer." "I assure you that my connection with that lady is perfectly innocent." Mrs. Ward scoffed. "Lady!" she said, sneering. "What next? However, I do not wish to hear the particulars. Such creatures are nothing to me. And if you clear yourself of this very shady business in Amelia Square by discovering the true assassin, I shall overlook Lola Velez." "There is no need to overlook her or me." "I think there is," said Mrs. Ward, frigidly, and with a wave of her slim hand. "There is no more to be said, Mr. Brendon. You know my decision, and as Dorothy's mother I have some power, I hope. Now I will send her to you, and you can say what you like--in fact, you can communicate to her the state of my feelings. But," added Mrs. Ward, shooting a Parthian arrow, "I should not mention Lola Velez if I were you. Good-by, I shall not see you for many a long day, I expect." "And hope," said Brendon, much mortified. "And hope," replied Mrs. Ward, coolly. "You are the last man in the world I should like for my son-in-law. Marry that dancer," and with a shrill, unpleasant laugh Mrs. Ward vanished. Brendon paced the room, waiting for Dorothy. How Mrs. Ward had learned of his connection with Lola Velez he could not understand. Brendon was perfectly innocent, and what he had done for the dancer was dictated by pure kindness. But even if he explained the whole circumstances of his meeting and of his philanthropy to Dorothy, she was a woman, when all was said and done, and might not believe him. On the whole, he decided to take Mrs. Ward's advice and hold his tongue on the subject of the dancer. On some future occasion he might be able to explain, and at the present moment he had the satisfaction of knowing that his conscience was clear. He had just arrived at this decision when Dorothy entered the room. The next moment she was in his arms, and the two entered Paradise at once. "My dearest, I am so glad to see you," said Dorothy in her soft voice as they sat down. "I wrote, but you did not come." "I was engaged, darling." Dorothy nodded. "I know, at the inquest which was held on that poor creature." "Why do you take an interest in the case, Dorothy?" "Oh, because you went to stop at the house, and it was so strange that she should have died on that very night." "So your mother says," said George, uncomfortably. "I really think she believes that I have something to do with the matter." "Oh, that's nonsense," said Dorothy, serenely; "but mother does not like you very much, George, and----" "She hates me you mean." "Well," responded Miss Ward, candidly, "if you ask me to tell the truth, I think she does. But you know what my mother is. I--no, if I cannot say good of her, let me at least say nothing bad. But I love you, George, you know that." "My own heart," and Brendon took her in his strong arms, thanking God for the gift of so steadfast a heart. For a few minutes silence reigned, and the lovers looked at one another with fond affection. Dorothy was tall and slim and dark, with a Spanish face of that delicate, high-bred cast which is seen to perfection among the women of Andalusia. Judging by her large black eyes, and the serious expression of her lips, Dorothy Ward might have had Moorish blood in her veins. Perhaps she had, as one of her father's ancestors, when ambassador to Madrid in the reign of the first James, had brought back with him a Spanish wife. And Dorothy inherited all the Iberian beauty of that lady. She should have been called Inez, or Paquita, for the purely English name of Dorothy suited her badly. That is a milkmaid's name, and Miss Ward was more of the court than of the pasture. Her dark beauty contrasted well with the fair comeliness of George Brendon, and seated side by side on the sofa they looked an extremely handsome couple. Certainly they might have appeared happier, for Dorothy was downcast, and in Brendon's blue eyes there lurked a worried look. He was wondering how he could communicate Mrs. Ward's decision to the girl. Dorothy looked at him and smiled. "A penny for your thoughts, George," she said, taking his hand. "I'll sell them as bankrupt stock," said Brendon, drawing her closer, and then he took his courage in both hands for the necessary confession. "This may be my last visit, Dorothy," he said. She looked at him in surprise. "Why do you say that?" "Your mother----" "Oh, never mind my mother," broke in the girl, petulantly. "I know she objects to our marriage, so----" "On the contrary, she told me that she would not object if I could clear myself of complicity in this crime." "George! Did she accuse you of----" "Not in so many words," interrupted the lover, "but I saw very plainly what she meant. The fact that I slept in that house on the night Mrs. Jersey was murdered is to her mind a proof that I have something to do with the matter." "But you can prove conclusively that you have not," insisted Dorothy. "Certainly. Mr. Train, with whom I was stopping, can prove that I did not leave my room. The key of the sitting-room door was in his possession, and to get out I should have had to make use of him." George paused and thought for a moment. "But there is one thing----" "What is it?" asked Dorothy, seeing that he hesitated. "I don't know if I ought to tell you." "Whatever concerns you concerns me," she said, pressing his hand to her heart. "You know that I love you as dearly as you love me, and nothing you tell me shall ever part us." "Oh, I don't think what I am about to say will have that effect," was Brendon's reply, "but I have a confession to make about my--my birth." Dorothy looked at him in amazement. "About your birth?" she repeated. "Yes. You may as well know all, and I know you will not betray me, even to your mother." "To her least of all," said Dorothy, vehemently. "Tell me quick." Encouraged by her faith, and by the tender clasp of her hand, George related to her the story of his birth and of his connection with Lord Derrington. Also he detailed how he had gone to seek Mrs. Jersey, and how she had been murdered before he could get the truth out of her. "Or even see her," finished George. "And now you know, dearest, why I do not wish you to repeat this story. If your mother knew it she might think--think--well, she certainly would not let you marry me." "She has made her mind up already so far as that is concerned," said Dorothy, quickly. "It is Mr. Vane whom she wishes me to marry." "My cousin, although he does not know it," said George, quietly; "but I want your advice, Dorothy, and will be guided by it. What shall I do? You see, now that Mrs. Jersey is dead there is no chance of getting at the truth." "Why not advertise?" "I have tried that for some months in every country paper in the kingdom, but there has been no response. My father and mother must have been married in some out-of-the-way village, in some lonely church. The parson and those who know about the marriage may be dead. In fact, it is extremely probable that they are. Mrs. Jersey was present as my mother's maid, and she might have been able to tell me where the church is. I only want to find the register of the marriage and get the certificate. Then I shall see Lord Derrington and insist on my rights being recognized. He can't leave either the title or the money away from me." "Have you seen him at all yet?" "Not to speak to. But he was pointed out to me. I hear he is an old tyrant." Dorothy shuddered. "A most terrible old man. He always reminds me of one of those Italian despots. There is nothing he would not do provided that the law could not touch him." "And I dare say, from your description, the things he desires to do are of the kind that the law would make him answerable for." "George," said Dorothy, after a pause, "do you think he has anything to do with this murder?" Brendon turned slightly pale and set his lips firmly. "No, dearest," was his reply, but delivered with some uncertainty. "He does not know--at all events from me--that I am seeking for a restitution of my rights, and therefore would have no reason to rid himself of this woman. Besides, I don't know if he is aware of her existence." It will be seen that Brendon was ignorant that Lord Derrington was the owner of the Jersey mansion and had allowed Madame an annuity. Had he known this much he might have been able to shape his course better; but, being in the dark, he had to do the best he could with Dorothy's assistance. He had asked for her advice and she gave it. "George, I should get back my birthright if I were you." "But I may be dragged into this murder case." "No. Mr. Train can save you from being accused of that. It is only right that you should take your proper position in society. You know I would marry you as you are, and defy my mother and the world. But you owe it to your dead mother and to yourself to show that you have the right to your father's name." "In that case I shall do what you advise," cried George, taking heart from her firm tone; "and the first thing I shall do will be to see Mr. Ireland. "Who is he, George?" "My guardian. He took charge of me after my grandfather Lockwood died, and it was by his advice that I changed my name to baffle the inquiries of Lord Derrington. He will know all about the marriage, and may be able to indicate where my parents went when they eloped. I have never asked him for a detailed statement, but I shall do so now. Once I find a clew, I shall not rest until I prove my legitimacy. For your sake, my dear--for your sake," and he kissed her. "And for your own," said Dorothy, as they rose. "I shall say nothing to my mother or to any one, George. But tell me all that you do." "I shall make a regular report," replied Brendon, "but we will probably have to meet elsewhere, as your mother has asked me to discontinue my visits here." "I shall speak to her," said Dorothy, angrily. "No. Do not do that. She will only grow angry and make things harder for you, my own heart. Good-by, and God bless you." They kissed and parted at the door. Brendon was just stepping out into the hall when a thought occurred to him. He re-entered and closed the door. "Dorothy," he asked, in a low whisper, "why did you give me the yellow holly on that night?" She looked surprised. "It was to please you," she said softly; "and to tell you the truth, George, I thought that the holly was a proof that my mother was relenting toward you." "How do you mean, Dorothy?" "It was my mother who gave me the holly," she explained. "I came from the Park and told her you were going to stop with Mr. Train, and that she could set her mind at rest, as I should not see you for a few days. She seemed pleased, and taking the yellow holly from a vase in her boudoir she gave me a sprig, saying that I could give it to you for consolation." "Did you tell her that you had fastened it in my coat?" "Yes. But she only laughed, and said it would please you. Why do you ask me this, George?" "There is no reason for my asking," he replied, suppressing the truth, "but yellow holly is rare." "Very rare. I don't know where my mother got the sprig." After this they parted, and Brendon walked thoughtfully away. Mrs. Jersey had been startled by the sight of the holly. Mrs. Ward had given the sprig to Dorothy, who had presented it to him. He asked himself if there was a reason for Mrs. Ward's action. CHAPTER VI WHAT MR. IRELAND KNEW After his disagreeable experience in the Bloomsbury district, Brendon was not very anxious to go there again, but it was necessary that he should do so if he wanted to see his guardian. From force of habit he still continued to call him so, although Mr. Ireland had long since ceased to act in that capacity. George had a sincere respect for him, and frequently paid him a visit. Usually it was one of ceremony or of enjoyment, but on this occasion the young man went in search of knowledge. Ireland was an eccentric character who collected (of all things) bill-posters. Most collectors turn their attention to stamps, to snuff-boxes, to autographs, and such-like trifles; but Mr. Ireland hunted for those gigantic and gaudy pictures which make gay the thoroughfares of the city. When George entered the dull old house, in an equally dull Bloomsbury street, he found the hall decorated with an immense advertisement of Bovril. Proceeding upstairs he was met on the landing by the famous cats who serve to draw attention to Nestle's Milk, and finally entered a large room on the first floor, where Mr. Ireland sat at his desk surrounded by a perfect art-gallery. Here was Fry's Chocolate; there the Magic Carpet of Cook, and the wall opposite to the three windows looking out onto the street was plastered with theatrical advertisements, more or less crude in color and out of drawing. These were not modern, but had been acquired by Ireland in the dark ages when street art was in its infancy. The effect of the whole was bizarre and striking, but George was too used to the spectacle to pay much attention to the gallery. The room was very bare, so as to give space for the collection. Mr. Ireland sat at a mahogany desk in the center, which was placed on a square of carpet. Beside this desk stood a chair, and in one corner of the room was a safe painted green. Other furniture there was none, and what with the huge pictures, the bare floor, and the want of curtains to the windows the effect was comfortless and dreary, but Mr. Ireland did not seem to mind in the least. He was a tall old man with rather long white hair and a clean-shaven, benign face. His unusual height did away with the impression of his excessive stoutness, for he appeared to be as fat as Daniel Lambert. George often wondered at his size, considering that the man ate comparatively little. Mr. Ireland was dressed in glossy broadcloth scrupulously brushed, and wore an old-fashioned Gladstone collar. He had mild blue eyes, rather watery, and a large mouth with full red lips. This hint of sensuality was contradicted by the serenity and pallor of his face, and by his life, which was as correct as his dress and as methodical as his hours. Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact. "I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits." "An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man. "I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar." "The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one. "I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?" As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately. The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself. "Better late than never," quoted George, puffing a cloud of smoke. "A proverb is no answer," said Ireland, testily. "Then, if you wish to know, sir, I am in love." "That is no answer, either." "It will lead to a very explicit answer," rejoined the young man, coolly. "Love leads to marriage, and in my case marriage cannot take place unless I know that I am legitimate." "Of course you are. I have always maintained that you are." "What proof have you?" asked George, eagerly. Ireland hesitated and wiped his mouth in quite an unnecessary manner with a red silk handkerchief. "Your father always declared that Miss Lockwood was his lawful wife, and treated her with every respect." "Did my father ever tell you where the marriage was celebrated?" "No; I never asked, nor did your grandfather Lockwood. It was not till after your mother's death that Lord Derrington denied the marriage. Then Mr. Vane was in Italy and never troubled about the matter." "He should have done so, for my sake," said George, indignantly. "Certainly, and I urged him to do so," said Mr. Ireland, heavily. "I was in Italy at the time, and you were only an infant in arms." "Who was my nurse then?" "Jane Fraser--the Scotch nurse who afterward brought you to your grandfather Lockwood when Mr. Vane was murdered." "Do you remember the other nurse--the first one I had?" Mr. Ireland grew indignant, and puffed angrily at his cigar. "I do, indeed," he said wrathfully, "a vulgar, forward hussy. She was not bad-looking, either, and set up for being a lady." Here he began to laugh. "Would you believe it, George, my boy, she was in love with your father, and showed it so plainly that he was obliged to get rid of her?" "What was her name?" "Eliza Stokes. And she was handsome in a bouncing way." "What became of her?" "I can't tell you," said Ireland, with sudden reserve. "Did you see her after she was dismissed?" Ireland turned his cigar slowly and did not look at George when he replied. "Yes, I did. When and where it does not matter." "But it does matter--to me!" cried Brendon, anxiously. "It is to know about her that I came here to see you to-day." "I thought you came about your birth," said Ireland, sharply. "That among other things." The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland. "I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was moved at the recollection of some early romance. "I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes. "You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly. "I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was very badly treated by--well--" with a glance at George, Ireland nodded--"let the dead rest in peace." "I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly. Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson, and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head, and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I have a bad temper." "I never knew that," said Brendon, in a soothing tone. "You were always kind to me." "I have a superlatively bad temper," repeated Ireland, "but you were her child. How could I be angry with her child? Wait! Wait, I shall tell you all I can. Give me a few moments." He was so moved with emotion, and with the recollection of the past, that he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on the table. Brendon, respecting this feeling, walked to the end of the room and stared at a picture which represented a star of the ballet. But he did not see the saucy face, the twirling skirts. He was thinking how strange it was that Ireland should never have confessed this love before. Certainly he had never displayed such emotion. A change had come over the man, whereby he more plainly revealed his feelings than he was wont to do. George put this down to old age, and to less self-control consequent on the same. Shortly he heard Ireland calling to him, and returned to his seat to find the old man smoking quietly and rather ashamed of his outbreak. "But you shall see no more of that," he said. "I am sorry to be obliged to ask you for a story of the past," said Brendon, apologetically, "but it means so much to me." "I'll tell you all I can," said Ireland, taking no notice of the apology, but looking at the ash on his cigar. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then began abruptly. "I first met your mother at her father's house in Amelia Square, where I went to take lessons in singing. Lockwood was famous for his method in those days, and his fame was increased by the appearance of your mother, Rosina, at many concerts. She was a most beautiful creature, and was as much admired for her beauty as for her voice. Ah! what a voice. It was like the trill of a lark, flexible and silvery, and with an immense range. She was quite the rage for a season, and was called the English Jenny Lind. Many offers were made to her for the operatic stage. I dare say she would have accepted in the end had she not met with Percy Vane, and he----" Ireland's hand clenched. "My father," said George, willfully disregarding this sign of temper, "how did he meet her?" "He saw her at a concert and fell in love with her. Then he came to take singing-lessons, with the voice of a frog. Bah! it was a mere blind. It was Rosina Lockwood he was after. I saw it--oh, yes! The eyes of love are keen, and, although Rosina would not waste a look on me, I watched her every action. Many a night have I paced Amelia Square watching her window. When she sang I was entranced, when she smiled----" Here the old man shook his head and made an effort to recover himself. Brendon saw that the recital was painful to him, and but that he was so anxious to get at the proofs of his birth would have asked him to desist. But there was too much at stake for such consideration to be shown. "Go on," he said softly, and Ireland resumed. "Percy Vane was a handsome man, and rich. I warned Lockwood that he was in love with Rosina, but the old man would not heed. He was flattered by the attention Rosina received. All through that season Vane was in attendance on Rosina. At the end of it he eloped with her--yes. He met her outside St. James's Hall and they eloped." "Where did they go to?" asked Brendan, eagerly. "That I cannot say. Rosina wrote three weeks afterward from Paris, signing herself Vane, and stating that she was the wife of Percy." "Was my grandfather angry?" "Yes and no. He was angry that he should have lost her, for she was of use to him as an advertisement of his method of singing, and also she earned a great deal of money. The house in Amelia Square was large and required a good deal to keep it up. Besides, Anthony Lockwood was extravagant. That was why you were left so badly off." Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "It was good of my grandfather to leave me anything," he said, "but in what way was my--Mr. Lockwood, pleased? You hinted that he was not quite angry." "Well," said Ireland, slowly twirling the cigar in his fingers, "you see he was flattered that his daughter should have married into the aristocracy." "Then there was no question of the marriage, then?" "No. Lord Derrington said nothing till your mother was dead, and even then he said very little. It was when Vane was murdered at San Remo that he first decisively asserted that no marriage had taken place. He did so because Lockwood insisted that Derrington should acknowledge you as the heir. He refused to do so, and said that his second son was the heir." "That is Walter Vane's father?" "Exactly. And now the father is dead, Walter Vane stands in your shoes. I wish you could prove the marriage, my boy," said Ireland, shaking his head, "but it will be a difficult task." "I don't care how difficult it is," replied Brendon, resolutely. "I am determined to learn the truth." "Who is the lady?" asked Ireland. "Miss Dorothy Ward. You don't know anything of her." Ireland shook his head. "I left the adoration of the aristocracy to Lockwood," he said, with something like a sneer, "but that's neither here nor there, my boy. To make a long story short, I met your mother in Paris, and shortly afterward she died, giving birth to you. Eliza Stokes was with her when she died, and you were given into the charge of that woman. Your mother was buried in Père la Chaise. Vane put up a stone to her--oh! he behaved very well, I don't deny that," added Ireland, but with a dark face; "he was really fond of her. And I suppose there was a marriage." "Did my mother ever say anything about it?" "Never. You asked me that before. It was an accepted fact. After the death of Rosina her husband went to Italy. I was there, too, and it was at Milan that the episode occurred which led to the dismissal of Eliza Stokes." "What was that?" "Why, there was a young English waiter, quite a boy he was, who fell in love with Eliza when she was taking charge of you at the Hôtel de Ville. She refused to marry him and hinted that she loved your father. Vane heard of this and taxed her with impertinence. The end of it was that Eliza said too much and was dismissed. And Jane Fraser was sent from England by Vane's mother to nurse you. That looks as though Lady Derrington believed in the marriage." "It does," admitted Brendon, hopefully. "She would not have sent a nurse had anything been wrong. On the other hand, if she had been quite certain about the marriage she might have offered to take charge of me." "She did, I believe, but your father was so fond of you--for your mother's sake--that he could scarcely bear you out of his sight. However, Eliza went, and Jane came, and then your father went to San Remo. You were then two years of age." "Did not my father return to England during all that time?" "No. When he left England with your mother he never returned. She died in Paris, and, with you in charge of a nurse, Vane wandered about the Continent. I was twice in Italy and saw him--the second time it was at San Remo." "If you disliked my father so much, why did you seek him out?" "To see you, George. You were her child, and I loved Rosina so dearly." Ireland stopped, gulped down his emotion, and proceeded more calmly: "Yes, I was at San Remo when your father was murdered." "You never told me that before," said Brendon. "I never told you anything before," replied Ireland, dryly. "And I should not tell you now, but that my health is getting so bad that I may not live long. I have an incurable disease, which will sooner or later carry me off--no, I don't want sympathy. Let me finish the story and then we need not refer to it again. I had intended to leave a written statement behind me for you, George, but this is better, as you can ask me questions about what you do not understand." "I understand all so far," said George, thoughtfully. "But about this murder, Mr. Ireland? Who killed my father?" "That was never discovered. He went to a masked ball and was seen leaving the room in the company of a blue domino. His body was found on the stones of the beach early next morning. He had been stabbed to the heart." "With a stiletto?" asked Brendon, recollecting the manner of Mrs. Jersey's death. "Yes. Hence it was supposed that he had been stabbed by some jealous Italian, who had followed him and the lady. But the truth was never known. I think myself that Vane was murdered on the parade and that his body was thrown over onto the beach. The man who killed him must then have taken away the lady." "Who was the lady--the blue domino?" "No one ever learned. She was cloaked and masked. Your father was a gay man, George, and it was rumored that he was in love with the wife of a certain officer. It might be that the husband--but of course I cannot say. The blue domino may not have been the woman in question. The whole thing is a mystery. Your father's body was taken to England, and as Lord Derrington refused to acknowledge the marriage, Lockwood took charge of you." "I remember, and Jane Fraser was my nurse for many years. She was at San Remo when the murder took place?" "Yes, and so was Eliza Stokes." "What was she doing there?" "Well, this waiter--by the way, his name was George also, although you were called after Lockwood's father--well, George Rates, seeing that Eliza was dismissed, got her a situation at a hotel in San Remo. He came there also during the season, and I believe the two married. But Eliza Stokes never came near your father." "What became of her afterward?" Ireland hesitated. "I can't say," he said. "But I can," observed George, coolly. "She was murdered the other day at the Amelia Square house as Mrs. Jersey." "I heard of that crime. But how do you identify Eliza Stokes with Mrs. Jersey?" "My old nurse, Jane Fraser, told me. When I began these inquiries I looked up Jane, who now lives in a little Essex village. She told me all she could, which was not much. But she stated that when here one day, on a visit to you, she had met Eliza Stokes and in spite of her age and gray hairs she had recognized her. Eliza told her that she was called Mrs. Jersey and had taken a boarding-house in Amelia Square. I then determined to speak to Mrs. Jersey, whom I thought might have been present at the marriage, or at all events might know where it had been celebrated." "It is probable she did," said Ireland, "as she was with your mother as maid when the elopement took place. Did you see Mrs. Jersey, or Eliza Stokes as I still regard her?" "I saw her, but she was murdered before I could manage to speak to her on the subject. Did you know----" "I know that Eliza Stokes had changed her name to Mrs. Jersey and was in Amelia Square," said Ireland, "but I only learned this the other day." "Who told you?" "A woman called Miss Bull," said Ireland. "Miss Bull," repeated George. "I remember, that was the boarder who foretold a violent death to Mrs. Jersey. But you read about that in the papers." Ireland nodded. "I did," he said; "and I also saw that you were in the house when Mrs. Jersey was murdered. You were a witness." "I can tell you about that. I----" "There is no need to tell me. I have not the time." Ireland looked at his watch. "In ten minutes I leave for my walk." George remonstrated. "But this is so important." "Not so important as my health. I can give you only the ten minutes, George. This Miss Bull called to ask me about the lease of the house to Mrs. Jersey. I knew nothing about that. When Lockwood died I sold the house to Lord Derrington----" "What--to my grandfather?" "Yes. But had I known he was the purchaser I should not have let him have it. He bought it through an agent. Since then I heard nothing more about the house. I did not even know it was a boarding-establishment until it appeared as such in the papers the other day. I wondered what you were doing at the inquest----" "I can explain." Ireland held up his hand. "I need no explanation. I know that Mrs. Jersey was really Eliza Stokes. I gathered that from the description given by Miss Bull in the course of our conversation. My suspicions were aroused by the fact that Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey." "Why did he do that?" George spoke more to himself than to Ireland. "Well," said the old man rising, "it is my belief that Lord Derrington knows there was a marriage, and assisted Mrs. Jersey so that she should hold her tongue. Now there is no more time. I must go out," and Ireland walked to the door. George followed, knowing it was vain to attempt to turn him from his purpose, as the old man was most obstinate. "One moment," he said, on the door-step; "this blue domino connected with my father's murder--was she never traced?" "No. There was no means of tracing her. Except that she wore a piece of holly she carried no distinguishing mark." "Holly!" cried George, astounded. "Yellow holly?" "Yes. I don't know how you come to mention it, but the holly worn by the blue domino with whom your father went away had yellow berries." CHAPTER VII THE RED MAN As Brendon was in the neighborhood of Amelia Square he paid a visit to the boarding-house. Having learned from Ireland that Miss Bull had informed him how Lord Derrington was connected with the late Mrs. Jersey, George thought it just as well that she should be questioned. Certainly Miss Bull, who appeared to be a dour and secretive sort of person, might not speak. On the other hand, if he could induce her to be frank he might learn from her--presuming she knew--the reason why Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey. It was a forlorn hope, but Brendon was so eager to learn the truth that he clutched even at this straw. Therefore, on leaving Ireland, he turned his steps in the direction of the boarding-house. Much as he disliked entering it again, it was necessary that he should do so. On his way Brendon meditated on Ireland's remarks about the holly. He remembered the agitation of Mrs. Jersey when she saw the sprig in his coat. She had been at San Remo when his father was stabbed, and Ireland had mentioned that the woman with whom the deceased man had left the ballroom wore a sprig of yellow holly. Had the berries been red, George might not have thought so much of the matter; but yellow holly is comparatively rare, and evidently Mrs. Jersey's alarm had been caused by her recollection of the murder. The sight of the holly had revived her memory. "I wonder if she had anything to do with the murder," mused George as he turned into Amelia Square. "Could she have been the woman in the blue domino? Certainly she was a servant and my father would have had nothing to do with her. But at the ball she would wear a domino and be closely masked. But even so, by what means could she have induced my father to leave the room with her? I don't suppose she murdered him herself, for she had no reason to do so, unless it was jealousy, which for a woman in her position was absurd. Bah! I am making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Eliza Stokes probably never went to the ball and had nothing to do with the blue domino or with the matter of the crime. From what Ireland says, however, a piece of yellow holly was mentioned in connection with the murder, and Mrs. Jersey, then Eliza Stokes, probably heard of it. That was why she shivered and turned pale when she saw the sprig in my coat." Having thus decided the question, though not in a very satisfactory way, George rang the bell and was admitted into the house by Jarvey. The boy welcomed him with a grin, as George had given him half-a-crown when he left the mansion after the inquest. "Miss Bull, sir, yes, sir," said Jarvey, "step this way," and he introduced Mr. Brendon into the sitting-room in which the murder had taken place. It was empty, but Jarvey departed immediately to fetch Miss Bull. George knew the room well. It had been used by his grandfather as a breakfast-room, and many a meal had he enjoyed at that very table. As the furniture had been sold to Lord Derrington, together with the house, the table was the very article of furniture at which Mrs. Jersey had been stabbed when seated. Brendon looked from the table to the door, and wondered if the assassin had entered stealthily, with a bared weapon, and had stabbed the wretched woman before she had time to turn her head. But on second thoughts he was inclined to think that the assassin had been in friendly conversation with Mrs. Jersey before inflicting the fatal stroke. Even in the short distance between table and door Mrs. Jersey would have had time to spring to her feet and give the alarm. "No," thought George, as he seated himself, "what I said to Train is correct. The assassin engaged Mrs. Jersey in friendly conversation, and then watched for an opportunity to strike from behind." He would have continued trying to puzzle out the circumstances of the crime but that Miss Bull entered, accompanied by Margery. The little old maid looked whiter and more haggard than ever, but her eyes gleamed brightly, and she seemed to be in perfect health. Margery, now being the nominal head of the house, appeared more important, but she kept her eyes on Miss Bull's face, and in all things took her orders from this superior being. Miss Bull was a despot, although kindly enough, and Margery was her slave. "How are you, Mr. Brendon?" said Miss Bull, smiling in her prim way, but without offering her hand. "I did not expect to see you again." "Why not?" asked George, quickly. Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders and fastened her beady eyes on his face. "Many of the boarders left on account of Madame's murder, so I thought you had done the same." "I was only a visitor, Miss Bull. Had I been a boarder I should not have left. The murder did not scare me." "No," replied Miss Bull, indifferently, "I don't suppose it did. I only talked for the sake of talking." Brendon knew this was untrue, as Miss Bull was not a woman to waste words. Besides, the old maid's eyes were fixed with a certain amount of curiosity on his face, and he could not conceive why this was so. He was rather embarrassed how to begin the conversation, especially as Margery was present. Something of this showed itself in his manner, for Miss Bull drew Margery's hand within her own and nodded affably. "Miss Watson is the head of the house," she said. "Do you come to see her or me, Mr. Brendon?" "I come to see you," said George, hoping she would send the inconvenient third away. But she did nothing of the sort. "In that case Margery can stop as my friend, Mr. Brendon. Anything you say before her will go no further. She keeps my secrets." "Always! always!" cried Margery, her eyes on the old maid. "I would rather die than reveal your secrets, Miss Bull." "Rather tragic, my dear, rather tragic," replied the elder, patting the hand she held. "I have really no secrets worth revealing. A lonely old woman, Mr. Brendon, solaced by the friendship and devotion of this lonely girl." Margery, who had flushed at the rebuke, stopped and kissed the old maid's hand. Miss Bull patted her head and turned cheerfully to her visitor. "Yes, Mr. Brendon?" she said in an interrogative manner. Again George felt awkward, but judged it best to plunge into the middle of the matter and get it over as soon as possible. "You called to see a certain Mr. Ireland," he said, "about the lease of this house. I have to come to ask you why you did so." Miss Bull stopped patting Margery's hand and her lips tightened. "I don't see what business that is of yours," she said tartly. "On the face of it, Miss Bull, I admit that the question sounds impertinent. But I am anxious to learn something about Mrs. Jersey's early life, and since you know something----" "I know nothing," interrupted Miss Bull, quickly, "absolutely nothing. I came here as a boarder many years ago, and, as is my custom, I kept myself to myself. Madame and I did not get on well together. She was not a lady." "Do you know what she was?" asked Brendon, shrewdly. "I have already said that I know nothing," replied Miss Bull, coldly. Evidently it was impossible to learn anything from so secretive a woman. Nevertheless, George tried another tack. "Do you know if Mrs. Jersey left any writings behind her?" He asked this because it struck him that Mrs. Jersey might have been tempted to write out her relations with the Vane family. It was apparent that Lord Derrington had given her a lease of the house to silence her about the possible marriage, so for the sake of her niece Mrs. Jersey might have left some confession which would secure its renewal. And that the lease had been renewed was evident from the fact that the boarding-house was still being carried on in the old way, and by the niece. Miss Bull did not reply to this question herself. "That is not my business," she said; "Miss Watson took possession of her aunt's papers." "They were in a green box," said Margery, artlessly. "What did they consist of?" asked Brendon. "You need not answer that question, Margery," said Miss Bull, quickly, and from that moment, Margery preserved a lumpish silence. George rose in despair. "You will not help me," he said, taking up his hat. "So far as I can see there is no reason why we should help you," was Miss Bull's reply, and she rose in her turn. Brendon saw nothing for it but to go, yet he hesitated to abandon the chance of learning something from Miss Bull. He stared at her pinched, white face and wondered if it would be any good appealing to that love of romance which is inherent in the heart of every woman. Old and withered as Miss Bull was, she might soften under the influence of a love-tale. Brendon disliked telling his business to strangers, especially anything regarding Dorothy, whom he looked upon as a sacred vestal not to be lightly mentioned. However, so much was at stake that he determined to speak openly, on the bare chance of Miss Bull yielding. But he could not speak in the presence of the girl Margery. She was such a sullen animal that to mention his love in her presence would be like casting pearls before swine. He therefore turned to Miss Bull, who stood with folded hands, eyeing him frigidly. "If I could see you alone," said Brendon. Miss Bull cast a shrewd glance at him, rapidly made up her mind and told Margery to go. The girl looked at him tigerishly, as she was evidently jealous, and sulkily withdrew. When the door was closed Brendon resumed his seat, but Miss Bull remained standing. This was not a good sign; but George was now committed to a certain course and had to follow it. "Miss Bull," he said deliberately, "what I am about to tell you, being my own private business, I must ask you to keep to yourself." "I don't want to hear it," said Miss Bull. "I never care for other people's secrets." "This is not a secret, Miss Bull. It is merely that I am engaged to be married." "Indeed, and what interest can that have for me, Mr. Brendon?" "This much. You are a woman and must feel interested to a certain extent in a love romance. I am aware that I am appealing to you in a way which you may regard as foolish, but I am so anxious for certain information, and, from what Mr. Ireland said, you alone can give it. To put the thing in a nutshell--I am in love, and you can forward my marriage if you will." Miss Bull heard him in silence, but as he talked a faint crimson flushed her face and a softer light shone in her hard eyes. She put her hand to her heart, as though she felt a cruel pain, and sank into a chair. Alarmed by her pallor, which had now returned, George would have called for assistance, but she stopped him. "I shall be all right shortly," she muttered in faint tones. "Marriage, love, what have I to do with such things?" She paused, and then continued, her voice gathering strength as she proceeded, "Who is the bride, Mr. Brendon?" "She is not a bride yet; she never may be," replied the young man, gloomily, "for if she does not become my wife she will accept no one else. I can trust her implicitly. Her name is Dorothy Ward." Miss Bull rose with an ejaculation and her face grew red. "Is her mother the Honorable Mrs. Ward who married Lord Ransome's son?" "Yes. Do you know her?" asked George, surprised at her emotion. "I have heard of her," replied Miss Bull, resuming her seat with feigned indifference, but with barely concealed agitation. "Dorothy Ward. A handsome girl. I have seen her in the Park." "She is as good as she is beautiful," cried Brendon, enthusiastically. "I'll take your word for that," said Miss Bull in a softer tone. "Mr. Brendon, I will help you. Don't ask me why. Perhaps it is on account of your romance; perhaps because--because--" her hand clenched itself and she fought down an outburst--"no matter. I will do what I can to forward the marriage. What do you wish to know?" "About Mrs. Jersey." "In relation to Lord Derrington?" "Yes. He was the landlord of this house, I believe." "He was and is. It was leased to Mrs. Jersey, furniture and all, by the year." "By the year," said Brendon, surprised. "Why not a seven-years' lease in the ordinary way?" "I cannot say. I am only telling you what Mrs. Jersey's lawyer told me. Lord Derrington bought this house from Mr. Ireland with the furniture as it stood, and as it stood he gave it to Mrs. Jersey. She turned it into a boarding-house some fifteen years ago. I don't think she added or took away any furniture. It is in the same condition as when it left Mr. Ireland's hands. And he, I believe, sold it on account of the last owner." "He did," admitted George. "The last owner was Mr. Anthony Lockwood; he was----" George had it in his mind to state that Lockwood was his father. But the time was not yet ripe for such a disclosure, and he said nothing at the moment. "He was a singing-master," he finished rather lamely. "Mr. Ireland told me all about him." "That is all correct, so far as I know, Mr. Brendon. I dare say you wish to know why I saw Mr. Ireland. I did so on behalf of Margery Watson, as I wanted the girl to continue the boarding-house. I like the poor creature, and when her aunt died she was left very badly off." "Didn't Mrs. Jersey leave any money?" "No. She lived principally on an annuity from Lord Derrington." "Ah!" said Brendon, his suspicions becoming more and more confirmed, "so he allowed her an annuity. Why?" "I can't tell you that. But with the death of Mrs. Jersey the annuity naturally ceased. I asked Mr. Ireland about the lease, and then sought out Lord Derrington. I represented to him the position of Margery Watson, and he was good enough to renew the lease in her name, on my security." "Still by the year?" asked George. "Still by the year. So now the poor girl can live." "You are a good woman, Miss Bull, to help her in this way." "I am not good," cried Miss Bull, vehemently. "God knows I have enough sins to repent of. Don't call me good, Mr. Brendon. I am only a desolate old woman who has had a hard life. I should have been married and settled, but--but"---- She shook her head and the tears came into her hard eyes. "God help me, I have had sorrows, and will have them till I die." "That shows you have a good heart," said George, alluding not to her sorrows, but to her actions toward Margery. "Well, Miss Bull--" he rose--"you have told me what I want to know. I hope to make use of it. In return for your confidence I should tell you----" "Tell me nothing," cried the old maid, quickly. "I don't wish to hear your secrets. The less said the soonest mended. When Miss Ward becomes Mrs. Brendon," she added with a dry smile, "you can send me a piece of wedding cake." "She will not become Mrs. Brendon," said George, shaking his head. "I will be frank with you, Miss Bull. My name is not Brendon." She rose from her seat and looked at him steadily, perusing every line in his face. "I thought I had seen some one like you before. I see now--now--don't tell me your name is--is--but it's impossible." "My real name is George Vane. I am Lord Derrington's grandson." The little woman looked at him wildly for a moment and then quietly slipped to the ground. She had fainted in real earnest, and George rang the bell for assistance. Margery, who had evidently been lurking outside, rushed in. When she saw her friend extended pale and lifeless on the carpet she turned on George with a furious face. "What have you been doing to the poor darling?" she demanded, "you--you." She raised her hand to strike, but Brendon caught her by the wrist. "I have been doing nothing," he declared, quelling the rage of the she-bear by the power of his glance. "Miss Bull fainted unexpectedly. Thank goodness here is some one." It was one of the servants, but Margery waved her off. "No one but me--no one but me!" she cried, and took the slender form of her friend up in her arms. "Wait here," she added to George. "I'll be down soon." When she left the room George looked at the servant, who was a quiet, respectable old woman. "Is that girl mad?" he asked. "She's queer, poor soul, sir," replied the woman, "and entirely devoted to Miss Bull. And well she may be for it is Miss Bull who manages the house. The girl is a natural, sir." "She looks like it," replied George, sitting down. "You can go. I shall wait here until Miss Bull recovers." "Yes, sir," replied the woman, and departed. But as she closed the door George heard her muttering something to herself about the danger of Margery's claws scratching him. Brendon did not feel very comfortable on this point himself. He saw that Margery was a kind of untamed animal who had been brought into subjection by Miss Bull. No other person could manage her, and should she return, still in a passion, Brendon feared lest she should use physical violence. Still he held his ground, as he was anxious to learn how the old maid was feeling, and still more anxious to find out, if possible, why she had fainted on hearing his name. "I wonder if Mrs. Jersey told her anything," muttered George as he looked out of the window; "but that's impossible. Mrs. Jersey would keep her own secret so as to terrorize over Derrington. Besides, Miss Bull declared that she recognized my face. I wonder if she knew my father, and if she can throw any light on the murder. It is strange that she should be connected with the matter and live in the same house as Mrs. Jersey. Upon my word," said George, in disgust, "it seems as though there were a gang of shady people here connected with my affairs. And she was moved by the mention of Dorothy's name. I wonder what that meant?" But whatever it did mean he did not learn that day. Margery returned and stated that Miss Bull was better, but was too faint to resume the conversation. She begged Mr. Brendon to call another day. Margery gave this message in quite a friendly way, and nodded smilingly to the astonished George. "You are better disposed toward me," he said, taking up his hat. "Miss Bull told me to be kind to you," she declared, still smiling; and then, with a burst of good nature, "I will be kind. Do you want to know about the papers?" "If you choose to tell me," said George, artfully, but rejoicing at the opportunity this offered of learning something. "Yes, I do choose," said Margery. "She asked me to be kind to you." "Well, then, tell me," replied George, humoring her. "There was a lease in the green box, and many bills," said Margery, "a few photographs, and that was all. I couldn't see the story." "What story, Miss Watson?" Margery nodded with a cunning smile, and answered, in a whisper, as though her aunt was still alive and within hearing. "She told me it was a story she was writing. Oh, such a long story! Sheets and sheets of a story--foolscap sheets. She kept them in a long blue envelope and would not let me see them." George reflected that evidently Mrs. Jersey had been writing out an account of her early life, and Margery's next words put the matter beyond a doubt. "My aunt said that she would let me have the story to read after she died. But I could not find it in the green box." "Perhaps you did not look thoroughly," suggested George. "Yes, I did, and I looked in all other places. But I could not find it. The story was Italian," went on Margery, staring at him, "for when my aunt wasn't looking I peeped. San Remo is in Italy, isn't it?" "I believe so," replied George, more and more convinced that Mrs. Jersey had left a confession behind her. "Did you tell Miss Bull?" Margery nodded. "She said I wasn't to say a word about it. But she will not be angry at my telling you. She likes you, and says you are like some one she once knew and loved." Brendon did not pursue the conversation. He was afraid lest Margery might say too much and Miss Bull might be angry. And it was necessary that he should keep on good terms with Miss Bull. Evidently she had known his father; she may even have loved him. But George had heard so much that day that his brain was quite bewildered, and he wanted to be alone to think the matter out. Only one last request he made of Margery. "Will you show me the photographs which were in the green box?" he asked persuasively. "I can't," she replied, drawing down her lip like a child; "Miss Bull has them. But she'll show them to you," brightening, "for she likes you. I like you too. You are so handsome." With a laugh and a blush at this naïve compliment George left the house, promising to call again. With his head filled with many thoughts consequent on his two interviews, he emerged from Amelia Square and walked down to Oxford Street. A shout aroused him from his day-dreams as he reached the corner. He saw a tall, red-headed man crossing the road, and a cab was bearing down on him. The man stood paralyzed in the center, and it was apparent that the horse would soon be on him. George, almost without thinking, dashed into the street, and, seizing the animal, reined it back on its haunches with a powerful hand. There was a shout of admiration from the throng on the footpath, a few oaths from the driver of the hansom, and the next minute the red-headed man was thanking his preserver on the pavement and shaking his hand violently. "Don't you think I'll forget it, sir," he said with rather an American accent. "You have saved Bawdsey, and Bawdsey can help you at a pinch." Brendon was too bewildered by this extraordinary address to take it all in. Besides, the admiring crowd pressed around. Seeing this, Bawdsey took him by the arm and ran him round the corner into a quiet street. George recovered and looked at the man he had saved. He was a tall man with a thin face, though his body was rather stout. His hair was red, his eyes were blue, and he had an alert manner about him which made Brendon wonder how such a sharp person ever came to place himself in the position of being run over. But Bawdsey gave him no time to think. "What is your name?" he asked. "George Brendon." Bawdsey stepped back, and a look of genuine surprise overspread his freckled face. And he was apparently more astonished than he showed, as Brendon guessed by the trembling of his hands. "I have lived over fifty years in the world," said Bawdsey, "and this is the queerest thing I ever dropped across. And I drop across many queer things, stranger." "Well, Mr. Bawdsey, if that is your name," said George, good-humoredly, "it is a good thing I have saved your life. But you seem as though you could--" "I can--I can," interrupted Bawdsey, anticipating the remark. "But have you ever heard of that disease--fear of open spaces?" "No," replied Brendon, "what is it?" "I shan't give you the medical name," said Bawdsey, "as you would not understand. But it is a dread to cross any open space. At times it takes me unexpectedly, and I get a sort of paralysis of the will and cannot move. That was why I stopped in the middle of the road. I should have been killed but for you." "Perhaps I had better see you home, then," said Brendon. "No. I shall take a cab. It is only now and then that the thing takes me. It can't be cured and maybe it will get worse. At present it does not prevent me attending to my work. Come home with me and I'll tell you more. I live in No. 43 Amelia Square." "What, in that house?" cried George, for this was the number of the Jersey mansion. "Yes. What do you know of it?" "Nothing." "Oh, yes, you do; but you won't trust me. However, I'll see you again, and I'll trust you. Take care of Lola Velez. She means you harm." The next moment he was gone, and George was staring after him. CHAPTER VIII A BACCHANTE Lola Velez was the rage for a season. She sprang into fame in a single night, and thenceforth held an undisputed position as the favorite of the London public. She was not exceptionally handsome, nor was her dancing distinguished by any special grace; but about her there was something weird and original, which appealed to her audience. Such an extraordinary dancer had never been seen on the stage. She capered like one in a frenzy, with mad leaps and bounds, and throughout her orgiastic performance behaved as one possessed. It was not so much the poetry of motion as the madness of movement. George Brendon had been instrumental in introducing her to the public, and she owed her position as much to his kindness as to her own genius. It was a snowy winter's night when Brendon found her. He had just entered Pembroke Square, where he had lodgings, when he heard a moan. Turning aside into the shadow of a wall he found a woman lying there, exhausted with cold and hunger. Always anxious to do good, he brought the poor creature to his rooms. Under the influence of food and wine and warmth she revived sufficiently to tell her story. Her name, she stated, was Lola Velez. She was Spanish by birth, but had lived many years in Italy. Trained as a dancer, she had appeared at several of the best theaters with more or less success; but owing to her violent temper she had lost all chance of gaining a permanent position. But that Lola was rendered weak by privations she would not have told George the exact truth; but she confessed to her temper, to a certain episode connected with the stabbing of a woman of whom she was jealous, and to the many quarrels which had resulted in her being thrown out of employment. Finding Italy too hot to hold her, she had danced her way to Paris through various small towns, but here, as elsewhere, her temper proved her ruin. Then she had crossed the Channel, only to find that the market was overstocked with dancers. Unable to obtain employment, and having very little money, the unfortunate woman had fallen lower and lower, until she was reduced to begging in the streets. Finally she was turned out of her poor lodgings and had expended her last sixpence on food. It was shortly after this that Brendon found her. He acted the part of a good Samaritan. Giving her a sovereign; he sent her away, restored in a measure to her right mind. The next day he saw the proprietor of a music-hall, with whom he was acquainted, and procured her an engagement in a ballet. It was a Dresden china piece, and the violent dancing of Lola was by no means suited to the Watteau costumes and stately dances of the powder and patches type. But the manager--a shrewd Jew called Kowlaski--saw in his new recruit the possibilities of success. He staged a ballet adapted from "The Bacchanals" of Euripides, and Lola danced the part of Agave, the mother of Pentheus, who is rendered insane by Bacchus. Her success was immediate. She enacted the part with a reckless abandon and a wild frenzy which thrilled the house. For the moment Lola was not herself, but the wild Theban Queen raging in the orgies of the Wine-god. All London came to see the frantic revels over which Lola presided, and night after night the little music-hall was filled to overflowing. Lola made good use of her fame. She insisted that her salary should be raised, took modest lodgings in Bloomsbury, and, for a time, saved her money as a provision against old age and poverty. On the stage she was a dancing demon, but at home no one could have been more modest. There was not a breath of scandal against her, in spite of Mrs. Ward's hint to Brendon. This change in the formerly reckless woman was caused by love and gratitude to George. He had saved her from starvation, from death, he had procured her the engagement which had led to her success and present ease, and, figuratively speaking, she cast herself and all she had at his feet. Brendon found this excessive gratitude rather trying. Even then he was in love with Dorothy, whom he had met twice or thrice, and he was not disposed to accept the wild passion which Lola so freely offered to him. He tried to make her see reason, to look upon him as a friend and not as a lover, but in her insane way she resolutely refused to regard him as other than the man she intended to marry. In spite of her tempers and her wild career Lola had never erred, and so far Brendon could well have made her his wife. But he did not love her, and hardly relished the idea of taking this wild creature to his heart and home. Lola could not understand this coldness. She was accustomed to see men at her feet and to spurn them. Now that she was willing to surrender her liberty and to give her love, it exasperated her to think that the one man she had chosen would have none of her. As yet she knew nothing of Brendon's love for Dorothy, but with the instinct of a jealous woman guessed that some such passion engrossed the mind of the man she desired to marry. Again and again she deluged George with questions, which he always refused to answer, so she could learn nothing. Wearied of her persistency, Brendon stopped away, and for a few weeks Lola did not see him. She followed him to his rooms, but found him absent. Then she saw his name in the papers connected with the Amelia Square tragedy, and wrote to him. He accepted her invitation and came to supper, less because of her desire than because he wished to speak to her about Bawdsey. The name of Lola Velez on the lips of the red man had startled Brendon almost as much as the fact that Bawdsey appeared to be acquainted with him. George could not recall meeting the man, and as he was not yet sufficiently famous for his name to be on the lips of the public, he wondered how it came about that Bawdsey knew of his existence. Anxious to know who the man was, he sent a note, marked private, to Miss Bull, and received a reply stating that Mr. Bawdsey was a new boarder, and, so far as she knew, a gentleman who lived on his income. But this did not satisfy Brendon, as it did not account for Bawdsey's knowledge. There remained Lola to question, and to Lola George went a night or two after the rescue of the red man. George made up his mind, and a strong mind it was, that he would not leave Lola until he knew positively how her name came to be mentioned by Bawdsey. At eleven o'clock Lola was anxiously awaiting his arrival, and when he entered her little sitting-room she flew to kiss his hand, her usual extravagant form of greeting. George, like all Englishmen, hated scenes, and these Lola was always making. In vain had he tried to break her of these melodramatic tendencies. Her hot Southern blood would not cool, and she overwhelmed him with protestations of more than friendship. Of these he took no notice, and as it takes two to make love as well as to make a quarrel, Lola was yet far from gaining her heart's desire. This was a formal offer of marriage. Having just returned from the music-hall, Lola wore a loose tea-gown of scarlet trimmed with glittering jet. It was a bizarre garment, but the vivid color suited her dark face and Southern looks. She was rather tall, very slender, and she moved with the dangerous grace of a pantheress. Her face was oval, sallow and thin, with ever-changing expressions. She was never two minutes the same, but her prevailing mood was one of fierce intensity. The smoldering fire in her great black eyes blazed into passionate love as she swept forward to greet her visitor. "My deliverer, my adored!" she cried in moderately good English, and kissed his hand with burning lips. George snatched it away. "Don't, Lola. You know I hate that sort of thing!" And so saying he threw down his coat and hat on the sofa at the far end of the room. Lola shrugged her shoulders and coiled up a tress of her black hair which had come loose. Putting it in its place, she glanced into the mirror over the fireplace to see that her comb was at the right angle. She wore a diamond comb in the Spanish fashion. So fond was she of jewels that George sometimes fancied she must have Jewish blood in her veins. All her savings went in jewels--diamonds for choice. "They are pretty," Lola would say when Brendon remonstrated with her, "and when I am poor they can be changed into money. Oh, yes, why not?" "Ah, but you are a cold blood, you English man," she said in allusion to Brendon's action. "But what would you--it is the fogs and cold snows. Come, my friend, to the table--to the table." She clapped her hands, and seizing George by the arm forced him into a seat. The supper looked very tempting. Lola had an eye for the beautiful, and arranged the table herself. A tall silver lamp with a pink shade shed a roseate light on the white cloth, the glittering crystal, and the quaint silver spoons and forks. Lola had picked up these things at odd times and displayed very good taste in her selection. In the center of the table was an oval silver dish filled with pink roses. "What extravagance!" said George. "Ah, bah! I got them from San Remo--from a friend of mine," said Lola, removing a dish-cover; "they cost me not one sou. George, my dear friend, the Chianti is in the flask there, and this macaroni? Eh?" George passed his plate. The viands were cooked in the Italian fashion, and there was a foreign air about the supper which was grateful after a long course of English cooking. What with the foreign dishes, the pink-shaded lamp, and the candles likewise in pink shades on mantelpiece and sideboard, George felt as though he were in a Soho restaurant. The night was cold, he was hungry, and the supper, with its surroundings, was novel. He therefore made a good meal. Lola watched him eat with satisfaction. "Ah, you like my housekeepers," she said, meaning housekeeping; "it is to your mind. Yes? Eh, my friend, I could feed you as fat as pigs if you would but allow me." "I don't want to be fat," retorted George, reaching for the Chianti. "Give me a cigarette, Lola." She produced her own case, and not only supplied him with one, but insisted on placing it between his lips and on lighting it. George wriggled uncomfortably, but it was no use objecting to Lola's ways. She would indulge her whims at any price. And he did not wish to leave until he had accomplished his mission. "There, little friend," cried Lola, when he was seated comfortably by the fire and she was puffing also at a cigarette, "now we must talk. Why have you not been? Oh! you wicked young boy!" "I have been engaged," replied George, secretly admiring the careless grace with which she was half lying, half sitting in the armchair opposite. She showed a dainty foot encased in a red stocking and a red shoe. Lola was all in crimson from head to foot, save for the jet and her dark face and hair. She looked like some sorceress bent upon unholy conjurations. "Engaged!" she repeated with a flash of her wonderful eyes. "That is words for 'I don't want to come.'" George laughed, shook his head, and changed the subject. Her remark about having a friend in San Remo ran in his mind. "Have you ever been there?" he asked, naming the town. "Ah, bah! have I been anywhere? All Italy I know--all--all." "You know it better than Spain. Yet you are Spanish." "I am whatever you desire, my George. Yes, I am of Spain--of Cadiz, where my parents sold oil to their ruin. They came to Italy, to Milan and made money to live from wine. I was trained to the dance--they died, and I, my friend----" "You told me all this before," interrupted Brendon, ruthlessly. "I ask if you have ever been to San Remo?" "Why, yes, assuredly, and why not?" She looked at him with narrowing eyes as she put the question, blinking like a cat. "There is no reason, only I was thinking----" He paused. "Eh, you think--of what?" "Oh, something which does not concern you, Lola." "All that is of you is to me," she responded. "I love you." "Lola, be reasonable." "Pschutt! I mock myself of your reason," she cried, snapping her fingers and speaking in quite a French way. "I leave reasons to your chilly English ladies. I--eh, but you know I am of the South. To you--to you, my adored preserver, do I give myself." George grew angry. "If you talk like this, Lola, I shall go away." "Ah, then good-night to you. Let it be adieu and never come back." "Not at all. Be a reasonable woman and sit down. Give me some more wine and a cigarette. I want to ask you a question." Lola poured out the wine and tossed him a cigarette, but she refused to sit down or to compose herself. In a flaming temper she whirled about the room, talking all the time. "Ah, yes, but it is so always! I am a fool to love you, cold one--pig of an Englishman." "That's grateful," said George, quietly, and she was at his feet. "Ah, but no! I am a bad womans. I am entirely all wicked. You are an angel of the good God. Dearest--my own----" She stretched adoring hands, and her eyes glittered like stars. George reasoned with her. "Lola, do you wish me to be pleased with you?" "Assuredly, and why not?" "Then sit down in your chair like a Christian and talk sensibly." She sat down, or rather flung herself into the chair with a whirl of scarlet draperies. "Decidedly I am a Christian. I go to mass, I confess--yes, I confess to the priest how I love you." "Do you really love me, Lola? I was told that you wished me harm." She started from her chair with a passionate gesture. "Who says it is liars of the worst. Tell me who speak, that I may tear and scratch." "No! no! I don't want a scandal." "For her sakes, oh, yes!" She subsided sulkily. "I am nothings." "For whose sake?" asked Brendon, rather alarmed, for he did not wish this tigress to know about Dorothy. "The other woman's. Oh, yes, there is some one else. I know. You are mine all, and would be but for the other womans. Imbecile that I am to think of you who kick me hard--hard. And I can learn nothing--nothing. If I did--if I knew, I----" She stopped and breathed hard. "I wonder you don't have me watched," said George, thoroughly angry at her unreasonable attitude. Lola tossed her head, and her expression changed to one of alarm. Brendon saw the change and guessed its meaning. "You did have me watched." "And what if I did?" she demanded defiantly. "You are mine." "I am not yours," he retorted angrily. "I have given you no cause to think that I would marry you." Lola burst into tears. "You took me from the stones and snows," she wept with extravagant grief. "Why did I not die? You fed me with foods and made me shine in this London; you win my heart, and then--then--pschutt!" she snapped her fingers, "you toss it aside." "Why did you have me watched?" asked George, sternly. "I want to know of the other woman," she replied sullenly. "There is no----" He broke off. "It has nothing to do with you." Lola sprang to her feet with fierce eyes. "Then there is another--another--oh, you cruel! Name of names, but I shall find her. I shall tell her----" "You shall tell her nothing--you shall not see her." "But I will. Eh; yes. You do not know me." This with a stamp. "I know you cannot behave decently, Lola. If you have me watched again, if you dare to--to--bah!" George stamped in his turn. "I have had enough of this. Behave, or I go and will not return." She flung herself at his feet with a wail. "Ah, but no," she sobbed, "I do love you so dearly--I will die if you love me not." George drew himself roughly away, and taking her by the hands placed her in a chair, where she hid her face and sobbed. "Who was it you got to watch me--you hired to watch me?" George advisedly used the word "hired" as he thought she might have engaged one of her friends to do the dirty work, instead of engaging a professional. Yet he knew she was quite capable of going to a private inquiry office. "I shall not tell you," said Lola, sitting up with a hard expression on her mouth and in her eyes. "Did you pay him much?" asked Brendon, dexterously. "I paid him what I chose," retorted Lola, falling into the trap. "Ah! Then it was a professional detective you engaged. You have been to one of those inquiry offices." "That is my business," said Lola, who, seeing she had made a slip, became more obstinate than ever. More to show her calmness, she lighted a fresh cigarette and smoked it defiantly. George shrugged his shoulders. He was not going to argue with her. Remembering that Bawdsey had mentioned her name, and that Bawdsey appeared to know all about himself, he began to put two and two together. Certainly he might be wrong, and Bawdsey might have nothing to do with the matter. Still it was worth while trying to startle Lola into a confession by the use of his name. His rescue of Bawdsey hinted that the long arm of coincidence might be at work. "Well, I don't know where he comes from----" began George. Lola snapped him up. "Ah, yes, and you think it is a man. Bah! why not a woman, my dear?" she sneered. "Oh, you may have half-a-dozen at work--male and female both," said George, taking his seat, "but I should have thought that the red man was clever enough to----" She threw away her cigarette and rose to her feet with such manifest alarm that George knew his guess was correct. "You talk foolish." George looked at her angry face serenely. "Did Bawdsey when he said you wished me harm?" "What?" She flung up her hands, with blazing eyes. "Did he say I do wish you harm? Was it--that--that cow--pig----" "Don't call names, Lola, and don't distress yourself. It was Bawdsey." Lola saw that she had gone too far, and had, vulgarly speaking, given herself away. She tried to recover lost ground. "I do not know his names," she said sullenly; then burst out, "but I wish you no harm. Eh, will you believe that, my preserver?" "I'll believe nothing if you will not tell me the truth," said Brendon, a little cruelly. "Come, Lola, admit that you paid Bawdsey to watch me." "I did not pay--no, not one sou. He did it for love." "Oh, indeed! So Bawdsey is in love with you?" Lola threw back her head defiantly. "Yes, he is, and I care not one, two, three little trifles for him. Chup! He is old--he is red--he is one big fool, that I can twist and twist----" "And you apparently have done so. Well, then, Lola, did you get him from a private inquiry office?" "No, I did not so. He loved me, and sent me flowers--oh, many, many flowers--those roses." She pointed to the silver dish. "So you can't tell the truth even in that," said George, deliberately. "What of the friend in San Remo?" "It is his friend. He had flowers from his friend. He told that." Brendon sat up with an eager look in his eyes. So Bawdsey knew some one in San Remo. Probably he had been there, and Bawdsey was acquainted with his name. Brendon began to think that there was some meaning in all these things and plied Lola with questions. She was sulky at first and would not answer. But Brendon knew how to manage her, and before the conclusion of the conversation he got the whole truth out of her. This was accomplished by using what the Americans call "bluff." "So Bawdsey knows San Remo, and he is fifty, or over fifty, years of age. H'm! He knows all the history of the place, I suppose." "I know not--nothing do I know." "Ah, that's a pity! Bawdsey could tell you some nice tales." He fixed a keen glance on her. "About some yellow holly, for instance." Lola winced, for the shot had gone home. But she still held to her declaration of ignorance. "I know nothings--absolutely." "But apparently this man knows a great deal. He is in love with you, and must have told you much. Did he inform you of a certain murder which took place at San Remo?" "Ah, bah! Why should he? I knew of all already." "You! How did you know?" "My father and my mothers, they lived in San Remo when--oh, they did tell me all of that Englishman." "Did they know who murdered him?" asked George, marveling at this unexpected discovery. "No. No one know anythings." "Was there no suspicion?" "Not one suspicions. I know nothings," she repeated doggedly. "It strikes me that you do. How did you and Bawdsey come to be talking of this matter?" "We did not talk." Lola looked down at her foot as she told the lie and moved it restlessly. George rose and took up his hat. Throwing his coat over his arm, he moved toward the door. "Good-night, mademoiselle." She sprang to her feet and flew after him. "No! no!" she cried in lively alarm. "You must not go, my dearest dear." "What is the use of my stopping when you will not show your gratitude toward me by telling the truth?" George hated to make such a speech as this, but it was the only way in which he could move her. "I will tell! I will tell. Sit down. The coat--you shall not go. I will say all. Ask what you will. Sit, my little cabbage--a wine in the glass--ah, yes!--and a cigarette. Come, be good. Am I mademoiselle?" "No," said George, smiling on her pleading face, "you are my friend Lola now that you are sensible." "Ah, only friend!" she said sadly. "But I speak. Yes?" George began at once to question her, lest the yielding mood should pass away. "You made the acquaintance of Bawdsey at the hall?" Lola nodded. "He loved me; he sent me flowers; he was made a presentation to me by Kowlaski. I learn that he looks after people, what you call a--a--_un mouchard_----" "A spy--yes, go on." "And I made him watch you. I told him your name." "Did he know my name?" asked Brendon, quickly. "He knew everything--oh, yes--all--all!" Brendon was taken aback. "All--all what?" he asked amazed. "Why--" Lola twirled her fingers--"all what you would not tell to me, my dear. That your names is Vane, and milor----" "Derrington! Did Bawdsey mention Lord Derrington?" "Yes. Oh, many times he speaks of milor. I speaks of San Remo. This--this Bawdsey ask me of the blue domino--of the holly----" "Of the murder, in fact." "It is quite so, my friend. Of the murder of your father." "What?" George started from his seat. "Did he know that the man who was murdered at San Remo was my father?" "Yes, and that it was difficult about the marriages." "That also. He appears to know the whole story. And he mentioned Lord Derrington. That is how he comes to be acquainted with these facts. A spy--Derrington is employing him. And the man is boarding in Amelia Square." George struck his hands together. "By Jove, it's a conspiracy, and I never knew anything!" "I do not wish you to have the marriages right, George," said Lola, with a pout. "If you are as what you are, then you will marry me. She will not be madame." "She? Who?" "The woman you--you--love." Lola got out the word with difficulty and burst into extravagant rage. "But she will not have you. No, you are mine. You will be Brendons--as I know you, and not Vane--never milor. I will not let it. If you are milor you marry her." "Did Bawdsey tell you the name of the lady?" "No. But he will tell. But she is a well-born one, and I am of the gutter. But I love you--ah, yes I love you!" She threw her arms round him. "Be still Brendons, and not milor, and I am yours." "No! no!" George took her arms from his neck and spoke more soberly. "Lola, hold your tongue about what you have told me, and I'll see you again. If you speak, I see you no more." "I will be silent," she said as Brendon put on his coat. "But you are cruel, wicked. You shall never be milor, never!" "How do you know?" asked George, contemptuously. Lola's eyes blazed. "I know. I know. You will never be milor." CHAPTER IX CLEVER MRS. WARD "An invitation--an invitation to dinner. By Jove, I never thought I'd get that far. The Honorable Mrs. Ward, too. Hurrah!" Leonard Train made these remarks over a letter which had come by the morning post. It was a delicate perfumed friendly note, begging dear Mr. Train to come to dinner the next evening without ceremony. "I have just learned that your dear mother was at school with me," wrote Mrs. Ward in her most gushing style. "So you will see why I write informally. Do come." The "Do" was underlined, and Leonard could hardly contain himself for joy at this proof that a member of the aristocracy was disposed to be friendly. "A woman of the highest fashion, too," chuckled Leonard. To account for Train's exuberant joy, which seemed out of all proportion to its reason, it must be explained that, notwithstanding his money, and what he regarded as his talents, he had never managed to enter the fashionable world. As he was as vain as a peacock, and anxious to shine and be admired among people worth knowing, this was a great grief to him. George took him to several houses, but Leonard did not seem to be a success, for after one visit he was never asked again, although he left cards assiduously. This invitation of Mrs. Ward's was purely voluntary, as she had met him only once and had snubbed him when she did meet him. At the time he had thought her a horrid woman, but now he was prepared to bow down and worship. Leonard's father had been in trade, and the nice little income he inherited had been made out of a patent medicine, most drastic in its effects, that claimed to cure all diseases. Train senior, a shrewd innkeeper, had bought it from one of his customers--a drunken doctor meant for better things, but who had fallen on evil days. By judicious advertisement, and with the aid of many bought testimonials from penniless members of the aristocracy, Train managed to make the drug a success. Train's Trump Pill was seen on every boarding, and Mr. Ireland possessed one of the original posters. Soon Train senior became rich, very rich, and, having improved his manners and suppressed his parents, he was taken up by people of good position who needed ready money. He bought his way into the fringe of the fashionable world, and finally married a rather elderly lady, who had blue blood, extravagant tastes, and no money. She presented him with Leonard, and then, thinking she had done her duty, arranged to enjoy herself. Mrs. Train spent the proceeds of the Trump Pill recklessly, and before her husband died she managed to get through the greater part of his wealth. Train settled an income of five thousand a year on his son, and let Mrs. Train do what she liked with the rest. Then he died, and Mrs. Train sent Leonard to Eton, afterward to college. When he was thus off her hands she enjoyed herself amazingly, and finally died in Paris, after spending every penny of the principal and interest of the large fortune left by her husband. Leonard mourned his mother, although he had seen very little of her. Then he settled in London on his five thousand a year and posed as a literary man. But the desire of his life was to be fashionable. Hence his delight at the letter. "Of course I'll go," soliloquized Leonard, when calmer. "I wonder if George will be there. He loves that Ward girl, so he might. Mrs. Ward does not approve of the match, so he might not. I wonder if there is a regular engagement. If not, I might have a shot myself. The Honorable Mrs. Train--no, that would be the mother." It will be seen that Leonard was not very faithful to his absent friend; but the fact is that Train was less devoted to Brendon than he had been. The episode of Amelia Square made him fight rather shy of George. The story of the marriage was shady, and in some way--Leonard couldn't exactly explain how--seemed to be connected with the murder of Mrs. Jersey. Moreover, Leonard knew something which he had not mentioned to Brendon, and would not have mentioned it for the fashionable world. However, he had said nothing about George's history, and so far had kept faith. But Brendon saw that Leonard was no longer so pleased to see him as formerly. He therefore avoided the fat young man, and Leonard did not seem to mind the avoidance. Indeed, he appeared to be rather relieved than otherwise. Brendon never asked himself the reason of this behavior, as he thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. That Leonard would speak never entered his head. And Leonard never intended to speak, being weak, but honorable in his own foolish way. But when Mrs. Ward's invitation came he walked blindfolded into a trap set by that clever little woman. She asked Train to dinner, not because she had known his mother--although that was true enough--but for the simple reason that she wished to hear what he knew about the Amelia Square tragedy. Brendon had told her much, but it was probable that Train, being a weak idiot in the hands of a pretty woman like herself, would tell her more. Mrs. Ward was by no means reconciled to the possibility of Brendon marrying her daughter, and wished to find some scandal smirching George, that she might induce Dorothy to break the engagement. She would have utilized the tales about Lola and Brendon, but that she was not sure of her ground in this particular direction, and, moreover, having seen the Spanish dancer, feared lest so passionate a woman should make an open scandal. It was the aim of Mrs. Ward's life to do wrong things, and to avoid troubles arising from them. Therefore, she, for the time being, put Lola on the shelf and arranged in her own scheming mind to make use of Leonard. "I can work him like a lump of putty," said Mrs. Ward, contemptuously. A vulgar illustration, but a true one. Besides, she said it in the solitude of her own room when she was dressing for dinner, so no one heard its vulgarity or its truth. When Leonard entered the drawing-room he was welcomed by Dorothy, who told him that Mrs. Ward would be down shortly. "It is only a small dinner, Mr. Train," she said. "Mr. Vane is coming; no one else." "I expected to find my friend Brendon here," said Leonard, thinking how beautiful she looked. "No! Mr. Brendon is very busy at the present time with his book. He would have come otherwise." "All things should give way where a lady is concerned," said Train, gallantly. Miss Ward laughed. She had heard much of Train from Brendon, and thought him a kindly, but foolish young man. "I am not a woman of that sort, Mr. Train. I have no desire that a man should neglect his work for frivolity. You are a great friend of Mr. Brendon?" "The greatest he has." "And he was stopping with you in the house where that tragedy took place. He told me about it." Train secretly wished that George had held his tongue on this particular point, as he had his own reasons for not wishing to be questioned. With the very best intentions as to holding his tongue, he knew his weakness for babbling well enough, and found it easier to abstain from talking altogether than to be temperate in speech. "Brendon certainly stopped with me," he said reservedly, "but we were sound asleep when the murder took place. Neither of us heard anything. After the inquest we both returned to the West End." "It was a most unpleasant experience," said Dorothy, thoughtfully. "Very," assented Train, wiping his face. "I shall never go in search of types again." "You can find amusing types in the West End," remarked Dorothy, in a low voice. "Here is one." The young man who entered the room was a small, attenuated, precise atom of a creature, immaculately dressed and with a rather shrill voice. He answered to the name of the Hon. Walter Vane, and was the cousin of Brendon, although he did not know of the relationship. But Dorothy and Train both knew, and compared Vane's physique disadvantageously with that of Brendon. The one man was a splendid specimen of humanity, the other a peevish hypochondriac. Walter Vane had been "fast" in his time, and although he was not yet thirty he was now suffering from the consequences of his rapid ways. He was in the twenties, yet he was bald. He was as nervous as an old woman and finicky as an elderly spinster. Lord Derrington, who was a bluff old giant of the country squire type, sneered at his degenerate descendant. All the same, he would not replace him by George, who was a man in looks and tastes after the old lord's own heart. "Beastly night," lisped Vane, greeting Dorothy and taking no notice of Leonard. "I think there will be snow. I hope I won't get a bad cold. I am so subject to cold." "Mr. Train--Mr. Vane," said Dorothy, introducing the two. Vane stared and muttered something about "pleasure." Leonard caught no other word. He then continued his conversation with Miss Ward. "I sneezed twice at the Merry Music Hall the other night." "That is where Velez dances," said Leonard, determined to speak. Vane stared again, and it was Dorothy who answered. "My mother went to see her, and says she is a most extraordinary dancer." "Oh, clever in a sort of mad way, and a regular bad one," chuckled the little man. Dorothy turned away. She did not like this conversation, as it offended her taste. But the next words of Vane made her pause. "I saw your friend Brendon at the hall, Miss Ward--the writing man, you know. A fine-looking chap, but sulky." "The best man in the world," said Leonard, whereupon Dorothy gave him an approving look. She wondered what Vane would say did he know that the man he criticised so freely was his cousin and the legitimate heir to the Derrington title if he had his rights. "Well, he has his larks like every one else. They say he is sweet on the dancer." "Mr. Vane!" cried Dorothy, the blood rushing to her face. The little man became confused, conscious that he had transgressed the bounds of good breeding. He knew that Brendon admired Dorothy, and that Dorothy took pleasure in his society, but he was unaware that any deeper feeling existed. Mrs. Ward had kept that sort of thing from him, as she did not want Vane to leave the coast clear for Brendon. And Vane was so egotistical that he never for one moment dreamed that George was his rival. Even if he had, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. In his eyes Brendon was merely a writing fellow and not to be named in the same breath with his noble, attenuated, rickety self. "Well, good people," cried Mrs. Ward, entering the room at this very opportune moment, "are you all here? Mr. Vane, I am pleased. Mr. Train, how good of you to come. Ah," Mrs. Ward sighed, "you have your dear mother's eyes, and lovely eyes they were." Having slipped in this compliment to put Leonard at his ease and throw him off his guard, Mrs. Ward delivered him to Dorothy and took Vane into a shady corner. "Dinner will be ready soon," she said, fanning herself although it was a cold winter's night. "I hope you are hungry, Mr. Vane." "I was," admitted her guest, "but I have to nurse my appetite carefully, you know, Mrs. Ward, and I am rather put out." "Not by Mr. Train, I hope. He is a nice fellow, really, very nice, with money made out of pigs or whisky or something," said Mrs. Ward, vaguely, for she was not certain. "What did he say?" "He said nothing, but Miss Ward did." Mrs. Ward shrugged. "Oh, well, you know, dear Dorothy has such odd ideas, and all that sort of thing. I suppose it was something about books, or philosophies, or grammar, or something. Enough to spoil any one's appetite, I'm sure." "No. But I mentioned that Brendon--you know the writing fellow----" "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ward, viciously, and at once on the alert. "Well, I said that it was rumored he was sweet on Lola Velez, and Miss Ward fired up. Is she so great a friend of his as all that?" "Oh, by no means," responded Mrs. Ward, vivaciously. "A mere acquaintance, you know. They talk books, I believe, and how moths get wings like those animals before the flood. She thinks he is goody-goody. I'm sure he's dull enough. Lola Velez! oh, a perfect dear. How she can kick! So Mr. Brendon is in--well, I never should have thought it of him; but these quiet men are always the worst." So Mrs. Ward rattled on in her incoherent manner, but perfectly clear in her own mind as to the good Vane's injudicious observation would do. If Dorothy once got it into her brain that George was an admirer of Lola, then there would be a chance of breaking the engagement. Before Vane could make any more remarks the gong thundered. Mrs. Ward rose at once, rather glad of the stoppage of conversation. She liked a lively man, and Vane was a fool. But for all that she was quite prepared to give him Dorothy, as she would have given her to a prize idiot provided the idiot was sufficiently rich. "You take in Dorothy," she said to Vane, thus getting him off her shoulders, but not hoping to find Leonard a pleasant change. "I will take Mr. Train under my wing." In this order they entered the dining-room, Mrs. Ward trying to stifle a yawn and wondering how she would get through such a dull evening. Luckily, Vane mentioned that his grandfather had expressed his intention of looking in during the course of the evening, "If you will not mind, Mrs. Ward," he said politely. "Oh, I'm rather glad," replied the little woman, drawing off her gloves. "Such a delightful old gentleman! His anecdotes are quite in the best style." "He told one to a bishop the other day," said Vane, laughing. "Really, how amusing! And what did the bishop say?" "He said nothing, but he looked sermons." "Ah," sighed Mrs. Ward, "bishops are so particular." "I find them delightful," said Dorothy, filling in the pause. "Of course, my dear, because they talk of Renan and missionaries and those sort of dry things. I remember the Bishop of Timbuctoo, or Central Africa, or some of those places one never heard of, telling me how his old curate was eaten alive by blacks and mosquitoes. I quite forget which; but he was eaten." "I trust the blacks and mosquitoes didn't find the curate tough." "I'm sure I don't know. He was just thirty, I believe, and bald." "You said he was an old curate." "Oh, dear me, Dorothy how can you expect me to explain what I mean?--at dinner, too. I mean he was young in years and old in saintliness. Do try this dish, Mr. Train? It is so good." Leonard did try it, and did full justice to the merits of Mrs. Ward's cook. She kept a particularly good chef, as she knew the value of good cooking. "People like nice things to eat," she explained to Leonard, while Dorothy labored to entertain Vane. "It makes one so popular if one's chef can always be relied upon. I have known a woman's position ruined by inattention to the kitchen. One can break all the ten commandments if only one feeds the men." Then, thinking she had said too much, she added sweetly, "But of course I am only joking, Mr. Train, as one must be good and all that sort of thing." "I'm sure you are all that is good and kind, Mrs. Ward." "Now, that's really very nice of you. Mr. Brendon would never say a really nice thing like that. Of course he's a great friend of yours, isn't he? and he stopped with you when that poor woman----" Leonard uttered an ejaculation. It seemed to him that he was pursued by the Amelia Square tragedy. First Dorothy, and now her mother. Was there no other topic of conversation? He would have answered an ordinary person rudely, being wearied of being questioned, but Mrs. Ward, having the key of the door which led into the fashionable world, was to be conciliated. He replied to her almost in the same words as he had used to Dorothy. "Mr. Brendon did stop with me," he said, "but we were asleep when the murder took place." "How extraordinary!" said Mrs. Ward, languidly, yet with a keen eye on the change in Leonard's face. "I wonder who killed her?" "No one knows," replied Train, shortly. "Does no one suspect any one?" "I believe not. The police are quite at fault." "Oh, the police!" said Mrs. Ward, in a proper tone of contempt. "They never do anything except make love to cooks. Do you suspect any one?" Leonard flushed. "I, Mrs. Ward? Why should I suspect any one?" "Oh, I don't know. You have a clever face. Just the kind of a face that one would think a brilliant detective would have. You must have some suspicions?" Again her eyes searched his face. "No," he protested. "I was asleep. I know nothing about the matter." "How stupid of you!" said Mrs. Ward, beginning to think that her condescension in asking Leonard to dinner was wasted. "But you men are always so blind, poor dears! What kind of a woman was Mrs. Jersey?" "A nice motherly old creature." "I know--like a monthly nurse. Was Mr. Brendon introduced to her?" "Yes. I took him into the drawing-room." "Really. Have they drawing-rooms in Bloomsbury? How nice and civilized! Well, did Mrs. Jersey and Mr. Brendon get on well together? I want to know because you see, Mr. Train, he admires Dorothy, and it is such a sign of a man's good-nature if he gets on well with strangers. I suppose Mrs. Jersey liked him?" "I think she did," replied Leonard, on whose weak head the claret was beginning to take effect, "but she was rather startled when she saw him first." Mrs. Ward's eyes flashed so brightly that Leonard would have been warned of his indiscretion had he not been looking at his plate. "Oh, how very interesting! But she never saw him before. Why should she be startled?" "It wasn't at him exactly," said Leonard, "but at a piece of yellow holly he wore in his coat." "Yellow holly," repeated Mrs. Ward, with feigned surprise. "Why, of course Mr. Brendon wore a sprig. My daughter gave it to him." "So he told me, Mrs. Ward." "And I gave it to Dorothy," continued Mrs. Ward, who for some reason wished to make an explicit statement. "It is very rare, you know, and a man who lives in Devonshire sent me a bunch. Dorothy mentioned that Mr. Brendon had begged for a piece. Yes! he would naturally wear it on that night, as he had just left my house. But why was this unfortunate woman surprised?" "I can't say; but she was," answered Train; "she turned white, and we all thought she was about to faint." "Did she give any explanation?" "No. In a few moments she recovered, and nothing more was said." "Oh!" Mrs. Ward seemed disappointed. "Was that all?" "Why--" Leonard turned his dull eyes on her flushed face--"what else did you expect to hear, Mrs. Ward?" "Nothing! Nothing," she said hurriedly, for she did not wish to make him suspicious, "but it seems so odd. Dorothy giving the holly, you know, and that Mrs. Jersey should be upset. We must continue this conversation, Mr. Train. It is really most interesting. But you literary men are quite fascinating. After dinner in the drawing-room, Mr. Train. Dorothy!" She signaled with her fan, and her daughter arose. "Don't be too long over your wine," said Mrs. Ward, as she left the room. "We can't spare you, Mr. Train." Leonard believed that all this attention was due to his own fascinations. His head was still heated with the wine he had drunk, yet he began to regret that he had said anything about the yellow holly. Certainly he had not promised George to be silent on this especial point; but he nevertheless thought it wiser to hold his tongue about all that had taken place in Amelia Square on the night of the murder. Warned in this way by his mother sense, Train took no more wine, but after a rather dull conversation with Vane he went into the drawing-room. Dorothy was at the piano and thither repaired Vane; but Mrs. Ward, seated near the fire, called Leonard to her side. "I must introduce you: Lord Derrington--Mr. Train." The grandfather of George was a huge man, burly, red-faced, white-haired, and with a rather truculent expression. He was over seventy, yet carried his years like a boy. Under his bushy white eyebrows he shot a quick glance at Leonard from a pair of keen gray eyes and summed him up at once as a fool. But Lord Derrington had been a diplomatist many years before, and knew that even fools are sometimes useful. Moreover, he had learned from Mrs. Ward's aimless chatter that Train was a great friend of Brendon's, and he knew more about George than George thought. However, Derrington, after that one glance of contempt, was very civil to Leonard. "I am glad to meet you," he said, with a nod. "You go in for books, I understand from Mrs. Ward." He had a deep, raucous voice like that of an early starling, and spoke in an abrupt staccato kind of way. Train, who stood before him like a rabbit before a snake, compared him in his own mind with Becky Sharp's friend, the Marquis of Steyne. Derrington was quite as wicked and savage and unscrupulous as that celebrated nobleman. "I do write a little," said Leonard, nervously. "I believe in action rather than in writing," said Derrington. "There are far too many books written. Dreamers, all of you." "Dreams may come true." "And when they do come true, what is the use of them? Bah! In my young days we lived. Now people dream." "I'm sure there's no dreaming about society nowadays," said Mrs. Ward, laughing. "Every one is as sharp as a needle to get the better of his or her neighbor." "Mutual Deception Society," said Derrington. "You-give-me-so-much-and-I'll-let-you-go-so-far. That's the sort of thing." "But there is a great deal of philanthropy nowadays." "And what good does philanthropy do, Mr. Train?" said Derrington; "only makes people lazy. People are too sentimental. I would give half these paupers the cat if I had my way." Train was quite sure that he would, for, with his red face and heavy jowl and savage air of command, he looked the picture of a Roman emperor. Derrington had the instincts of a despot, and Leonard could imagine him slaying and burning and doing all manner of evil things. He wondered how Brendon ever came to have such a villainous grandfather. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about Brendon, just to observe the effect on Derrington. But his courage failed him and he held his peace. And at that moment Fate intervened. The drawing-room door opened, and a servant announced, "Mr. Brendon!" The next moment George came face to face with his grandfather. CHAPTER X DIPLOMACY It was a most awkward meeting. Dorothy, Train, and Brendon knew the truth, but Mrs. Ward and Vane were ignorant. As to Lord Derrington himself, George was not sure. After his conversation with Lola he had a vague idea that since Bawdsey was connected in some way with his grandfather, Lord Derrington must have somehow learned that Brendon was the name his grandson had taken. There was no other way of accounting for the mention of Derrington's name by the private inquiry agent. However this might be, Lord Derrington was too clever a man to betray himself. George felt that the old man knew who he was, but he could not be sure, for Derrington welcomed him with a well-bred air, as he would have done a stranger. Mrs. Ward watched the meeting curiously, and Brendon noticed her inquiring gaze. But he put this down to his knowledge that Derrington knew he was a suitor for Dorothy's hand and wished the girl to marry Vane. Leonard was the only person in the room who displayed any visible disturbance. He grew red and restless. Brendon was perfectly calm. "How delightful of you to come, Mr. Brendon," said Mrs. Ward, rising and apparently forgetting that she had forbidden him the house. "I must introduce you: Lord Derrington--Mr. Brendon; and you know Mr. Train." "We are old friends," said George, calmly. "Miss Ward"--he bowed to Dorothy, who emulated his serenity although she felt anxious. But when she saw her lover's composure she knew that nothing disagreeable would occur, and her apprehensions were relieved. There ensued a general conversation relative to the weather, to the doings of a certain politician, and to sundry other subjects more or less vague. George talked excellently, and was conscious that Derrington was listening with approval. Again and again he wondered if the old man really knew who he was, and again and again he failed to arrive at any conclusion. After a time Leonard went with Dorothy to the piano, where she played for his delectation, and Mrs. Ward seized the opportunity to show Vane some new photographs of herself. Derrington and Brendon were practically alone, and the old lord appeared anxious to make himself agreeable. George was watchful for the cloven hoof, but it did not peep out. Truculent tyrant as Derrington was, yet he could play the part of a highly bred, polished gentleman of the old school to perfection. He did so on this occasion. "I have heard of you from Mrs. Ward," he said in his harsh tones, which no amount of politeness could render agreeable, "but I do not think we have met before." "No. I cannot recall any meeting," replied George, wondering if the other was about to hint that he had seen some one resembling him. "I have seen you in the distance, however." "Distance lends enchantment to the view in my case." "You are pleased to say so, Lord Derrington." "I generally do say what I please," responded the old man, shooting a sharp glance at George. "Are you related to the Brendons of Shropshire?" "No. I have not that privilege." Derrington chuckled at this reply. He thought George had a good deal of the man in him when he answered thus fearlessly. "I have seen your name somewhere lately," he observed, "but I can't recall where or in what connection." Brendon laughed, quite at his ease, although he did not know if this was an attempt to make him speak out. However, he did speak out, with the idea of seeing what would happen. "I can supply the connection," said he, lightly, but keenly observant of the old man's face. "My name appeared as a witness at an inquest a week or so back." "Ah, now I remember, Mr. Brendon. Quite so. It was that Amelia Square murder." "You have a good memory, Lord Derrington." "In this case you flatter me, Mr. Brendon. There is no difficulty in my remembering the especial case, as Mrs. Jersey was a tenant of mine." George was not supposed to know this and displayed suitable surprise. "Indeed," he said; "then you have lost a good tenant." "Possibly," replied Derrington, rather grimly. "She always paid her rent regularly. You saw her?" "Yes. My friend, Mr. Train, was stopping in the house----" "That young man." Derrington cast a look in Leonard's direction. "I did not know he was there on that night." "He was a witness also," said Brendon, significantly. "I can't remember all the names sir. Well?" "I stopped for the night with Mr. Train, and during the night Mrs. Jersey was murdered." "You heard nothing--you saw nothing?" "I was sound asleep the whole time," said Brendon, calmly. "Humph!" Derrington pulled at his gray mustache in the very same way as George did when he was reflective. "What a pity. You might have discovered the assassin." "I don't think the assassin will ever be discovered." "That's luck for the assassin," rejoined the old lord, cynically. "You appear to be very certain, Mr. Brendon." George shrugged his shoulders. "No more certain than the police are," he replied. "They examined every one in the house, and no one could be accused--there was absolutely no evidence. And the assassin could not have entered the house, as the door was locked, and the key was in the pocket of the murdered woman." Derrington, for some reason, appeared to be rather relieved. "I read all that in the papers," he said roughly. "You are telling me nothing new. But there, you didn't say you would. By the way, you stopped at that house. Do you know a Miss Bull?" George nodded. "She told my fortune," he said. "She told Mrs. Jersey's fortune also, and a very true fortune did she tell," said Derrington, grimly. "What did she prophesy about you?" "The usual thing," said Brendon, curtly. "Trouble, I suppose. These card-people generally prophesy trouble, as it is certain to occur." "There was trouble and enemies, and the promise that I should get my wish," said Brendon, with a quick look. Derrington laughed. "What is your wish?" "If I tell it I won't get it," replied George, also laughing; "but I don't believe in fortune-telling. It is rubbish." "It wasn't in Mrs. Jersey's case," said the other, who appeared to be a trifle superstitious. "Oh, that was a mere coincidence. But you asked me about Miss Bull, sir! Do you know her?" Derrington nodded. "She came to me on behalf of Mrs. Jersey's niece and wished the lease renewed. I heard her story and consented. I dare say the niece will be quite as good a tenant as the aunt." This conversation was all very well, but there was nothing to be learned from it on either side. Brendon could not discover if his grandfather knew to whom he was speaking, and Derrington found it impossible to learn if George could tell him anything of the case which had not been reported in the papers. For some reason Derrington wished to know what had transpired, and Brendon felt convinced that this anxiety was more than that of a landlord for the loss of a good tenant. He wondered if Derrington knew that Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession and that it was missing. He would had liked to find out, but since he could not reveal himself as Derrington's grandson there was no chance of getting this information. Besides, Derrington appeared to grow weary of discussing the murder. "It is worn threadbare," he said. "All the papers have been talking about it. I agree with you, Mr. Brendon, that the assassin will never be discovered." "Never!" said George, looking full at the determined face of the old man. "Are you quite sure? "I am sure of nothing in this world, save that you said so yourself, Mr. Brendon. However, there are pleasanter subjects to talk of. What about yourself--your aims, your ambitions, your chances of success?" "Are those pleasant subjects?" laughed Brendon. "To an old man such as I am," nodded the other. "I like to hear of the castles in the air which youth builds." "I am afraid my castles will never turn to bricks and mortar," said Brendon with a sigh. However, he was not averse to showing his grandfather that he was no fool, but a man with a head on his shoulders. George had a quick brain and a strong will and a considerable fund of information. He had taken a good degree at Oxford, and his literary articles always received praise from the public, and from his brethren of the press. Moreover, George was fond of politics, and could converse excellently on that fascinating subject. He laid himself out to please Derrington, knowing that the old tyrant was disappointed in the languid Vane, who was chattering commonplace to Mrs. Ward. In a short time Brendon and Derrington were engaged in a discussion about Ireland and Irish Home Rule, and the old lord approved, highly of Brendon's sentiments. "You ought to be in the House, Mr. Brendon," he said. "I have no one to help me to such a goal." Derrington was about to speak, and fastened his little eyes on the keen, handsome face of the younger man. But he suddenly changed his mind and turned away to talk to Mrs. Ward. Brendon knew that he had succeeded in pleasing the old gentleman, and was glad that so much was accomplished. If Derrington found that he was clever and presentable, and likely to add luster to the family name, it was not improbable that he would recognize the marriage. But by this time George had it in his mind that Derrington knew who he was, and had been talking advisedly under the cover of pretended ignorance, so as to see what manner of man his unacknowledged grandson was. "Well," thought Brendon, "he has learned that I am no fool, at all events." Mrs. Ward came across to George and left Derrington talking to Dorothy, for whom he professed a great admiration. He knew that Dorothy liked Brendon, as Mrs. Ward had told him so, and he frankly acknowledged to her that Brendon was a clever man. "I wish my grandson had his brains," said Derrington, regretfully. "I am pleased you like him," responded Dorothy, who could not tell him that Brendon was his grandson, and hardly knew what to say. "He is as good as he is clever." This remark did not please Derrington. "Humph! I don't like good young men. They generally become bad old scamps." "Were you a good young man, Lord Derrington?" asked Dorothy, demurely. He appreciated the joke. "One of the best," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "consequently I have gone to the other extreme for many years." "They say one always returns to his first loves," said Dorothy, smiling, "so you may revert to your godly youth." Derrington shook his wicked old head. "My first loves are all dead and buried, my dear. But this Brendon--you like him?" Dorothy did not see why see should conceal her feelings. "I love him," she said quietly and firmly. "Ha!" replied Derrington, showing no surprise. "Mrs. Ward hinted at something of that sort, but I thought that Walter----" "Please say no more, Lord Derrington." "Well, then, I won't." Derrington's eyes rested wrathfully on the withered young man he called grandson. "I don't wonder at your choice, my dear. What Walter requires is a nurse." "That is a profession I have not taken up," said Dorothy, laughing. She was very anxious to say something good about George to Derrington, on the chance that it might soften his hard old heart. But after all, George had spoken for himself and was his own best advocate. If she interfered, seeing that she was supposed to know nothing of the relationship, she might make mischief. Therefore she held her tongue on the subject nearest to her heart and talked in the most general manner. Derrington said no more about Brendon, but Dorothy noticed that his eyes were rarely off the face of her lover. George had certainly made an impression. Meantime, Vane joined Mrs. Ward, and Dorothy, seeing that Leonard was alone, beckoned him to approach. Derrington was not particularly pleased at having his conversation with a pretty girl interrupted, but he was polite, and, on learning that Train knew Brendon intimately, he began to ask him about his friend. Train, to please Dorothy, and because he really admired George, spoke most enthusiastically. Dorothy listened in silence, well pleased. From Derrington's curiosity and persistent questioning she began to think he knew something of the relationship. "But really, you know, she is a great artist," Mrs. Ward was saying to Brendon; "there is something so original about her." They were speaking of Lola Velez, and it was Vane who had introduced the subject. As Mrs. Ward was a married woman, and knew the seamy side of social life, Vane had no hesitation in speaking about the dancer to her. George, to whom the subject was distasteful, tried to avoid the discussion; but Mrs. Ward, on the alert for information, would return again and again to the topic. "They say you know her very well," she declared. "They? Who?" asked Brendon, lifting his eyebrows. "I do, for one," said Vane in his weak voice; "a fellow told me that she owed her success to you." "I am not sorry to put you right on that point," replied Brendon, his eyes hardening; "many false rumors are about--to one of which you alluded the other day, Mrs. Ward. This is another. What I know of Senora Velez, and how I know her, can be put in a nutshell," and George quietly related his rescue of the dancer. "Then you did make her the success she is!" cried Mrs. Ward, when he ended. "Oh, yes, it's no use denying it. You picked a jewel out of the gutter and gave it a chance of shining." "Perhaps I did that much. But she made a success by her genius." "I hope she is grateful," murmured Vane, with a malicious smile. Brendon turned on him sharply. "I don't know what you mean by gratitude," he said deliberately. "Well," drawled the little dandy, "she is pretty and----" "She is not at all pretty, Mr. Vane, and were she as lovely as Cleopatra it would not matter to me. My connection with her ceased when she made her success." George quite forgot the presence of Mrs. Ward and spoke vehemently. "Can't you understand that a man may do a kind action without being biased by the beauty of a woman?" "Some men can," said Mrs. Ward, politely, "and I am sure you are one, Mr. Brendon. But suppose the woman----" "I don't suppose anything, Mrs. Ward. I know. Senora Velez was poor. I helped her to attain to the position she now holds because I endeavor to follow the preaching of Christ, and she is to me a grateful friend. There is no more and no less to be said," and, a trifle ruffled, George turned on his heel to join Dorothy. "Well, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Ward, "and in my own house, too." Vane sniggered. "There must be something in it," he said. "And the profane language he used. Of course I don't believe a word he says." "Neither do I. She's too pretty." So these two scandal-mongers talked on, and George had only made matters worse by his explanation. However, he believed that he had nipped the scandal in the bud, and strolled into the next room with Dorothy to quiet his mind. Behind them they left Derrington talking to Train and rather enjoying himself. The room in which they found themselves was a pretty little apartment hung with amber silk, and illuminated with lights in yellow shades. The furniture was also yellow, and the carpet of a primrose hue. Mrs. Ward only introduced her most intimate friends into this boudoir, as it was her own special sanctum; and if its walls could have spoken they could have supplied all the existing society papers with gossip enough to last a century. "Do you think Lord Derrington knows who you are?" asked Dorothy as they seated themselves on a kind of divan. "I am not sure," replied George, who did not want to tell her what he knew, lest he should have to introduce the name of Lola Velez. "I have an idea that he does." Dorothy shook her head. "I don't think so. If he knows you he must be aware that you know him, and about the relationship, and would not speak so freely. I think he is taken with you, George." "Well, he has been putting me through my paces. I only hope that our chance meeting of to-night may bear fruit. What is Train doing here? Your mother only had him in her house once before, and she does not like him." "I can't make out why she asked him," said Dorothy; "he is a dull young man, though harmless enough. But my mother made a point of asking him to dinner." "Humph! I wonder what that's for," said Brendon, wrinkling his brows, for he knew well that Mrs. Ward did nothing without expecting an equivalent return. Then he recollected her questions about the crime, and wondered if she had invited Leonard so as to pump him. It was just what Mrs. Ward did intend to do, but George could not think she had sufficient interest in the crime to justify such a course of action. Besides, he felt that he could trust Leonard to hold his tongue, in spite of the man's weakness. But in this he reckoned without Mrs. Ward, who could have wiled an anchorite to chatter, had she been so minded. And that is what she was doing at the very moment. Almost as soon as the lovers had disappeared into the yellow boudoir Lord Derrington had taken his departure. He insisted that Vane should come also, and would not allow the little dandy to take leave of Dorothy, nor would he take leave himself. This was done to punish Vane. "Miss Ward is quite happy in there," he said to Mrs. Ward at the door of the drawing-room. "I won't have her disturbed." "Oh, but really," cried Mrs. Ward, who did not want Vane to go away with a bad impression, "Dorothy is simply bored with him." "If she is bored with such a brilliant fellow she would not enjoy the company of Shakespeare himself." "I'm sure I shouldn't," murmured Mrs. Ward. "Shakespeare must have been an awful bore. But do say good-by, Lord Derrington. Dorothy will be so disappointed." "No, she won't," snarled Derrington, who was enjoying himself at thus thwarting Mrs. Ward's schemes. "Come along, Walter. Take me home and tell me your latest ailment. Good-night, Mrs. Ward," and he went. Derrington was chuckling, and Vane looked very sulky, so Mrs. Ward saw that the old man had done this thing to spite her. "Horrid creature!" she pouted; "he ought to be dead and buried. It isn't respectable being alive at his time of life. He'll make Walter Vane angry with me, and I'm sure----" Here she caught, sight of Leonard's astonished face, and became aware she was divulging secrets. At once she smoothed her brow and began to smile. This was an excellent opportunity to find out what she wanted. Taking Leonard's arm she led him to a chair some distance from the door of the boudoir. "Now let us have a nice long talk, dear Mr. Train," she said, settling herself amiably. "Mr. Brendon and Dorothy are no doubt talking tadpoles or frogs or something nasty. They won't be out for a long time, so we can renew our pleasant conversation." "I don't think it was very pleasant," said Train, unwillingly. "What an ungallant thing to say!" "I mean to talk about crime----" "Is most amusing--I mean instructive. Oh, yes, I have read many of those novels--what do they call them?--detective novels." "A very low form of literature," said the superior Leonard. "Oh, they are amusing and interesting, and send one to sleep when one can't in spite of drops and morphia!" babbled Mrs. Ward in her childish manner. "And I have often thought how nice it would be if one could really try and find out who killed a person. Now in this case, Mr. Train, I am sure you heard something or saw something----" "Upon my word I neither saw nor heard," protested Leonard. "I was in bed all the time." "Didn't you hear a scream?" "No." "Then you must have heard the fall of the body, or the shutting of the door as the--ah!" Mrs. Ward saw from the expression of Leonard's face that she had touched upon something. "You did hear----" "No! no!" he stammered, wondering how he was to get out of confessing about the opening of the front door without appearing rude. "Nonsense. Confess! Confess, you silly man!" But Leonard was too loyal. To lead her away from the point he asked a question. "Mrs. Ward, that yellow holly?" "Yes. What about it?" She leaned forward eagerly. "Did you give a sprig of it to any one else?" "No. I only gave a bit to my daughter, and she----" "She gave it to Brendon. Yes, I know. But did Miss Ward give any of it to a third person?" "Certainly not. To do so she would have had to get it from me. But beyond the sprig that was given, and which Mr. Brendon had, no holly went out of this house." "It is very rare, is it not?" "I believe so. I dare say there wasn't another bunch in London on that particular night. Of course there might have been, still--but why do you ask all this?" "Well," said Leonard, "it seems to me that the yellow holly has something to do with the crime." Mrs. Ward drew a long breath but said no word. He was speaking half to himself, and she did not wish to interrupt his train of thought. But she listened with all her ears. Leonard continued: "I found a berry in the room where she was killed. Yes. They took us in to see the body, and a horrid sight it was. I turned my eyes to the floor, and there I saw--just by the table--a kind of amber bead. I dropped my handkerchief so that Quex might not suspect, and I picked it up. When in my own room I examined it. It was one of the yellow holly berries." Mrs. Ward threw herself back with a kind of unholy triumph. "Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Train?" she said in a half whisper. "You are accusing Mr. Brendon----" "No! no!" Train started to his feet. Mrs. Ward pulled him down again and pointed with her fan toward the boudoir. "Hush! He might come out," she whispered. "But can't you see? Brendon wore the sprig in his coat on that night. He must have been in the room and have dropped the berry. What was he doing there if it was not to----" "No," said Train, hoarsely. "I half thought of that myself, but it is quite impossible, I tell you. He could not have got out of his room unless he had come to me." "How do you mean?" "I locked the door of the sitting-room, which was between his bedroom and mine. There was no exit from his bedroom, and to get out and down the stairs he would have had to open the sitting-room door. Now the key was under my pillow and the door was locked in the morning. No, Mrs. Ward, Brendon is innocent." "He might have stolen the key while you slept." Train shook his head. "Impossible. I sleep very lightly, and on that night I hardly slept at all." "Why. Was anything wrong?" "I can't tell you that, Mrs. Ward, without violating the confidence of my friend. Indeed, I have said too much. Promise me you will not speak of what I have told you." "I promise, but I am quite sure that the holly berry was dropped by George Brendon, and that he was in Mrs. Jersey's sitting-room on that night. He is the criminal." "I tell you he is not, Mrs. Ward." "Don't excite yourself, Mr. Train. Here is Mr. Brendon and Dorothy." She sailed toward them with open hands. "Finished your talk. We must say good-night." And to herself she murmured, while smiling, "I've got you at last--I've got you at last." And Brendon shook hands with Madame Judas, quite unconscious of her premeditated treachery. CHAPTER XI MR. BAWDSEY AT HOME Under the rule of Miss Bull--for Margery was a mere figure-head--the house in Amelia Square was much more lively. Most of the old boarders had departed, as their nerves would not permit them to stop in a dwelling wherein a crime had been committed. Mrs. Taine carried her knitting to her sister's house at Clapham, Mr. Granger took the "Death of Nelson" to a boarding-house on Highgate Hill, and Harmer went to rejuvenate his antiquity at some German baths. In place of these ancient creatures came bright young men and girls who were up to date in every way. None of them minded about the crime. The house was cheap, it was now bright, and in a few months the tragedy was almost forgotten. No one would have recognized the changed atmosphere of the place, save for Miss Bull, who still sat nightly playing Patience in her favorite corner. So little did she mind the horror of the murder that she took up her abode in Madame's sitting-room, where it had happened. She still retained her own bedroom, and Margery kept hers; but the sitting-room Miss Bull found very pleasant, for she could ask her friends into it for afternoon tea without having to mix with the too-lively boarders in the drawing-room. And the majority of them were extremely lively; so much so that Miss Bull sent several away and checked the exuberant spirits of the others. The girls played ping-pong, the men sang music-hall ditties, and in conjunction they tried to gamble. But Miss Bull soon put a stop to that. She had no notion that the house should get a bad name after her difficulty in obtaining the lease from Lord Derrington. Of course, in spite of the fast air which certainly pervaded the house, all things were very proper. Miss Bull was a lady and saw that things were kept decent. The boarders feared her bright black eyes and her sharp tongue, and were always glad when she retired to her sitting-room. When they waxed too noisy, the little old maid would appear like an unquiet ghost, and the clamor would die away. But Miss Bull was also liked, as she was a very affable hostess. She was thoroughly happy now, as she had what she most desired--power; and thought, like Satan, that it was better to rule in a certain place than to serve in the higher spheres. Margery was now, as ever, her docile slave, and Miss Bull governed with a rod of iron. She dismissed some of the servants, among them Jarvey, who had bettered himself by becoming a page-boy in a West-End mansion. Among the new boarders Miss Bull took most notice of Bawdsey, who occupied the rooms formerly inhabited by Train. On his arrival he had asked particularly for these rooms, saying that he had once lived in them when he stopped with Mrs. Jersey many years before. After some thought Miss Bull remembered the man. He had boarded in the house, and had been a great favorite with Madame, but had later gone to America, and for some time had remained away. He expressed the greatest sorrow for the death of the old lady, but declared that he was very pleased with the house as managed by Miss Bull. The little woman liked him, as his conversation was amusing and he was most polite. But had she known that he was a private inquiry agent she might not have approved of him so much. Miss Bull was a lady and drew the line at spies. What Bawdsey was she never inquired, as she was the least curious of women. His habits were certainly eccentric, for sometimes he would remain away for a week, and at other times would stop constantly in the house. He often remained in bed for the day and had his meals brought to him. This he called his bed-cure, and stated that he suffered from nerves. He told Miss Bull quite gratuitously that he had a small income and supplemented it by taking photographs of scenery and selling them to London firms. But he declared that he was not a professional photographer. He simply traveled here and there, and photographed any scenery which struck him as pretty. The London photographers gave him good prices for these, but he stated that he merely did such artistic work for the sake of an occupation. "I am simple in my tastes," said Mr. Bawdsey, "and what I have keeps me in luxury. But a man, even of my age, must be up and doing. Better to wear out than rust out." Miss Bull assented. For the greater part of her life she had been rusting, and now that she had taken command of the house found that wearing out gave her an interest in things and prevented her from being bored. She liked to hear Bawdsey tell of his travels, and frequently asked him into her sitting-room for that purpose. He seemed to have been everywhere and to have seen everything. It appeared from his own confession that he began his travels at the early age of seventeen, when he went to Milan. And the man talked freely about himself--so freely that Miss Bull, in spite of her suspicious nature, never dreamed that all this chatter was for the purpose of throwing dust in her sharp eyes. A week after the little dinner at Mrs. Ward's, Bawdsey sent a note to Brendon asking him to call on a certain afternoon, and when George, anxious to continue the acquaintance, and curious to know how Bawdsey had procured his address, arrived, he was shown up to the well-known room. Bawdsey welcomed him with enthusiasm, and much in the same style as Lola did, but in a less theatrical manner. "My preserver," said Bawdsey, shaking hands vigorously, and George laughed. "You put me in mind of a lady I know," he said; "she uses the same term--quite unnecessarily, as it happens." "I don't agree with you," answered Bawdsey, to the astonishment of his visitor. "When a woman is rescued from starvation she has a right to call her good Samaritan the best of names." "Oh," said Brendon, taking a seat, "so Lola has told you." Bawdsey nodded. "I guess so," said he, with a pronounced American twang--somewhat too pronounced, George thought. "She told me all about your visit the other night." "Did she never speak of me before?" "Why, of course she spoke. I tell you, sir, that the girl is just bubbling over with gratitude. And you're a good man, Mr. Brendon. Yes, sir, some. You saved her and you saved me, and I sha'n't forget, and neither will she." "Yet you said, when last we met, that she meant me harm." "Jealousy, Mr. Brendon, sheer jealousy. I heard her talking of you, and wishing to marry you, so you can guess----" "That you wish to put me against her." "Not exactly that," responded Bawdsey, coolly. "I wish to choke you off. You see, Mr. Brendon, I love her." "So she told me." "Quite so, and she informed me that she had informed you. Well, I was a trifle jealous, as I'd lay down my life to make that lady Mrs. Bawdsey. But when I learned that you admired and were almost engaged to Miss Ward----" "How the devil did you find that out?" asked George. "Without the use of the word devil," said Bawdsey, dryly. "That is a long story, Mr. Brendon." "You seem to know a great deal about me," said Brendon, nettled. "I made it my business to find out, sir." "Don't you think that is rather impertinent?" "Well," drawled Bawdsey, combing his fingers through his ruddy locks, "you might put it that way if you like. A fortnight ago I should not have minded whether you thought me impertinent or not. But now that you saved my life I don't mind telling you that I wish to gain and retain your good opinion." "Why?" asked George, more and more puzzled. "Because I'm that rare animal--a grateful man. You have had a bad time all your life, Mr. Brendon, but now you shall have a good one, and I am the man who is going to help you right along." George looked at him helplessly. He found it difficult to understand what all this meant. "Of course I know, from what Lola said, that you are a private inquiry agent," he remarked with hesitation. "Vidocq & Co.," said Bawdsey, briskly, "23 Augusta Street, Strand. That's me Mr. Brendon, but you needn't mention it in this shanty." "Are you an American, Mr. Bawdsey?" "I am anything that suits. I can talk all languages, and try to tell the truth in every one. And the best day's work you ever did for yourself, Mr. Brendon, was in dragging me from under the feet of that horse. Yes, sir, I'm in line with you forever." "This is all amusing, but a trifle confusing," said Brendon, feeling that he must get to the bottom of this chatter. "Will you answer a few questions, Mr. Bawdsey?" "Yes. Fire ahead. Wait! Will you take whisky?" "No, thanks. Yes, I'll take a cigar." "Henry Clay," said Bawdsey, passing along a box; "and the questions?" "You are a private inquiry agent?" asked George, when the cigar was well alight and Bawdsey had subsided into a chair. "That's so. Vidocq & Company--an attractive title, I guess." "And you were employed by Lola to watch me?" "I was. Love will do anything for the object of its affections." "Humph! there are different ways of looking at that. But you were also engaged by Lord Derrington to watch me?" Bawdsey did not display the least surprise. "That's very creditable to your observation, Mr. Brendon. It's true." "How did Lord Derrington find out that I was passing under the name of George Brendon?" "Well, sir, if you will shove advertisements into the paper asking about the celebration of the marriage of Percy Vane and Miss Rosina Lockwood you must expect to be dropped upon." "Oh, that was the way you found out!" "That was the way," nodded Bawdsey. "You had the answers----" "I had no answers," said Brendon, quickly. "I am quite sure of that," replied the detective, coolly. "We should have heard of you in a court of law had you been successful. But what I mean to say is that you asked for the answers to be sent to G. B., Pembroke Square, Kensington. Derrington spotted that, and seeing that the marriage referred to was that of his son to----" George waved his hand impatiently. "I see! I see! He hired you, and you looked me up." "Quite so. I have had you under observation for the last six months." "Confound it," cried Brendon, uncomfortably, "and I never knew." Bawdsey winked. "I know my business," he said. "You don't find me sending myself up on any occasion. Any more questions, sir?" "Only one," replied George. "Will you tell me exactly what you are doing in this galley?" "Certainly. You shall have the whole story, Mr. Brendon. But in the first place I shall ask you a question in my turn. Do you know why I asked you to come and see me to-day?" Brendon shook his head. "I have not the least idea," he confessed. "I'll enlighten you," was the other man's reply; "to warn you that you are in danger of arrest." "I in danger of arrest?" George jumped up. "What do you mean?" "Oh, my meaning is clear enough. There is a chance that you may be accused of having murdered Mrs. Jersey." George dropped back into his chair with a white face. "You must be mad to say such a thing. Who accuses me?" "Lord Derrington." "On what grounds?" "On certain information he obtained from Mrs. Ward." "What? Is she in it, too?" "Very much in it. She is your bitter enemy. You see, Mr. Brendon, it is not her game that you should marry the daughter. Mrs. Ward knows that you are a clever man with a will of your own, and that she will not be able to twist you around her finger, which is what she wishes to do with any son-in-law who may come her way. That young fool Vane is the man she wants. He will inherit the title and a good income. Mrs. Ward, should he marry the girl, will benefit. If the title and income came your way she would make very little out of the business. Consequently she will stick at nothing to get you out of the way." "But she doesn't know that I claim to be Lord Derrington's grandson?" "Indeed, she does," replied Bawdsey, quickly. "Derrington told her all about it." "Why?" "Now that," said Bawdsey, shaking his head and looking puzzled, "is one of the things I can't make out." George thought for a moment. "I was at Mrs. Ward's the other evening," he said slowly. "Lord Derrington was there. Did he know then that I was his grandson?" "He did. He has known ever since you put the advertisement in the paper and I looked you up." "Humph! Then he was putting me through my paces," said Brendon to himself. "What a clever man he is in concealing his thoughts. And Mrs. Ward knew also who I was?" Bawdsey nodded. "Yes. And after that evening she came to see Lord Derrington to suggest how you should be got rid of." "Ah!" George was now perfectly cool as he saw that Bawdsey, being so frank, was ready to be his friend. "And how did she propose to do that, Mr. Bawdsey? By having me arrested----" "With the alternative that you should give up all attempts to prove your birth and go to Australia." "And surrender my claim to Miss Ward's hand, I suppose?" "Of course. But that would go without speaking if you went to Australia. It's a case of threatening, Mr. Brendon." "Was Lord Derrington agreeable to this suggestion?" "Yes. He hates you, and told me to see you and put the matter to you. You have a week to think over it, and at the end of that time, Mr. Brendon, if you don't leave England you will be arrested." "No," replied Brendon, calmly, "I will not be arrested. Setting aside the fact that there is no evidence which implicates me in the crime, Lord Derrington, for his own sake, will not have his grandson arrested and his dirty linen washed in public. Whether there was a marriage or not I am his flesh and blood. Why does he hate me?" "I can't say, sir. He never explained. But he does hate you." "Humph! I see no reason--a man can't help his birth, and I am quite as presentable as Walter Vane." "Much more so," said Bawdsey, quickly. "He is a fool and a miserable little beast. He sent a bracelet to Miss Velez." "Oh! and naturally you think the worst of him. Well, it is no use my conjecturing the reason of Lord Derrington's dislike. But I can well understand why Mrs. Ward wishes me out of the way. On what grounds does she accuse me of being concerned in this crime?" "On the strength of a story related by a friend of yours, who----" "I knew it," interrupted Brendon, starting up and beginning to pace the room. "That was why she asked Leonard Train to dinner." "That's the man," said Bawdsey, coolly. "He occupied these rooms, I believe, and on the night of the murder you stopped with him." "I did. In yonder bedroom. So he betrayed me?" "My dear sir, I don't think he could help himself. Mrs. Ward is as clever as the devil, and as unscrupulous. She got out of him that you had been in the sitting-room of Mrs. Jersey at midnight." "That is untrue----" began George, violently, when Bawdsey stopped him. "So it is, to Mrs. Ward, to Lord Derrington, and to the public. But so far as I am concerned, Mr. Brendon, it is a fact. You were in Mrs. Jersey's room about the time she was murdered." "How can you prove that?" asked George, quickly and very pale. "Oh, I can prove it easily enough, and I will soon. But confess." "That I killed the woman? No, I never laid a finger on her." "I believe that," said Bawdsey. "If I thought you were guilty I should--no--not even then. You saved my life, and I'm grateful." "I believe you are my friend," said George, gloomily, sitting down. "You would have been arrested by now were I not, Mr. Brendon." "No. I tell you neither Mrs. Ward nor Lord Derrington will go so far. They will try and intimidate me. But they won't succeed." "You'll fight them?" George set his face. "While there is breath in my body." "I knew you were a plucky 'un," said Bawdsey, admiringly, "but you must be aware that your position is perilous." "How so? Mr. Train can prove that he locked the sitting-room door--that one there," and George pointed. "The key was under his pillow, and in the morning the door was still fast. How could I have got out to visit Mrs. Jersey's room without his knowledge?" "That is what puzzles Train and Mrs. Ward and Lord Derrington," was Bawdsey's reply. "They asked me what I thought. Well----" "One moment," interrupted Brendon. "Why does Train believe that I was in Mrs. Jersey's room?" "He found beside the table a yellow holly berry, and you wore----" George started. "I did--I did," he muttered; "it must have been brushed off the sprig when I stooped to touch her." "Ah!" said Bawdsey, in a voice of triumph, "then you admit you were in the room?" "Yes, to you, but to no one else." "I'm glad you trust me so far," said Bawdsey, genuinely pleased; "your confidence is not misplaced, Mr. Brendon. And you saw Mrs. Jersey?" "I saw her body. She was dead." "At what time was that?" "About twelve o'clock." "Why did you not give the alarm?" "What?" George smiled derisively. "You think I should have put the rope round my neck?" "No. But--well, no matter. We can talk of that later. But as to getting out of this room When the door was locked?" "I didn't get out of this room, Mr. Bawdsey. I----" "Wait a bit. Come into the room you slept in," said the detective, leading the way. "I have made a discovery." The bedroom was in the same condition as when Brendon had last seen it, with the exception that the wardrobe was moved to one side. The wall at the back, which divided the room from the passage, appeared a blank, but on touching a spring a masked door opened. Shelves were revealed and it was evident that this door formed the back of a cupboard that was in the passage--a cupboard used by the housemaid, as was apparent from the dust-shovel and brooms lying within it. For a moment Bawdsey left the door open and looked at Brendon with quiet triumph. Then he snapped the door to and the wall appeared in its former blank condition. No one, without making a close examination, would have suspected the presence of that secret door. "A housemaid might open the cupboard door in the passage at any time," explained Mr. Bawdsey, accounting for his action, "and it would never do for her to look through the back of the shelves into this room. She might talk, Mr. Brendon, and then there would be trouble. Yes," Bawdsey rubbed his nose and looked at the astonished George, "I am sure there would be great trouble." "I congratulate you on your cleverness, Mr. Bawdsey," said Brendon when he had somewhat recovered. "You have discovered my secret. I should like to know how you discovered it." "Well," said Bawdsey, pushing the wardrobe back to its place with an effort, "you see when I learned through the advertisement that George Brendon was the grandson of Lord Derrington I told him of it. He related your history." "Including the murder of my father?" "Yes, including that," replied Bawdsey with a queer expression; "but that has nothing to do with the matter in hand, Mr. Brendon." "I'm not so sure," retorted George. "I should not be at all surprised to find that Mrs. Jersey was murdered to keep her quiet on that point." "How do you make that out?" "Well, she was in San Remo at the time my father was murdered. She loved him, and I dare say, in spite of having been discharged, watched him. She might know who the lady in blue--but I forgot, you are ignorant of all these things." "Not at all. Don't I tell you that Lord Derrington told me the whole story? I see what you mean. You think that Mrs. Jersey might know who killed your father, and for the sake of shutting her up the assassin committed the second murder." "That is my idea," said George, coolly. "It's ingenious, but it won't hold water. However, we can talk of that on another occasion. In the mean time I wish to tell you how I discovered the secret door." "There's no need to. Derrington told you that I knew this house, as my grandfather had brought me up in it. When you knew through Mrs. Ward that I had passed a night here, and learned through her, by means of Train, that the yellow holly berry had been found in the woman's sitting-room, you set to work to find out how I escaped from this room. You knew that Train had locked the door." "Yes," answered Bawdsey, "he told Mrs. Ward that." "He seems to have told her everything. However, to make a long story short, you hunted for an exit and you found it." "That's so," replied Bawdsey, quietly, "and now we had better return to the sitting-room and talk over the matter quietly." "One moment," said George. "Have you told Lord Derrington or Mrs. Ward of this discovery?" "No, and I won't tell them, either. I wish to get you out of trouble, Mr. Brendon. They haven't the least idea that you could leave the room, and the impression with them is that Train is screening you." Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders with contempt and passed George another cigar. "Just as though the man would incriminate himself if that were so." George did not light his cigar. "Well, as you have told me so much, Mr. Bawdsey, I may as well confess." "If I am to help you I must know all." "Then you shall know--whatever I can tell you." George hesitated, and Bawdsey guessed that he was not going to be so frank as was necessary. However, he made no remark, and Brendon continued: "I came to this house to see Mrs. Jersey and get the truth out of her. It was my intention to speak to her the next morning. However, in the drawing-room she stated that she wished the company to disperse at ten o'clock as she had business to attend to. Also she came up to this room to see if I and my friend were in bed at eleven. I guessed that she intended to see some one, and wondering if the expected person had anything to do with my business I determined to see her on that night. When Train was asleep I locked my bedroom door and made use of the cupboard." "How did you know of its existence?" "I lived here, as you know. This is a queer old house, full of these sort of things. I expect that door was made by some scamp so that he might be able to lead a double life." Bawdsey nodded. "I know. Fair to the world and black to the heart." "As a boy I discovered the cupboard," replied Brendon, not taking notice of this interruption, "and I am ashamed to say that I sometimes made use of it in my teens to go to the theater unbeknown to my grandfather. On that night I used it again, and went to the sitting-room of Mrs. Jersey. It was about twelve o'clock. The door of the room was closed. I opened it, and saw her sitting at the table, dead, as she was discovered in the morning. In stooping over her to see if she still breathed, the berry must have fallen. It says a great deal for Train's acuteness that he suspected me on such evidence. I now see why he was so different to me when we parted, and why he has been so stiff of late." "What did you do after you found that the woman was dead?" "I returned to my bedroom and said nothing about it. You see, since I wanted something from Mrs. Jersey, and that desire might have come out in the evidence, there was every chance that I would be accused of having murdered her. There was certainly motive enough." "I don't agree with you," replied Bawdsey; "however, I quite understand that under the circumstances you lost your nerve. You returned to your room, and expressed suitable surprise the next morning." George nodded. "Quite so; and then Train's having locked this door made me think that all was safe. Had he not told----" "Oh, he has told very little," rejoined Bawdsey. "After all, nothing can be done if I hold my tongue." "Nothing will be done in any case," said George, grimly, "but I thank you for warning me, Mr. Bawdsey. What are your plans?" "I have none at present. Lord Derrington asked me to watch you." "That you certainly have done, and if you choose you can go on watching me. But why do you stop in this house?" "Oh, I knew Mrs. Jersey some years ago, and returned here for old times' sake." George shrugged his shoulders. He felt convinced that Bawdsey was not speaking openly. But then Brendon, on his part, had held something back. Neither man was sufficiently sure of the other to be perfectly frank. But the main thing was that Bawdsey, being friendly, was content to let matters stand as they were. That is, so far as regarded George himself, for Brendon felt that the detective's presence in that house had something to do with the murder. He rose to go. "Well, how do we stand?" asked Bawdsey. "Much as we did before," replied George, "save that I know you will hold your tongue and not get me into trouble." "I shall certainly do that. But remember Mrs. Ward." "Lord Derrington can stop her mouth." "Ah, but will he?" asked Bawdsey, dubiously. "I shall call on Lord Derrington and see," answered Brendon, and with a nod left the room. "He's a plucked 'un," said Bawdsey. CHAPTER XII A FIRESIDE TYRANT Lord Derrington should have been born Emperor of Ancient Rome or of Modern Russia. He would have made an admirable despot, as he was fairly good-humored when all about him were on their knees serving him. Even then his temper was none of the best. Those who held their own he hated, while the many who gave in to his domineering will received unmerited contempt as their reward. Even at seventy-five the old man's temper had not cooled, and the majority of people avoided him as they would the plague. Originally he had started life with a sufficiently imperious will, and, thanks to his position as a titled and wealthy orphan, he had been enabled to exercise it at a very early age. The habit of seeing every one terrified of his mere glance grew upon him, and he became unbearable, not only to live with, but even to meet. His wife, after presenting him with two sons, had died gladly, seeing no other way of escaping her tyrant, and the report went that he had browbeaten her out of existence. Derrington would have married again for the sake of his boys, but like Henry VIII., whom he greatly resembled, he could find no one willing to endure his yoke. Consequently he became something of a woman-hater, and entered the political world. In this he met with a certain amount of opposition, which did him good, and might have been trained into a moderately decent member of society but that his reformation was cut short by his being appointed ambassador to a prominent European power. Here his temper had full swing, and he bullied everybody for three years. At the end of that time he nearly caused a war and was recalled. There was some talk of his being appointed Viceroy for India, but those in power had sufficient pity on the country not to send him. Derrington, in India, would have been on "his native heath" for tyrannizing. Failing, from his reputation, to get another appointment, Derrington took to quarreling with his sons. Percy, the elder, had a spice of the paternal temper and refused to submit. Consequently he was forbidden the house, and crowned his iniquities in the old man's eyes by marrying Rosina Lockwood. This was a severe blow to Derrington, who had the pride as well as the temper of Lucifer. He refused to hold any communication with Percy, and thus the son remained abroad, living on an income inherited from his mother until he was murdered at San Remo. As his income ceased on his death (for it reverted to his mother's relatives), George, the boy, was left dependent on the charity of his two grandfathers. Derrington denied the marriage and refused to acknowledge the infant. Lockwood took the child to his home and brought him up. Then the lad disappeared when Lockwood died, and reappeared under the name of Brendon. Derrington had discovered his grandson's identity in the way described by Bawdsey. The younger Vane was a fool, meek as Moses, and completely cowed by his terrible father. He married an equally meek lady, and the two were crushed by the old tyrant. Finally, both died, as gladly as the late Lady Derrington had done, and left Walter Vane to carry on the title. The old lord detested Walter as a milksop, but he refused to acknowledge George, preferring the fool to the clever man, from sheer hatred of Brendon's father. Derrington House, in St. Giles Square, was an immense palatial mansion which cost no end of money to keep up, and as its lord was not over-rich he would have done better to remove to a more modest residence. But Derrington's pride would not permit him to scrimp his living, and he dwelt alone in the big house. When Walter's parents were alive they had occupied a corner, so that Derrington could bully them at his leisure, and now Walter himself remained as a whipping-boy. But he was cunning enough to keep out of his grandfather's way, and contrived to be more independent than his parents had been. Perhaps Derrington was too old to carry on an active war, but he certainly gave Walter more license than he had ever accorded to any human being. A good deal of contempt for the weak little dandy had to do with this permitting him to act as he pleased. There is no excitement in whipping a sheep. The meeting with George at Mrs. Ward's had touched the old man nearly. He had never set eyes on Percy's son before, and had no idea that the young fellow was so handsome and clever. Derrington felt that he could take some pride in George, as a man who would not permit himself to be bullied. He had as strong a will as his grandfather, and the older man respected him. Moreover, George's refusal to accept an income when he took a feigned name, and his determined fight for his birthright, pleased the despot. But for his pride and hatred of the father, Derrington might have acknowledged the marriage. He knew in his own mind that such a marriage had taken place, and that George was legitimate, but he did not know where the ceremony had been celebrated. The sole evidence he possessed was a letter, written by Percy from Paris, stating that he had married Rosina Lockwood. Derrington at the time accepted the fact, and had never thought of inquiring about details from his son, and of course when Percy died it was too late. Mrs. Jersey knew, and Mrs. Jersey had made use of her knowledge, but she never told Derrington anything. Had she done so, her hold over him might have waxed feeble, although, owing to her knowledge, and to the old man's determination not to acknowledge George, it could not be done away with altogether. The library in Derrington House was a vast and splendid apartment with a magnificent collection of books. Its owner, driven back on himself by his misanthropic detestation of his species, and the dislike his fellow-men had for him, read a great deal. Sometimes he wrote articles for the quarterlies, principally on political questions. He went out into society in spite of his age, out of sheer contrariety and not because he enjoyed himself. Like Vespasian, he was determined to die standing, and showed himself at several great houses, at race-meetings, at Hurlingham, and sometimes in the House. His movements were carefully chronicled in the _Morning Post_, and he took care to let his friends know that he was still alive. For the rest, he sat in his library reading, or writing his memoirs. These he had arranged to have published after his death, and there were many families who would have given much money to have seen them behind the fire. Derrington had known every one worth knowing for the last half-century, and had as bitter a pen as he had a tongue. Also, he knew many secrets of diplomacy. So it may be guessed that many great families did not look forward to the publication of these memoirs with particular pleasure. Derrington knew this, and chuckled grimly, much as Heine did in the like case. One afternoon he was adding a chapter to the book, when a card was brought to him. Derrington nearly jumped from his seat when he read the name of George Brendon. At first he was inclined to tear up the card and send the pieces out to the insolent young man who thus dared to trespass on his privacy. But on second thoughts he decided to accord him an interview. He knew that by this time Mr. Bawdsey must have informed George that his grandfather knew him as Brendon, and the old autocrat wished to see if George would behave as pluckily at their second interview as he had done at the first. Moreover, he could not forget the good looks and clever conversation of the young man. It would be absurd to say that Derrington's heart yearned over this unacknowledged twig of the family tree, for according to common report he had no heart. But he certainly felt an unwonted emotion when Brendon, tall and handsome, composed and ready for battle, stepped into the room. Derrington knew that the young man was ready for battle, for he saw the light of war in his eyes. When the door was closed and the two were alone, Derrington took his station on the hearth-rug with an impassive expression of countenance. He waited for George to open the war of words, and after a polite greeting he waited in silence. George was not at all embarrassed. He knew perfectly well that he had a difficult task before him, and did not choose to shirk it. With the family obstinacy he was determined on obtaining his birthright, and if he set all London alight with scandal he was bent upon gaining his end. The two men stared coolly at one another like two fencers, but at the outset the buttons were off the foils. "I am sure you are not surprised to see me, Lord Derrington," said Brendon with his eyes fixed on the old man's grim face. "Not half so surprised as you were at seeing Bawdsey," said Derrington, not to be outdone in coolness. George smiled. "I was not at all surprised at seeing the man," he said calmly. "It was my happy lot to rescue him from an accident, and it was my intention to call on him." "For what reason?" asked Derrington, who could not help betraying astonishment, in spite of his self-control. "You must excuse my not answering that question." "Oh, certainly," replied Lord Derrington, with ironical politeness; "but you are not so diplomatic as I thought." "Because I decline a reply?" "Because you allow me to see that you are on good terms with the man I employ. A clever diplomatist would have allowed me to think that Bawdsey was hostile and so have used the man against me." "There is no need for me to stoop to such crooked ways," said Brendon, with some scorn, "and I always find the truth tells in the long run." "Ah! You've never been an ambassador." "When I am, I shall still tell the truth." Derrington smiled grimly. "Oh, then, it is your intention to enter political life?" "I think we discussed that fully the other evening." Derrington sat down and leaned his elbows on the table. His temper was rising, as he was not accustomed to be treated in this off-hand way. "Come, sir, let us understand one another. State the situation so as to clear the ground for a proper argument." "Certainly," said George, with frigid politeness. "You know who I am, I understand." "No, I don't. So far as I know you are George Brendon. I met you at Mrs. Ward's, and----" "And were good enough to hold a long conversation with me," finished George, smartly. "I see, sir, it is necessary for me to be explicit." "It's the best course," rejoined Derrington, looking at him with hard eyes and secretly admiring his self-control. "Then I have to state that my name is George Vane, and that I am the son of Percy Vane and Rosina Lockwood." "Indeed! What proof have you of this?" "The evidence of my nurse, Jane Fraser, who attended to me when my father, your eldest son, was alive. The testimony of my former guardian, Mr. Ireland, who took charge of me after the death of my mother's father. Finally, my certificate of birth, which I will show you whenever you choose." Derrington was confounded by this calm answer. He would have blustered, but George's politeness gave him no chance of losing his temper, and without fuel it would not blaze up. "You seem to be well provided with proofs," said he, grimly. "Let us admit, for the sake of argument, that you are my grandson. But the marriage----" "Ah, that is the difficult point! And it is unpleasant for me to talk of the subject. In justice to the memory of my mother I hold that there was a marriage." "And in justice to my family I hold that there was none." "In that case, Lord Derrington, we join issue." "You are quite a lawyer, sir," sneered the old man. "I thought of studying for the bar at one time." "Indeed, and why did you not?" "I had no money to pay my fees," said George, coldly. The old lord winced. He could not but admire his pluck, and, aware that the young fellow was his own flesh and blood, regretted that he should lack any chance of embarking on what promised to be a brilliant career. "You could have had money had you chosen," said he, roughly. "I know. For that reason I changed my name to Brendon." "Well," said Derrington, irritably, "let us come to the point. You say you are my grandson. I admit that, as I am aware of what evidence you can bring forward. But I decline to admit that you are my heir. The onus of proof lies with you." "I am prepared to discover the proof if your lordship will behave in an honorable manner." "What!" roared Derrington, rising with a fierce look. "Do you mean to say, you jackanapes, that I am behaving dishonorably?" "Extremely so," said Brendon, coldly. "You have had me watched by a detective; you threaten, through him, to have me arrested for a crime of which I am innocent, if I do not give up my attempts to gain my birthright and--" here George leaned forward--"Dorothy Ward. Do you call these actions honorable?" "How dare you?--how dare you?" was all that Derrington could say. "You should know how I dare, sir, considering I am your grandson." "I'll have you thrown out of the house." George rose. "I am willing to leave you, sir, if that is the tone you take. But as to being thrown out, that is quite another question." "Do you know who I am?" questioned the other, blustering. "Very well. You are the man who is keeping me out of my rights." "I am not!" "I say you are." The two faced one another without blenching. Derrington tried to cow George, and George refused to be cowed. It was the old lord's eyes which fell first. Brendon had youth as well as will on his side, and these dominated Derrington. For the first time in his tyrannical life he gave way. "There is no need for you to go yet," he grunted, flinging himself into a seat. "I am willing to hear what you have to say." Brendon sat down also. "I don't think I have any more to say." "Then why did you come here?" "To ask you if you consider it honorable to threaten me. I have already done so. There is no more to be said on my part." Derrington dug a pen viciously into the blotting-pad. He did not know very well what to say. Had George sworn and blustered he might have been able to talk him down and to bully him into giving way. But Brendon was perfectly calm and polite. He was not to be intimidated in any way, and the ordinary methods would not do in this case. Derrington was reduced to reason. "What is it you wish?" "I wish you to recognize my mother's marriage and to state that I am your heir." "Anything else?" sneered Derrington. "Yes. You will publicly recognize me; you will allow me an income sufficient to maintain the dignity of my real name of George Vane, and you will order Mrs. Ward to keep silent." "Mrs. Ward? What have I to do with her?" "A great deal, apparently. You told her my story, and as she does not want me to marry her daughter she will move heaven and earth to ruin me by using her knowledge." "How can she ruin you?" "I think you understand, sir. The story told by my friend Train----" "Friend! Judas, rather." "No. He is only a weak man who is as wax in the hands of a clever and pretty woman. But Mrs. Ward got sufficient out of him to place me in a somewhat perilous position." "Were you in the room where the woman was murdered? Speak plainly." "I came on here purposely to speak plainly," rejoined Brendon, dryly, "for your safety as well as for my own." "Safety, sir!" Derrington grew crimson. "What the devil do you mean?" "I mean that I can speak freely to you, as I know perfectly well that for the honor of our family----" "Our family--confound you!" "Our family," repeated George, "of which some day I hope to be the head. For its honor, I say, you will not take these matters into court. I was in the room of Mrs. Jersey. I saw her dead!" "And you know who killed her?" "No. I can't say that for certain." George looked keenly at his grandfather. The old man appeared uneasy. Suddenly Brendon spoke. "I should like to know what you were doing in Mrs. Jersey's house on the night she was murdered?" Derrington dashed down his pen furiously and rose. "You go too far, sir; you go too far!" he roared. "Not any further than you intended to go. If you threaten me I have a right to protect myself." "In what way?" "By telling you that if I am in a perilous position, you are also." "Do you mean to say that I murdered the woman?" "By no means," said Brendon, quickly. "I should not think of doing such a thing. But I do say you were in that house after eleven." "I was not," panted the old nobleman, savagely, and glared at his grandson with bloodshot eyes. "You were," insisted Brendon; "there is no need to tell you how I got out of my bedroom unbeknown to Train, but I did. I came downstairs to see Mrs. Jersey at half-past eleven or thereabouts. I crept down the stairs and saw you standing in the light of the hall lamp. You had on a fur coat, and I recognized you by your unusual height. Also by the color of your coat. Some months before you wore that coat--it is a claret-colored one trimmed with sable--at a race-meeting. You were pointed out to me, and it was the first time I had set eyes on you. It was you in the hall." "Did you see my face?" asked Derrington. "No. But the coat and the height, and my knowledge that you were connected with Mrs. Jersey----" "I wasn't connected with the jade," flashed out Derrington. "She came to me years ago and said she could prove the marriage. I tried to get out of her the name of the church where it took place. She refused to give it, and said if I did not pension her off she would go to your guardian, Ireland, and get him to help her to prove that you were legitimate. I hated your father, sir, and as to your mother----" "No," cried Brendon, rising, "not a word against my mother." "Only this, that she was not well-born. The daughter of a music-master. Not the wife for my son." "She was his wife, however. Leave my mother's name out of it and go on, sir. You say that Mrs. Jersey could have proved the marriage." "Yes," growled Derrington, rather cowed by Brendon's manner. "I did not wish her to do so, for the reasons I have stated." "Very unworthy reasons," said George, coldly. "You know nothing about it, sir," flamed out the old man, slapping his hand on the table. "My family is as old as the Conquest." "As the future head of it I am glad to hear that." Derrington looked as though he could have struck George, who simply made the remark to punish him for his insolence. "Never mind that," said he, controlling his temper. "I bought that house from your mother's father--the music-master," he sneered, "and gave it to Mrs. Jersey rent free. I also allowed her an annuity. She held her tongue for many years. Then she saw that confounded advertisement in the papers and threatened to tell you the truth on the chance of getting more money out of you when I was dead. I refused, and she then told me that she had written out a confession----" "I thought as much," interrupted George. "But that has been stolen." "By whom?" "By the assassin." "And who is the assassin?" "I can't say. But if use is made of that confession either you or I will learn who killed Mrs. Jersey." "Why you or I?" "Because we alone can make use of the confession and pay money for it. The thing would be no use to any one else. But I now understand Mrs. Jersey's possession of the house. Were you in it on that night?" Derrington looked at Brendon and hesitated. Then in strange contradiction to his usual manner, he turned away his face. "I decline to answer that question," he growled. "But I saw you," insisted George. "You saw--there is nothing more to be said. Hold your tongue." "Willingly," said George, politely, "if you will silence Mrs. Ward." "I have no influence with the woman." "Oh, I think so. She wishes Dorothy to marry my cousin." "Your cousin!" "Can you deny the relationship?" Derrington shirked the question by assenting to Brendon's request. "I may be able to make Mrs. Ward hold her tongue," he growled. "I am quite sure she will do anything you tell her, in the hope that you will approve of a match between my cousin and her daughter." "And you wish me to approve?" sneered the old man. "As to that, it matters little. Mrs. Ward wishes Dorothy to be Lady Derrington and to have your very excellent income. Whether she marries me or Vane it comes to the same thing. I can't understand Mrs. Ward's dislike and mischief-making since that is the case." "I can," snapped Derrington. "You are too clever for her, and Walter is a fool." "Perhaps so. However, as I shall marry Dorothy it doesn't much matter." "How can you marry her situated as you are?" "I shall be George Vane some day, sir, and then Dorothy will be my wife." "I believe she will," muttered Derrington, looking at the firm face of the young man. "Humph! So you intend to look for the certificate of marriage?" "No, for the confession of Mrs. Jersey; afterward for the church which will be mentioned in that confession. The register will prove the marriage without the necessity of the certificate. I shouldn't wonder, though," added Brendon, "if Mrs. Jersey had stolen that from my mother when she died." "Mrs. Jersey was jade enough for anything," said Derrington. "Well, she is dead, and there is no use saying bad about her." "How will you set to work to get that certificate?" George wrinkled his brows. "There is only one way, sir. I must find out who killed Mrs. Jersey. If you can help me----" "I can't. I know no more who murdered the woman than you do." "Yet you were in the house on that night." Derrington grew wrathful. "Don't talk rubbish, sir. If I was, I should not mind admitting the fact. As it is----" He broke off, gnawing his lip and avoiding Brendon's eyes. That the old man knew something vital to the case Brendon was certain; that he would never confess what it was George felt perfectly sure. He abandoned the point, as he did not wish to make Lord Derrington incriminate himself, and he might do so. Brendon was satisfied that he had seen him in the house on the night when Mrs. Jersey was murdered. "There is no more to be said," he remarked, taking up his hat. "No. Except that I'll give you a fair chance of finding the church. Bawdsey shall watch you no more." "Thank you. And Mrs. Ward?" "She shall be made to hold her tongue." George bowed. "I am obliged to you, sir. I now see that you intend to fight fairly. Good-day," and he departed. Derrington stood where he was, in deep thought. Suddenly he struck a mighty blow on the desk. "By Heaven, he's a man after my own heart!" said the old scamp. "He shall be my heir, he shall marry that girl; but to exercise his wits he shall fight every inch of the way to attain his ambition." CHAPTER XIII A WOMAN SCORNED Dorothy was by no means of a jealous disposition. Moreover, her love for George was so deep and pure that she trusted him entirely. Nevertheless, having learned from the few words dropped by Vane, that Brendon knew Lola, she felt desirous of seeing the woman. That Lola was her rival she never for one moment believed, as she knew Vane's malicious nature and evil tongue. But the fact remained that Brendon's name was coupled with that of the dancer, and this incipient scandal annoyed Miss Ward. There was no need for her to ask George why such a report should prevail, for she knew that he would be able to explain in a satisfactory manner, and, trusting him already, it was useless to demand details. Her feelings would remain the same after the telling of his story as they were now, therefore she avoided the disagreeable subject. Nevertheless, she was woman enough to desire a sight of Lola, and induced her mother to take her to the music-hall. Mrs. Ward was very pleased to do so, but she was too clever to hint that she guessed Dorothy's reason for making this request. "Certainly, my dear," she said briskly. "I am very glad that you are coming out of your shell. Men hate a woman who can't talk of everything, and nothing is talked about but Lola." "I must educate myself to please men, then," said Dorothy, dryly, "so I may as well begin with the dancer. On what night can we go?" "Oh, Friday will do. Mr. Vane has invited us to dine at the Cecil, so I'll ask him to get us a box." Dorothy would rather have gone with any one than with Mr. Vane, as she disliked his feeble attempts at lovemaking. However, there was nothing for it but to accept, since she had brought it on herself. With a smile which encouraged her mother to think she would behave sensibly toward Vane, she agreed to the proposed dinner-party and companionship, and Mrs. Ward wrote a note at once. "I hope when she sees Lola, and hears the stories about that Brendon man, that she may refuse to have anything more to do with him," was Mrs. Ward's remark as she sealed her note. "I don't want to get the Brendon man into trouble by having him arrested for the murder. And I don't think Derrington would let me if I did wish it." Her last speech was prophetic, for the next day Lord Derrington paid a visit to Curzon Street and had a short interview with Mrs. Ward, the gist of which was that she must hold her tongue. "Brendon called to see me the other day," explained Derrington, looking grim, "and he showed me plainly that he had nothing to do with the matter." "But how about the holly berry?" "That is easily explained," replied Derrington, who, anticipating the question, had prepared an answer. "Brendon was one of the first to see the body, and in touching it the berry fell from the sprig. Afterward--mind you, afterward--Mr. Train found the berry, and, not knowing that Brendon had seen the body that morning, thought he had been in the room on the previous night." "I'm sure he was," insisted Mrs. Ward. "You are sure of nothing of the sort. Brendon could not have got downstairs without the connivance of Train, and you heard what Train said." "He is such a fool!" "The more likely to tell the truth," said Derrington. Then he asked, after a pause, "Why did you tell Dorothy to give the sprig of holly to Brendon on that night?" Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders and looked down nervously. "Oh, it was the merest kindness on my part," she said, trying to speak quietly. Derrington contradicted her at once. "It was nothing of the sort," he declared with roughness. "You wished him to have the yellow holly in his coat when he saw Mrs. Jersey, so that the woman might betray herself." "I knew nothing about Mrs. Jersey at the time." "Oh, but you did! With regard to the holly, you knew from me how it was used in connection with the death of my son at San Remo; and what I did not tell you, you learned from other people." Mrs. Ward looked defiant. "Well, I did. I am sure every one knew about the murder at the time," she said, "and I met some old frumps who gave me all details." "I quite understand that; but how did you know about Mrs. Jersey?" "That's my business," cried Mrs. Ward, becoming imprudent. "You are right about the holly; I sent to Devonshire expressly to get some. It was my intention to inclose a sprig in a letter to Mrs. Jersey so as to frighten her----" "What good would that have done?" "My business again," snapped Mrs. Ward, becoming bolder. "I had my reason for wishing to recall your son's death to her mind, and I knew that the yellow holly would do so most successfully. When Dorothy came from the Park and told me that Brendon was to stop with his friend at Mrs. Jersey's boarding-house, I thought that it would be better to let George wear the sprig. And I managed it in such a way that neither Dorothy nor George guessed how I planned the business. And I succeeded. Mrs. Jersey saw the sprig and nearly fainted. I knew then that----" Here she stopped. Derrington saw that it was useless to question her further. She would only lie, and had been telling lies, for all he knew. Moreover, he did not think she could tell him anything pertinent to the case. "I shall ask you nothing more," he said, rising to take his leave. "You have some reason for all this intrigue, I have no doubt. What your intentions are, matters little to me. I came merely to warn you that Brendon is to be left alone." "You won't have him arrested?" "No. And what is more, I won't have him spoken about in connection with that crime." Mrs. Ward forgot her desire to conciliate Derrington, forgot her desire to marry Vane to Dorothy, forgot everything in a sudden access of rage. "I shall do what I choose!" she cried. "No," said Derrington, quietly, and looking her full in the face, "you will obey me." "Obey you, Lord Derrington?" "Yes. I have tried to conduct this interview quietly, Mrs. Ward, and to hint that your wiser plan is to be silent, but----" "I don't want hints. I wish for plain speaking," raged the little woman. "How dare you address me like this?" The old gentleman leaned forward suddenly and whispered a short sentence in her ear. Mrs. Ward's face turned pearly white and she tottered to a chair, closing her eyes as she fell into it. Derrington surveyed her with a pitiless expression. "You will be silent about Brendon?" he asked. "Yes," moaned Mrs. Ward. "I will say nothing." When Derrington departed Mrs. Ward retired to bed after canceling her engagements for the evening. For twenty-four hours she stopped there, explaining to Dorothy that she was taking a rest cure. It apparently did her good, for on the evening of the day appointed for the meeting at the Cecil she arose looking bright and quite herself again. She had quite got over the fright given to her by Derrington, and, when she saw him later, treated him quite in her old manner. On his side the old gentleman made no difference, but he wondered how she was carrying herself so boldly. At once it occurred to his suspicious mind that there was some reason for this defiant behavior, and he determined to watch her. For this purpose he joined the party. "It is the first time I have been to a music-hall for years," he explained to Dorothy; "but Walter has been talking so much about this new dancer that I felt I must see her." "Why did you not dine with us at the Cecil?" asked Dorothy. "I always prefer to dine at home, my dear young lady. Besides, it does not do for an old man to wag his gray beard uninvited among the young." Meantime Mrs. Ward was chatting amicably to Vane and to a vapid War-Office clerk, who had formed a fourth at the Cecil dinner-party. He was a titled clerk, and heir to great estates, so Mrs. Ward made much of him. She was very diplomatic, and never neglected younger sons. "One never knows but what they may be rich some day," said Mrs. Ward in explanation of her wisdom. The box was large and easily held the party. Mrs. Ward had a position directly in front, where she could see and be seen; but Dorothy kept herself behind the curtains. She could see the stage excellently, but did not wish to be recognized by any chance acquaintance. In an opposite box sat a red-haired man in immaculate evening-dress. Derrington recognized him as Bawdsey, but did not think it necessary to show his recognition. He sat at the back of the box between Vane and the War-Office clerk, and kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Ward. That little woman sparkled like a diamond. She criticised the house, admired the decorations, and applauded the comic songs. It might have been that this indifferent attitude was one of defiance, as she must have known that Derrington was watching her. But she acted her part consummately, and he could not help admiring her coolness. "What an admirable actress," thought the old lord, "and what a dangerous woman!" The ballet of "The Bacchanals" came at the end of the first part of the programme. When the curtain rose Dorothy was so anxious to behold Lola that she leaned forward so as to show her face to the whole house. Bawdsey saw her and put his glass to his eyes. He smiled slightly, and Derrington wondered why he did so. But at that moment, and while the stage was filling with dancers, he arose to receive some newcomers. These were none other than Miss Bull and Margery, for whom Bawdsey had procured the box. The little old maid was whiter than ever and wore her usual gray dress. Margery was smartly gowned in green, and with her light hair and stupid red face looked anything but beautiful. She placed herself in the best position, being evidently directed to do so by Miss Bull, for that lady preferred the shade. At all events, she secluded herself behind a curtain and kept her beady black eyes persistently on the stage. On seeing that the two were comfortable, Bawdsey disappeared, and did not return till the end of the ballet. Derrington saw all this, but no one else in Mrs. Ward's box took any notice. And why should they? Bawdsey and his party were quite unknown to them. The ballet was modeled closely on the lines laid down by Euripides in his tragedy. The opening scene was the market-place of Thebes, and the stage was filled mostly with men. Pentheus, the King, is informed that the whole female population of the city, together with his mother, Agave, have gone to the mountains to worship a stranger. The seer, Tiresias, knows by his psychic powers that the stranger is none other than Bacchus, the god of wine, and implores Pentheus not to provoke his enmity. The King spurns this advice and gives orders that the so-called god shall be arrested. It was at this moment that Agavé appears. Dorothy looked at her eagerly. Agavé has not yet assumed her Bacchanalian garb. She is still in the quiet dress of a Grecian matron, but her gestures are wild, and she is rapid in her movements. In the dance which followed she is interrupted by Pentheus, who strives to calm her frenzy. But Agavé, knowing the god of wine is at hand, becomes as one possessed. Bacchus appears and is arrested by Pentheus. He is chained and hurried into the palace. Agavé warns the King against the impiety he is committing. Pentheus defies the gods. There is a peal of thunder, and the palace of Pentheus sinks into ruins. At the back appears the ruins of the city walls, which have also fallen, and on the summit of the heaped stones stands Bacchus, the god confest. At a wave of his wand vines begin to clamber over the ruins, and the cries of the Bacchanalians are heard. Pentheus tries to seize the god again, and darkness covers the stage. The last thing seen was Lola dancing in a wild red light, with extravagant gestures. Dorothy could not say that Lola was handsome, but she had about her a wild grace which was very fascinating. When dancing she seemed to think of nothing but the revels in which she was engaged. She never cast a look at the house, and Dorothy noticed this. She was therefore somewhat surprised when, during the second scene, she saw Lola deliberately look in the direction of the box and stare at her piercingly for quite a moment or two. Rather confused by this sudden regard, the girl drew back. Lola noticed her no more, but continued to dance. The second scene was the camp of the Bacchanals, where Pentheus, as a follower of the god, comes to see the orgies. It was a mountainous scene with a lurid red sky broken by masses of black clouds. There is no need to describe the ballet in detail. The frenzied dancers of the Bacchanals seemed to send the audience wild. There was something fierce and murderous about these orgiastic movements. And through the wild throng darted Lola, in leopard-skin and garlands, bearing a cup of wine, and flinging herself about in wild madness. She appeared to be a devil, and Dorothy shrank back at the sight of her wild face. The music also was terrible, and excited the dancers to further efforts of madness. It was a feast of witches, a Walpurgis night, a revel of the earth-powers. There was nothing spiritual about this riot of the flesh; the audience shuddered at the fierce rapture of the dancers, at the alluring pain of the music, at the reckless abandon of Lola Velez. "It's too awful!" murmured Dorothy, moving to the back of the box, beside Derrington; "that woman is a demon." "Yet your friend Mr. Brendon helped her to this, position," said the old man, grimly. "I am sure he cannot approve of this dancing," shuddered the girl, who was very pale. "There is nothing improper about it," said Derrington. "No. Everything is right in that way; but it is maddening, and unholy, and altogether terrible. The music is something like that in Tannhäuser--cruel, evil, voluptuous." "Ah, your poor spiritual nature shrinks from that sort of thing! But Mrs. Ward seems to enjoy it." She certainly did. Craning forward so as to get a full view of the stage, Mrs. Ward's eyes were alight. She would have enjoyed being in the throng herself, and would have danced as madly as the worst of them. And queerly enough Miss Bull appeared also spellbound. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittered, and her breath came and went in quick pants. "It's wonderful, Margery," she said, leaning out of the box and fixing her eyes intently on the whirling mass. "It's very pretty," said Margery, stupidly. Her dull brain could not understand the wild madness of the scene, and she was as unmoved as though she had been listening to a sermon. "Dorothy! Dorothy!" whispered Mrs. Ward, "come back to your seat. Lola juggles the head of Pentheus. It is the great dance." "No," answered Dorothy, and clung to Derrington's arm. "I will stop here. It is too terrible." The old man understood, and in the darkness of the box he slipped his arm round her. In that kind embrace Dorothy felt safe. If she looked upon that madness again she felt that she must cry out. Derrington quite appreciated her feelings. It was the repulsion experienced by the spiritual against the material. The action of the ballet proceeded rapidly. Pentheus climbed a tree, the Bacchanalians surrounded it and dragged him down. Lola emerged from a frantic crowd bearing his head. Then began the dance, slowly at first with solemn pacings and stately gestures. The limelights, red and blue and green and yellow, were flashed on the swaying form of Lola as she eyed the head with terrible glances. Then the music flashed out into a wild galop. The scene became pandemonium. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, the violins shrieked in the orchestra, the dancers spun, whirled, plunged, and sprang and bounded, and frantically rushed about the stage. Everywhere at unexpected moments Lola appeared, tossing, smiting, and caressing the head of Pentheus, whirling out and in as the rainbow lights played upon her restless figure. Finally, when the orgy was at its height, came a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, the riot died away, the Bacchanalians sprang from the stage. Darkness descended, the music sank to lulling tones, and quiet, silvery moonlight flooded the stage. There alone, in the center, sat Agavé, restored to her right mind, weeping over the head of her son. And on this scene of sorrow the curtain fell slowly to the strains of sweet music. The audience drew long breaths and felt as though a nightmare were at an end. "Let us go now," said Dorothy, standing up and still clinging to Derrington's arm. "I wish I had not come." She was interrupted by an ejaculation from her mother. Mrs. Ward also was standing up, but her eyes were fixed on Miss Bull. The little old maid, as though feeling the influence of that glance, slowly looked in Mrs. Ward's direction. The eyes of the two women met. From those of Miss Bull flashed a look of hate, and she withdrew behind the curtain of the box. Mrs. Ward was white and shaking. Clutching Vane's arm she requested to be taken to her carriage. "It is too much for me," she said, alluding to the ballet. Derrington stood on the pavement when the brougham rolled away bearing the mother and daughter, both silent, both pale. He was alone, as Vane and the War-Office clerk were back again in the hall. "Humph!" said Derrington, his eyes fixed on the retreating carriage. "So you know that little woman who called to see me about the lease. I wonder how that comes about. Miss Bull knew Mrs. Jersey, and you, Mrs. Ward, sent that yellow holly. I wonder----" The old man stopped; he could not quite understand what Mrs. Ward was doing, but he repeated his former observation. "A dangerous woman," said he. "I shall speak to Bawdsey about her;" and making up his mind to this he went in search of the detective. All that night Dorothy was haunted by strange dreams, in which the figure of Lola played a prominent part. Usually calm and self-possessed, Dorothy slept like a child, but the fierce music, the mad dancing, the knowledge that George knew this terrible woman--for so she appeared to the girl--caused her to sleep brokenly. She was up early, and after a breakfast that was a mere farce she took her way to the Park. It was her usual custom to walk in a lonely part about eight o'clock in the morning but on this occasion she was at her usual spot by half-past seven. This was a seat under a spreading tree in the center of a wide lawn. Few people came there at so early an hour, and Dorothy often read for an hour before returning home. In a mechanical manner she took a book out of her pocket--it was the "Meditations" of Marcus Aurelius--and tried to fasten her attention on the soothing words of the stoic Emperor. But it was impossible. Before her inner vision passed the wild, flushed face of Lola Velez, and Dorothy could not drive it away. While endeavoring to do so some one came to sit on the seat. Dorothy, rather surprised, looked up. She saw Lola staring at her intently. The dancer looked pale and worn. About her there was none of the unholy influence of the previous night. As the morning was cold she wore a sealskin coat and toque with a scarf of red silk twisted round her throat. This touch of color was all that was about her likely to suggest her foreign origin. With her pale face and piteous mouth and appealing eyes she looked like a broken-hearted woman. Dorothy's first movement was to go away; but when she saw the sorrow on that wild face she remained where she was. The two gazed at one another for a time, and the thought in the mind of each was the same. Both thought of George Brendon. Lola began to speak without any preamble. "Mr. Bawdsey pointed you to me at the last night," she said in her imperfect English. "He declared you did walk early, and I have been with my eye on your mansion since six hours--what you call o'clock. I see you come, I follow you, I am here, Mees Vard, I am here." "What do you want?" asked Dorothy, calmly, her nerves much more under control than Lola's were. Yet both were agitated. "Ah," cried the foreign woman, throwing back her head, "give him to me! I love him--I worship him. Give him to me." "Of whom do you speak, mademoiselle?" "Ah, mademoiselle, so he speaks when angry. But I am no French. I am Señora--I am Spanish. I have warm blood here in my heart." She struck her breast fiercely. "And if you take him from me I will kill you. Yes, I will give you the death--quick, sure, sudden." Her face drew near to Dorothy's as she spoke, and the girl could feel her hot breath on her cheek. But Dorothy had a brave heart of her own and did not flinch. For all she knew, Lola might intend to stab her at the very minute. The Park keeper was some distance away, and it was useless to create a scandal by calling him to her assistance. Lola was just the kind of mad creature to make a scene. Retaining control of herself, though her heart was beating rapidly, Dorothy fixed her eyes firmly on those of Lola. "Sit a little further away," she said, "and we will talk calmly." "Are you not afraid?" asked Lola, surprised. She had always found the savage attitude so effective. Dorothy laughed. "I was never afraid of anything or of any one in my life," she said coolly. "And I am not going to begin now. What do you want, mademoiselle? Why do you threaten me?" "Bah!" cried the other, but moving back a little as requested, "you know, you blond white cat, you. It is George." "What about George?" "He is mine. He loves me. You would take him from me." "If you are speaking of George Brendon----" "Of who else should I speak? You know--ah, you know!" "Yes. I know. I heard some rumors as to how he helped you. But I do not believe for one moment that he loves you." "He does. You dare ask that he loves." "I shall do nothing of the sort. We may as well understand one another, as you have no right to thrust yourself upon me." "I do do what I do please," said Lola, sullenly. "These sorts of things are not allowed in England, I am sorry for you, and so I speak. Otherwise, I should call the Park keeper." "I want not any sorrow. I do want my own George." "Mr. Brendon is engaged to marry me," said Dorothy, deliberately. Lola sprang to her feet with flashing eyes. "It will not be," she almost shouted. "I love him." "Sit down," said Dorothy, much in the same tone as she would have used to a fractious child, and Lola resumed her seat immediately. The woman was a creature of impulse. Had Dorothy raged also, she would have gained the ascendancy. But this calmness, to use a nautical simile, "took the wind out of her sails." She could only do as she was told. "But I will have my George," she muttered. "Listen to me," said Dorothy, quietly. "I have no right to answer your questions. But I am sorry for you. I will speak to Mr. Brendon." "No--" Lola looked up in terror--"you must not do that. He will be very angry--oh, much--much enraged." "Then that shows me you have been speaking untruths. Mr. Brendon does not love you----" "But I say yes--yes--yes!" Lola sprang to her feet again and poured forth her wrath. "Ah, you think he will be milord and that you will marry him, but----" "What do you know about that?" asked Dorothy, rising indignantly. "Oh, I do know much--much," Lola snapped her fingers. "Yes, I know that which I do know. I can stop him from being milord, and that I will--I will. If he is milord he will marry--you--you. But as my own George he will make me--me--" she struck her breast again--"me, Lola Velez, madame his wife." "You are talking nonsense," said Dorothy, coolly, though she felt annoyed and puzzled. "What can you know?" "That which I do know. Wait--oh, wait a day--one day, two day, three day, and then--" She snapped her fingers. "You see--yes--you see how clever I am. I go, I go, you white cat. I go to get my George." Lola darted away at a run, which slackened to a rapid walk as she neared the Park gates. Dorothy sat down again, too amazed to follow. CHAPTER XIV MRS. WARD'S TRUMP CARD Kowlaski was a large, fat, good-natured blackguard of a man, quite without principle. He came from some remote village in the Balkans and was of Jewish birth. In his early days he arrived in London penniless and strove to make a living by selling toys in the street. Then he turned scene-shifter at a music-hall, and while thus engaged educated himself to write and read and to speak English with wonderful fluency. Also he saved money and speculated in a small way, having the marvelous Hebrew instinct of picking out lucrative ventures. Shortly he became stage manager. Then he found a clever woman who sang badly and acted wonderfully. Kowlaski advertised her into a success and she proved grateful. There is no need to trace his steady rise; but one thing led to another until he became proprietor of the very music-hall which had witnessed his humble beginning. When he first set eyes on Lola he had guessed that it would pay to invest money in her. The success of the ballet proved that Kowlaski was right as usual, and he smiled his oily smile when he saw the crowded houses and looked over the receipts. The ballet would run for more than a year. He was sure of that, and set about some other business now that the music-hall was flourishing. It was at this point that Lola demanded a week's holiday. Kowlaski whimpered. He usually did so to make people think he was weak. But under his apparent weakness he was possessed of an iron strength. Having great experience of women he thought to control Lola, but she, being gifted with a superlative temper, laughed in his face. All his cleverness could not make her swerve from the point. "I want a week to myself," she said doggedly. They were talking in French, as Kowlaski could swear more easily in that tongue and wanted freedom of speech. "But, my dear child--" Kowlaski was always paternal--"it will not do. You are the draw, and if you go out of the bill the people will not come to my house." "I don't care. I want a week, and a week I will have." "Why do you wish for this week?" "That's my business." Kowlaski tried temper. "If you go, you leave my theater once and for all the time." "Pschutt!" said Lola, snapping her fingers in his dismayed face. "I draw, and you are in no hurry to get rid of me." Kowlaski tried reproaches. "If you were a grateful woman----" "Ah, bah! What of gratitude? You wanted me or would you have seen me die in the gutter." Kowlaski began to whimper. "You will ruin me, my dear!" "It would serve you right if I did. You have ruined others in your time. Don't you think I know you? Come--" she rapped on the table--"I want the week. To-morrow and till next Wednesday I'm out of the bill." "But it cannot be done." "It must be. I want it to be done." Kowlaski tried bribing. "I will raise your salary if you stay!" "Oh, la, la, la, la! I am quite pleased with what I get. If I wished my salary raised I should have it raised. I go for a week." In the face of this obstinacy Kowlaski gave in. But first of all he tried threats, and Lola threatened to throw a chair at him. He finally agreed that she should have her week, and Lola walked out of the office without thanking him. That was the last he saw of her for seven days. He made the most of her absence, declaring that she had been called away to nurse a dying mother and would reappear with a broken heart to keep her engagements with the public. Bawdsey saw this notice. It was the first he had heard of Lola's escapade, and he went at once to her rooms in Bloomsbury to ask where she was going. Lola had already gone, and, according to the landlady, had left no information as to her whereabouts. "Did she take a box?" asked Bawdsey. "A small box. She went away in a cab." "Where did she tell the cabman to drive to?" "To Oxford Street." Bawdsey was disappointed. He saw that Lola had taken every precaution to hide her trail, and that there was not much chance of finding her. However, he went to see Kowlaski. The manager began to talk of the dying mother, and Bawdsey shut him up. "Rubbish! That's for the public. I want to know where she is. "My dear, I do not know," said Kowlaski, and for the first time in his wicked old life he told the truth. Not to be beaten, Bawdsey sought out George Brendon. But George was as ignorant as the manager and the landlady. "I haven't the slightest idea," he said, when Bawdsey asked; "and, to tell you the truth, I don't see why you should try to find out." "I want to know." "That is apparent on the face of it. But you are not engaged to marry her, are you, Mr. Bawdsey?" "No such luck," replied the detective, with a dismal face. "Then I don't see what right you have to control her movements." "Did she write and tell you where she was going?" "No, and if she had done so I should not tell you," replied George, annoyed by the man's persistence. "You may as well be civil to me, Mr. Brendon; you know that I am your friend." "Oh, I've heard all that before! But people who talk much of friendship and gratitude are generally humbugs." "I am not," said Bawdsey, quietly. "See here, Mr. Brendon, Lola is in love with you----" "That's my business. Leave it alone." Bawdsey took up his hat. "Oh, very well! If you will not be civil I cannot help you to learn who killed your father." "What!" George sprang from the table at which he was writing and seized the man's arm. "Do you know that?" "Gently, Mr. Brendon. No, I do not know, but----" "Then what do you mean by saying----" "We had better have a chat," said Bawdsey, and sat down. "But I wish to know where I stand. Lola loves you. Do you love her?" "No," said Brendon, seeing that he would have to humor the man. "I am engaged to marry Miss Ward." "Will you help me to marry Lola?" "Willingly--though, to tell you the truth, I know very little about you, and to make that girl marry you----" "Oh, Lola can look after herself, Mr. Brendon. If she becomes my wife she will have the upper hand. But I am so deeply in love with her that I am willing to play second fiddle. Can't you dispossess her of this infatuation for you?" George shook his head and groaned. "No. She won't listen to reason." "Well," drawled Bawdsey, recurring to his American accent, "I don't blame her for that. She is in love, and love listens to no one and nothing. I wouldn't listen to reason, either, if it entailed giving up Lola." "See here, Bawdsey, if you can persuade this woman to get over her liking for me, and to marry you, I shall be delighted. I do not know where she is just now, but it is my impression that she has gone away because she is afraid of me." "Afraid of you? Oh, that's absurd!" "No, it isn't. The other morning she saw Miss Ward, and there was a scene in the Park." Bawdsey hung his red head. "I fear that is my fault," he confessed. "I pointed out Miss Ward to Lola, and----" "And it was I who foolishly mentioned that Miss Ward sometimes took a walk in the morning--in the Park." "Oh," said Bawdsey, "I mentioned that also." "Did you wish Lola to see Miss Ward?" asked George, angrily. "No. Nor did I intend to say anything about the walking in the early morning. I simply pointed her out in the box to Lola, so that Lola might see there was no chance of your marrying her." "As if any woman would accept such an excuse," said Brendon, contemptuously. "Then she questioned you about the walk?" "Yes. She mentioned something about what you had told her, and I was rather free with my tongue. I am not usually," said Bawdsey, penitently, "but there's something about Lola that makes me behave like a child. I'm wax in her hands. So she saw Miss Ward?" "Yes. And she knows that I am angry. Of course Miss Ward sent to tell me at once, and I called on Lola to give her a talking to, but she was gone when I arrived." "Would you have spoken harshly to her?" "Certainly. She had no right to trouble Miss Ward. But now you know why I think she has left town. In a week she will come back thinking my anger is at an end." "And will it be?" asked Bawdsey, doubtfully. "It is at an end now. I am quite content not to see Lola again so long as she leaves Miss Ward alone." "I will try and keep her away," said the detective, "but I have very little influence with her." "Tell her I am angry and will be still more angry if she does not keep away from Curzon Street. Well, we have discussed this matter. I now want to hear what you meant by your reference to my father. Do you know who killed him?" Bawdsey shook his head. "I can't say for certain, but I can tell you who might know." "Who is that?" "Mr. Roger Ireland." George looked astonished. "But that is ridiculous," he said. "Mr. Ireland told me that he did not know." "Oh, I don't say that he knows for certain. But he is better acquainted with the matter than you think." "How did you come to know Mr. Ireland?" "He called to see Miss Bull, and I dropped across him." "How did you get talking of the case?" "Well, you see," said Bawdsey, easily, "we naturally talked of Mrs. Jersey, and one thing led to another until I discovered that Ireland had been in San Remo when your father was murdered. I wished to find out who killed him, so I questioned Mr. Ireland." "Why do you wish to know who killed my father?" asked George. "Because I think that the murder of Mrs. Jersey is connected with that crime. See here--" Bawdsey cleared his throat--"Mrs. Jersey was in San Remo at the time of the death----" "How do you know that?" "Don't I tell you I questioned Mr. Ireland?" George looked sharply at the detective. "What magic did you use to make him talk? Mr. Ireland knows how to hold his tongue." "Well, when he found that I was looking after the case of Mrs. Jersey (and I made no secret of that) he was good enough to tell me all he knew. He thought, as I did, that the murder in San Remo was connected with the crime of Amelia Square." "Oh!" George wasn't at all satisfied, as he could not conceive how Bawdsey had induced Ireland to talk. However, he thought it wise to say no more, as he did not wish to make Bawdsey angry and thus run a chance of losing his explanation. "Go on." "There is nothing more to say," said Bawdsey, rising. "Mr. Ireland declined to tell me who he thought was guilty, but he hinted that he had seen the lady in the blue domino unmasked." "Did he recognize her?" "I think he did, but he assured me that he could not be sure, and that he had not seen the lady again." "Then he did know the face?" Bawdsey's face assumed an impenetrable expression. "I can only refer you to Mr. Ireland," he said; "and as to Lola----" "Oh, she'll turn up again," said Brendon, irritably. "Don't worry me about Lola. I wish you would marry her and take her back to your native land." "What land am I native of, Mr. Brendon?" asked Bawdsey, calmly. "America, I understand. You hinted as much when we met." Bawdsey shook his head. "I am as English as you are," he declared. "Well," said Brendon, with a shrug, "I thought as much. Your accent fails at times. You are not a good actor, Bawdsey." "I may be a better actor than you think, Mr. Brendon." "What do you mean by that?" "Never you mind, sir. I can hold my tongue when it suits me, and on this occasion it does suit me. But remember, Mr. Brendon, that whatever happens you have a friend in me." "What is going to happen?" Bawdsey shook his head solemnly. "One never knows. We are not out of the wood yet, Mr. Brendon." "Are you referring to my father's murder?" "And to Mrs. Jersey's. I have my suspicions, and--well, there's nothing more to be said. When I am certain I shall let you know." "You have your suspicions, then?" "Yes. But I shall not impart them to any one--not even to you." "One moment, Bawdsey," said Brendon, as the man had his hand on the door. "Do you suspect Miss Bull?" "Why should I suspect her?" asked the detective, in surprise. "Because she was not on good terms with Mrs. Jersey, and you have taken up your abode in the house----" "To watch her, you would say. Well, maybe," rejoined the man, composedly. "I know what I know, and when I am more certain of what I know, sir----" He nodded. "Good-day," he said, and went abruptly. It struck George that Bawdsey was a most mysterious person and knew far more about the San Remo murder than Derrington could have told him. Still, it was possible that Derrington had unbosomed himself to Bawdsey, and it was necessary to do so if he wanted the murder of Mrs. Jersey cleared up. And Derrington, from his refusal to admit that he was at the house on the night and about the time the crime was committed, seemed to knew something that might lead to the detection of the assassin. "Humph," said George to himself when alone, "I have a great mind to go round and see that old man. It seems to me that Bawdsey is trying to serve two masters. It is impossible that my grandfather can know the truth. Yet, going by his height and figure, and that sable claret-colored coat, he was certainly in the house on the night in question. But it's none of my business." He sat down again to his work and tried to interest himself in the chapter he was writing. But it was all in vain. Bawdsey's speech and Bawdsey's manner, and a conviction that the man was playing his grandfather false, kept recurring to his mind. After an hour's futile work he threw down the pen in despair and went out to call on Derrington. On arriving at St. Giles Square he saw a carriage at the door of the mansion. On asking for Lord Derrington, George was informed that his lordship was engaged with Mrs. Ward and could see no one. Brendon turned away, wondering that he had not recognized the carriage, and he was still more vexed with himself when Dorothy put her head out of the brougham and called to him. "My dearest," he said softly, so that the coachman and footman might not hear, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Why are you not inside?" "My mother wished to see Lord Derrington alone," replied Dorothy. "I am waiting till she comes out. She has been with him for half an hour. I don't know what they are talking about." It was at this moment that a message was brought out of the house from Mrs. Ward saying that her daughter could drive home as she would not be disengaged for another hour. Dorothy looked puzzled. "I can't understand," she said; "there is something wrong with my mother. Lord Derrington came to see her one day and she has been upset ever since." George shook his head. He suspected Mrs. Ward of knowing more than she chose to confess, and based his suspicions on the fact of the yellow holly which she had given to Dorothy to present to him. She had made her daughter a cat's-paw, but why she should wish to startle Mrs. Jersey with a reminder of the San Remo murder was a thing George could not understand. Meanwhile, he kept these suspicions to himself and made some excuse. "Oh, Mrs. Ward and my grandfather are probably talking over my iniquities," he said easily. "But I don't see why I should not take advantage of this chance." "What do you mean, George?" asked Dorothy with a becoming blush. "Well, here is the brougham, and here you are. Why shouldn't we drive around the Park before you go home?" "My mother will be angry," said Dorothy, hesitating. Then she blushed again. "But I shall brave her anger. We have much to talk about, as I wish to speak of Lola Velez." "Dorothy, you surely do not think----" "No, no! But I want to ask you a few questions. I believe she is mad, George. Get in and we will drive round the Park." The order was given, George seated himself beside his divinity, and they drove away for a pleasant hour. "You see Fate plays into our hands," said George, taking those of Dorothy in his own. And then the conversation became quite private and very, very confidential. Meantime, Mrs. Ward was seated in a chair facing Lord Derrington. The old gentleman looked savage, but Mrs. Ward was quite at her ease. They had been having a war of words, and Mrs. Ward so far had come off best. The conversation had been in reference to the sentence whispered in the little woman's ear when he had made her promise to hold her tongue about George. "Of course I do think it is the meanest thing a man can do," said Mrs. Ward, bitterly. "What if I did cheat at cards? Every woman does that, and I was losing no end of money." "I don't think your friends would take that view," said Derrington, grimly. "I came to hear of the matter quite by chance, and it is plain that you won over a hundred pounds by cheating." "It's that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you----" "No. If Mrs. Wayflete knows, she has held her tongue. I learned it from a source of which you are ignorant. But the fact remains, you cheated, and if your friends knew it you would be ostracized by all of them." "As if they did not do these things themselves," retorted Mrs. Ward; "but since you have been so nasty, I intend to be nasty, too." "I shouldn't advise you to be nasty to me, Mrs. Ward. I have a large reserve fund of strength." "You'll need it all to hold your own against me." Lord Derrington nodded. "I quite admit that you are a dangerous woman," he said quietly. "Well, and in what way have you made up your mind to be nasty?" Mrs. Ward laughed. "You needn't repeat my adjectives," she said in her most frivolous manner. "If you want to know the way in which I intend to protect myself----" "What do you mean by that?" "I mean this," cried the little woman, growing angry all at once. "I am not going to be threatened about that unfortunate episode connected with the cards--it was that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you, so don't deny it--I am not going to be threatened without holding my own. Besides, I want Dorothy to marry your grandson." "Which one?" asked Derrington, coolly. "You have only Walter Vane." "Excuse me, George Brendon, whether there is a marriage or not, is equally my grandson." "I believe you admire him." "Very much, and it is in my mind to acknowledge him as my heir." "I thought as much after your sticking up for him the other day," said Mrs. Ward, furiously. "Now, look here, Lord Derrington. If Dorothy marries that Brendon creature I won't be able to do a thing with her--you know quite well I won't." "That means you won't be able to handle my money through George after I am dead," said Derrington, grimly. "You can put it that way if you like. But Walter shall be Dorothy's husband, I have made up my mind." "Because he's a fool and putty in your hands." "I shouldn't be vulgar if I were you," said Mrs. Ward, in a dignified manner, and quite forgetting that she had once used the same illustration herself in connection with Brendon. "But so long as George leaves Dorothy alone I shall say nothing." "That's really very good of you, Mrs. Ward." "Your being nasty won't make me change my mind. But you quite understand the situation, Lord Derrington. Walter is to marry my daughter, and George is to be kept away." "I don't see how he is to be kept away. I assure you Brendon is a strong man, and his will is quite equal to mine." "Nonsense, you have the strongest will in London." "And you come here to try and break it." "Life is a game," said Mrs. Ward, leaning back, with a pretty air of philosophy. "And at present I hold the trump card." "What is it?" asked Derrington, wondering by what means she hoped to make him consent to her demands. "I'll tell you presently," said Mrs. Ward, in a most masterful tone, which amused Derrington. "But you understand that if George Brendon doesn't keep away I shall give information to the police and have him arrested in connection with that murder." "Oh, no, you won't," said Derrington, good-humoredly. "Oh, yes, I shall. As to your accusation about my having cheated, you shall say nothing about that." "Indeed, I shall do so if you trouble Brendon." "Think of Dorothy." "I do think of Dorothy, and I'm very sorry she has such a mother." "You dare to insult me," began Mrs. Ward, when Derrington, who was losing patience, cut her short. "I've had enough of this," he said sharply. "You shall hold your tongue about Brendon or I'll tell what I know." "Then I'll do the same." Derrington bowed politely. "By all means," he said. "My reputation is already so bad that a word or two from you can scarcely make it worse." "Oh, it's more than that," said Mrs. Ward, quietly, and she spoke in so positive a manner that Derrington began to recollect his worst sins. "Do you remember the night you came home here at one o'clock and found me in this very room?" "Yes. You came with the amiable intention of telling me that George Brendon was going to pass the night at Mrs. Jersey's, and that you suspected that he was up to mischief." "I took the trouble to come from a party for that very purpose," was Mrs. Ward's plaintive reply, "and how was I received?" "I told you to mind your own business, if I remember." "And you swore at me," said the little woman; "as if a man who calls himself a gentleman----" "Mrs. Ward, I am getting tired of this circumlocution. What is it you have to say?" "Well, on that night you were in a fir coat." "My usual coat in winter." "It was the night when Mrs. Jersey was killed." "Was it, indeed? I never noticed the coincidence." "No. But you knew about it," said Mrs. Ward; "you threw your coat on yonder sofa. I seated myself near it by chance. There was something hard in the pocket of the coat. When you were out of the room I took the something out. There it is," and she laid an Italian stiletto on the table. "What is that?" asked Derrington, calmly, but with an anxious face. "That," said Mrs. Ward, touching it daintily with her finger, "is the weapon with which Mrs. Jersey was stabbed." CHAPTER XV A RECOGNITION If Mrs. Ward expected to startle Derrington into a confession she was never more mistaken in her calculations. Lord Derrington had not moved in diplomatic circles all his life without knowing how to guard against the display of emotion. With an utterly expressionless face he looked at the stiletto. It was a slender steel blade with a silver handle of Renaissance workmanship, evidently a valuable and curious relic of the Middle Ages. It might have been made by Cellini himself and have been worn by Cesare Borgia. But Derrington stared at it as though he knew nothing about it. "Well," said Mrs. Ward, sharply, and rather disappointed he did not grovel on the instant, "what do you say?" Derrington looked at her in rather a humorous manner. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. "Confess that I killed Mrs. Jersey and then brought this weapon carefully home in my pocket for you to discover and use against me?" "That is a subterfuge," said Mrs. Ward. "You did not expect to find me waiting for you, and you never meant that dagger to be discovered, Lord Derrington." "I certainly never did," he assented heartily. "I cannot imagine how you came to know more than I did." "What do you mean?" asked the little woman, sharply. "Well, you see," said Lord Derrington, quietly, "this is a very clever bit of business on your part, but so far as I am concerned it has nothing to do with me. I never saw that weapon before." "Oh, that's rubbish!" said Mrs. Ward with a mirthless laugh. "I found it in the pocket of your fur coat on the very----" "You say you found it there," said Derrington, meaningly. "Do you deny that it was in the pocket?" "Certainly. Had it been in the pocket I should have known it was there. But it was not in the pocket." Mrs. Ward stared. "You are very brazen," she said; "you knew it was there all the time." "In the pocket?" asked Derrington, politely and perfectly calm. Mrs. Ward hesitated. Then she faced him defiantly. "I am so sure of my ground," she declared, "that I don't mind saying it wasn't exactly in the pocket. There was a hole in the pocket and the dagger had slipped down into the lining between the inside fur and the outer cloth. It lay sideways, and what with its position and the heavy fur----" "I could not have known it was there," finished Derrington, balancing a paper-cutter on his forefinger. "You have found a mare's nest, my dear Mrs. Ward, and if this is your trump card I am sorry to say it won't take the trick you wish to secure. I did not know that this--" he touched the stiletto--"was in the lining of my fur coat." "Then it was, and Mrs. Jersey was stabbed with it." "Isn't that taking a great deal for granted?" said Derrington, with raised brows. "Mrs. Jersey, according to the doctor, if I recall the report of the inquest rightly, was certainly stabbed with a weapon similar to this. But why do you say this is the one?" "Because I believe you were in the house on that night." "Which house? Be explicit, please." Mrs. Ward was growing angry at this calm defiance. "In the house in Amelia Square. You went there to prevent that Brendon creature from making Mrs. Jersey confess." Lord Derrington laughed. "You would not make a good lawyer," said he. "By your own showing I did not know that Brendon was to be at Mrs. Jersey's on that night." "I certainly came to tell you," said Mrs. Ward, feeling that she had missed a point, "but you could easily have heard it elsewhere." "Who from? Brendon did not advertise in the papers that he was stopping with Mrs. Jersey on the night in question." "Then Mr. Train----" "I met Mr. Train for the first time at your house the other night." "Dorothy told you," said Mrs. Ward, determined not to surrender any advantage she might have gained. "You can ask your daughter and she will tell you that I had not seen her all that week. Is there any one else, Mrs. Ward?" The little woman rose to her feet with an artificial laugh and shook out perfume from her silken skirts. "You are very clever and obstinate, Lord Derrington, but how will you explain this--" she pointed to the stiletto--"to the authorities?" "There will be no need for me to do that," said Derrington, and took up the weapon. Mrs. Ward stretched out her hand. "My property, if you please, Lord Derrington." The old gentleman opened a drawer, dropped the weapon into it, and closed the drawer with a snap. "It's locked now," he said coolly. "I shall take charge of this." "How dare you? I insist----" "Oh, dear, no! You insist on nothing." Lord Derrington rose, looking like a giant as he towered over the little woman. "My dear Mrs. Ward," said he, quietly, but in his deepest tones, "I have been very patient with you, but this thing must end. You must promise to hold your tongue about Brendon and----" "And about you, I suppose," she sneered. "About me?" Derrington's tone expressed surprise. "What have you to hold your tongue about as regards me?" Mrs. Ward stamped, though as a rule she was not given to betraying violent emotion. "Oh, it's too ridiculous!" she said furiously. "I can say to the police how I found the stiletto in your coat, I suppose." "I should advise you not to talk to any one about a thing which exists only in your imagination." "The stiletto----" "What are you talking of, Mrs. Ward?" "It's in that drawer." She pointed to the table. "Oh, dear, no, it isn't," said Derrington, blandly; "there is no stiletto, there never was one. We have had a nice talk--shall we say about chiffons?" In spite of her rage at being outwitted Mrs. Ward gave a hollow laugh at the thought of Lord Derrington discussing chiffons. "A nice talk, I say, and now we must part." "Not before I have had my say," said Mrs. Ward, savagely. "I see perfectly well that I have been foolish to let that stiletto get into your hands. But I thought I was dealing with a man of honor." "Ah, Mrs. Ward, few of us can aspire to your high principles!" The sneer infuriated her. "You can deny the stiletto if you like to the public, but you dare not do so to me." "Why not? For the sake of argument we will admit the existence of the weapon. You come here with it in your hand and state that you found it in my coat--in the lining of the coat." "And I did--I did--you know I did." "Indeed, I know nothing of the sort. I deny that the stiletto was ever in pocket or in lining. I did not see you take it out." "I waited till you were out of the room before I examined the coat." "Of course, but by doing so you have defeated your own object. Had you produced the weapon from the coat and showed it to me at the very moment, your accusation might have held water. As it is, the thing is simply ridiculous. You come here, you accuse me of a crime----" "I did not accuse you," said Mrs. Ward, beginning to find that Derrington was too much even for her. "I believe Brendon killed the woman--oh, yes! You went to the house and you saw him. He and Mrs. Jersey had words, as she would not confess, and Brendon killed her with the stiletto. Then you came in, and to save him you put the dagger into your pocket, sent him up to bed, and promised to hold your tongue, and----" Derrington laughed. "You have a most vivid imagination, Mrs. Ward," he said, with a shrug; "but, as it happens, you are talking nonsense. I was not at Amelia Square that evening, but at my club, as any member then present can assure you. I can prove what is called an alibi, Mrs. Ward, which means that I can account for every moment of my time, from the minute I left this house to the minute I returned to find you here. As to the stiletto you say you took out of my pocket, that is rubbish. On the whole, I think you had better hold your tongue." "If I go to the police they will open that drawer." "Oh, no! An Englishman's house is his castle, you know, and a man in my position cannot be treated in the way you suggest with impunity. Moreover, Mrs. Ward, there is ample time to destroy the stiletto." "Which you will do," she said, recovering her composure, now that she found it was useless to protest. "No. I wouldn't even mind showing it to the police and saying how you brought it here with an accusation. If the police can prove that this is the weapon with which Mrs. Jersey was stabbed, and if you and the police can prove that the stiletto was in my pocket on the night of the murder, then you and the police--" Derrington made an ironical bow--"are extremely clever." "Oh, very well," said Mrs. Ward, realizing her defeat, "I shall say nothing about you. But Brendon----" "You will hold your tongue about him also. I quite understand how you proposed to hold this stiletto, and the tale of its being discovered in my pocket, over me. If I did not consent to the marriage of Miss Ward and Walter--eh?" "I must do the best for my child." "Even going so far as threats. Well, I have too high a respect for Miss Ward to ask her to marry such a worm as Walter. She would do better to take Brendon." "She shan't marry him." "Why do you hate the man so?" asked Derrington, looking into her eyes. "I know he is a strong man, and for the money's sake you do not want him to be your son-in-law. But even this does not account for your hatred. Why do you hate him?" "I have nothing to say," retorted Mrs. Ward, who had flushed and paled alternately during this speech. "Please see me to the door." Derrington walked to the door and opened it with a bow. "Willingly. I think we understand one another." "I think we do," said Mrs. Ward, with an artificial laugh. "You do credit to your reputation, Lord Derrington." "Praise from Mrs. Ward is praise, indeed," said the ironical old gentleman as he descended the stairs side by side with the woman who could have found it in her heart to kill him. "I am sorry to ask you to leave me so soon, as our conversation was most enjoyable. But I have to see a certain Mr. Ireland----" "Is that Brendon's guardian?" asked Mrs. Ward, coming to a sudden stop in the hall. "His former guardian," corrected Derrington. "How do you come to know of him, Mrs. Ward?" "I think Dorothy mentioned the name," she said in rather a faltering tone. "Dear me, how my face burns! I wish I had a veil." "I am sorry, Mrs. Ward, but the late Lady Derrington's veils are not modern enough for you." "What nonsense!" said Mrs. Ward, who appeared flurried. "Please tell your man to call a cab. I sent away the carriage." "Let me send you home in mine." "No! No, I want to go at once," and she approached the door quickly. "When did you say Mr. Ireland was coming?" Derrington glanced at his watch. "He is due now," he said, and looked at her, wondering why she asked the question. Mrs. Ward's face was turned away. She was dressed in furs and carried a muff. When the door was opened by the footman a gentleman appeared on the threshold. Mrs. Ward lifted her muff to her face, but not before the stranger had caught sight of her face and had uttered an ejaculation of surprise. "You!" he said, stepping forward. "What do you mean?" said Mrs. Ward, with her face still hidden. "Lord Derrington, this friend of yours is making a mistake. Tell that man to be quick calling a cab." And she moved past the stranger. "Pardon," he said politely, "but I wish to speak with you." Derrington bent his bushy brows. "Let the lady pass," he said; "who are you, sir, to stop the egress of my guests?" "My name is Rodger Ireland," said the stranger, quietly, "and I have been looking for that lady for over thirty years." "What does the man mean?" asked Mrs. Ward, haughtily, but looking disturbed. "Lord Derrington," said Ireland, "I think if you will permit this lady and me to have a talk----" "There seems to be some mistake," said Derrington. "Mrs. Ward, will you not wait until we rectify it?" "No. The man is mad. Let me pass, sir. There is the cab." She would have stepped out but Ireland again placed his bulky form in her way. It was all done so tactfully that the footman on the pavement did not notice anything unusual. The man was waiting by the cab to assist Mrs. Ward in. But Ireland would not let her pass. "Lord Derrington," he said softly, lest the footman should overhear, "this is the lady who was with your son when he was murdered." Derrington was not easily startled, but he turned suddenly white. Mrs. Ward shrank back into the hall. Now that the truth was told she seemed to recover from her fears and to regain all her tact. "I shall not want the cab at present," she said to the footman. "Tell the man to wait. Lord Derrington, if you do not wish these private affairs to be discussed in the presence of the servants we had better return to the library." Lord Derrington could only stare, being confounded at her coolness. He was much moved by the unexpected mention of his dead son, and without a word went up the stairs again, while Mrs. Ward followed, and Ireland came at her heels. She looked as though she were a prisoner between two guards. When they found themselves in the library Derrington closed the door and went to his seat. He looked much older, having aged in a most extraordinary manner under the shock of Ireland's information. Mrs. Ward was perfectly cool, and resumed her former seat. As to Ireland, he let himself carefully down into the most capacious armchair he could find. Mrs. Ward opened the conversation at once. "You say you saw me at San Remo?" she asked. "I did," replied Ireland, in his heavy voice. "I was there at the time Mr. Percy Vane was murdered--" Derrington groaned--"and I was at the masked ball where----" "The Veglioni," said Mrs. Ward. "Well, you were there. You say you saw me?" "In a blue domino." "There were plenty of blue dominoes at that ball--at least I should think there were." "Yes, but you wore a sprig of yellow holly. That was why I recognized you when you were masked." "How did you know it was I?" "Because early in the evening you went into a box. I was there talking to the Marchesa Beltrami, to whom the box belonged. You removed your mask and I had ample opportunity to observe you." "What reason had you to observe me?" asked Mrs. Ward, just as though she were counsel examining a witness. "Well," said Ireland, smoothing his face, "you see I knew Mr. Vane very well. He married a woman of whom I was fond." Derrington shifted restlessly in his chair. "Do not be afraid, Lord Derrington, I do not intend to talk of Rosina Lockwood----" "You are talking to me at present," said Mrs. Ward, sharply. "You can talk to Lord Derrington later." "I rather think, ma'am," said Ireland, "that Lord Derrington will want to talk to you." "At present I say nothing," was his lordship's reply, and he watched the two faces before him with close attention. "You saw me unmask in a certain box," said Mrs. Ward, quickly. "Do you mean to say that after all these years--over thirty years--that you recognize me again? I was a girl then; I am a--a----" She was about to say old woman, as being more emphatic with the adjective, but her vanity made her swallow the word. "I am a woman now." "Quite so. But you have a mole on your forehead just above the left eyebrow. I knew you by that; and then I have a splendid memory for faces, and yours--" Ireland bowed gallantly--"is too beautiful to forget easily." Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders. She did not want compliments, but she wished very much to get out of the trouble in which she found herself involved. "It's a most remarkable memory," she said. "It is, madam," assented Ireland; "my memory was always considered remarkable. And the fact is that I was thinking of the murder almost at the moment I entered the hall. Consequently your face was in my mind's eye. That made the chance of recognizing you more sure. Had I not been thinking of old days I might not have guessed so readily who you were." "Why were you thinking of the murder, then?" asked Derrington. "Well, my lord, you sent for me to speak with me about George--" Mrs. Ward gave a short laugh, and Derrington smiled--"so I was naturally thinking of George; such a thought led to my thinking of his parents, and finally I remembered the circumstance of your son's death, as I thought you might wish to talk of it, and therefore desired to get my memory in order. In this way did I recognize the lady." "This is all very well," said Mrs. Ward. "You say you recognize me, Mr. Ireland. Is that your name?" "It is, but your memory is not so good as mine. We met only once." Derrington was not so sure if Mrs. Ward's memory was not good, for he remembered how she had tried to get away before the arrival of Ireland. "Go on! Go on!" he said irritably. "I wish to know the worst." "The worst is that I am supposed to have killed Percy Vane," said Mrs. Ward, coolly. "So you accuse me of that?" she asked Ireland. "By no means. But you were at that ball----" "I was. In a blue domino with a sprig of holly at my breast." "And you were with Mr. Vane?" "No, I was not!" "You went out with Mr. Vane." "I did not. It was my sister." "Your sister!" said Derrington. "Hah!" and he relapsed into silence. Mrs. Ward shot a suspicious look at him, but his inscrutable face betrayed nothing. "I remember," said Ireland, in a slow, prosy way, "that there were two Miss Howards at San Remo--at the Hotel d'Angleterre. They were with their father, General Howard. I never met them, but Mr. Vane went frequently to call at the house." "He did," said Mrs. Ward, "if by house you mean the hotel. The fact is, my sister Jenny was in love with Captain Vane----" "I heard it was you," said Ireland, distrustfully. "It was my sister," said Mrs. Ward, coldly. "We thought Mr. Vane would marry her, but he certainly showed no signs of proposing. I suppose he was too fond of his dead wife," and she shot a sneering look at Lord Derrington, who winced. "Don't say a word against Rosina Lockwood," said Ireland, quickly. "You see what he calls her," said Mrs. Ward to Derrington. "There was no marriage." "Ma'am!" cried Ireland, rising. "Oh, never mind," replied Mrs. Ward, waving her hand. "There is no need for you to lose your temper, my good man. I am not going to speak of the woman----" "She was an angel." "And a woman--that's the generic name for the sex. However, it was my sister Jenny who loved Percy Vane. She would go to the ball, and persuaded me to go with her. We slipped out of the hotel and went without a chaperon. Our father would have been shocked had he known, but it was merely the escapade of two schoolgirls. I went with a friend, and Jenny looked about for Mr. Vane. We agreed to meet after an hour and go home. As there were other blue dominoes at the ball we each wore--" and Mrs. Ward repeated the word to emphasize the fact--"_each_ a sprig of yellow holly. I went to a box to have supper with a certain cousin of mine and my sister then departed with Mr. Vane." "Why did she leave the ballroom?" asked Derrington. "Because Mr. Vane was shocked. He recognized her voice and made her unmask. He insisted on taking her home first, and then intended to return for me, as he could not find me at the moment. They went out together, Mr. Ireland, and that is the last I saw of Mr. Vane." "What was the last your sister saw of him?" "She was at the hotel and in our bedroom when I returned, which I did after looking vainly for her. She said that Mr. Vane had escorted her to the hotel and had left her at the gate at her earnest request, as Jenny was so afraid lest my father should hear of our escapade. She said good-night to Mr. Vane and then went to her room. When we heard of the murder next morning she became very ill and my father took her away. But she always declared to me that she did not know who murdered Percy Vane." "Did your father ever know that she was in Vane's company on that night?" asked Ireland. "Never! We kept our folly a profound secret from him." "Did any one else know?" "You did," said Mrs. Ward sharply; "and Mr. Vane did, and a servant at the hotel--an English servant who attended to us. In fact, it was she who procured the yellow holly by which Jenny and I were to identify one another." "What was her name?" asked Derrington, quickly, and raising himself in his chair with eagerness to hear the answer. "Eliza Stokes." "Ah! I thought so. Mrs. Jersey?" "Yes, Mrs. Jersey. And now, Lord Derrington, you know how I come to take such an interest in the death of that woman." "Yes. But I cannot understand how you came to know that Mrs. Jersey was Eliza Stokes." "That's my business," flashed out Mrs. Ward. "Or why," pursued Derrington, unmoved, "why you sent her the yellow holly?" "Because I was not quite positive if she really was Eliza Stokes. I thought that the yellow holly, being connected in her mind with the death of Mr. Vane, would make her betray herself." "It did in a way--but to Brendon. He would not have told you." "He would doubtless have told Dorothy, and she would have told me." Ireland, in his thoughtful, ponderous way, turned this matter over in his own mind. "Where is your sister now?" he asked. Mrs. Ward replied with some reserve. "I can't tell you that. She went out of her mind for a time after the murder of Mr. Vane, and after she came out of the asylum we were all afraid to live with her. My father put her under some one's charge, and when he died she was allowed an annuity. Her guardian died and my sister vanished. We made no attempt to find her, and it was supposed that she had put an end to herself." Ireland looked at Derrington. "Did you ever meet Miss Jenny Howard, my lord?" he asked. "No," said Derrington, "but I have known Mrs. Ward for many, many years." "Quite twenty," said Mrs. Ward, with an artificial laugh. "We grow old. No, Mr. Ireland, Lord Derrington never met my sister. Why you ask I cannot conceive!" "Because Lord Derrington is under a wrong impression. He has met your sister, and in this very room." "I beg your pardon," began Derrington. "I----" Ireland cut him short. "She called to see you here about the renewal of the Amelia Square lease." "Miss Bull?" said his lordship. "I thought there was something familiar about her face. So Miss Bull is Mrs. Ward's sister?" "She told me so herself," was Ireland's reply. CHAPTER XVI THE PIPE OF PEACE Brendon was much astonished a day or two later to receive an invitation to dine with his grandfather. After the somewhat stormy interview he had participated in with the old tyrant, George certainly never expected to be treated well by the man whose path he had crossed. He had heard many tales of Derrington's pride, and of his relentless pursuit of those whom he conceived had done him wrong. As George had fought the old man with his own weapons, and had come off victor, he did not expect to be pardoned. But in this he was wrong. Derrington, sickened with Walter's milk-and-water ways, saw in Brendon a worthy successor who would be able to hold his own in will and word, and would shed fresh luster on the house. Had George been polite, and what the old lord sneeringly called cringing, he would never have received the invitation. As it was, Derrington took him to his hard old heart. He chuckled to think of Walter's dismay when he heard that he had an elder cousin and would not be likely to inherit the title or the money. However astonished, Brendon was too much a man-of-the-world to reveal his feelings. On the evening in question he presented himself at the mansion in St. Giles Square, scrupulously groomed and brushed. Derrington looked approvingly on his dress, which set off a handsome figure to advantage. Also the haughty bearing of Brendon pleased him, and he unbent so far as to advance to George with outstretched hand. "We had rather a rough interview, George," he said, "so I have invited you to smoke the pipe of peace." Brendon shook the old man's hand quietly, but without much enthusiasm. He could not conjecture what Derrington meant by behaving in a way so different to that he usually adopted. His host felt the slack hand-clasp, and winced on seeing the want of response in Brendon's face. Queerly enough Derrington, contrary to accepted opinion, had a heart, and was so much taken with George that he wished to draw him to himself. Still, he could not but admit that seeing how he had treated the young fellow in the past it was not to be expected that Brendon would act the part of an affectionate relative immediately. Derrington rather admired George for his uncompromising attitude. "Dinner will be ready soon," said the old lord, waving Brendon to a seat; "only our two selves. I wish to consult you." "Consult me?" George could not keep the astonishment out of his face. "It's rather late in the day, is it not?" remarked Derrington, dryly, "but you see I am old, George, and have not much time to spare. Yes, I wish you to consult with me after dinner about--but that can come in the course of our conversation. Meantime, let us talk of anything you like." "The weather, sir?" "No, confound you," snapped Derrington, with a flash of his old irritable self; "talk of wine, wit, and women if you like, but spare me platitudes." Brendon stared at his shoes and smiled under his mustache. "I do not think I can say anything very original about the subjects you mention," he said quietly. "Talk of Miss Ward, then. You can be original on that point." Brendon would rather not have mentioned Dorothy, but he was quite determined to show his grandfather that he fully intended to marry his lady-love, and that he was not afraid to speak his mind. "I do not fancy that there is anything particularly original in a love-story. I met Miss Ward some three years before, I have loved her ever since, and we will marry when----" "There, there," interrupted Derrington, waving his hand, "let us not get on to that subject as yet. We can talk of it after dinner. In fact, you may as well know that I asked you here to discuss your position. We must have an understanding." "I think you must intend it to be a pleasant one," said Brendon, "as you have asked me to dinner." "And to smoke the pipe of peace. There's the gong. Heigh-ho!"--he rose rather sluggishly--"gout is stiffening my limbs." It struck Brendon that his grandfather looked old and very haggard. He had lost his fresh color, his eyes were sunken, and the defiant curl was out of his enormous mustache. He moved slowly toward the door, and George felt sorry to see him so lonely. He knew that Derrington hated all his relatives, and that his relatives cordially hated him, so there was none to comfort the old man in his declining years. Walter Vane was less than nothing, as his mere presence served to irritate his grandfather. Moved by a sudden impulse, George made no remark, but moved to the elder man's side and offered his arm. The footman was holding the door open, and Derrington could not express, even by a look, the satisfaction he felt. With a surly grunt he took Brendon's arm, but George guessed by the warm pressure that Derrington was pleased. That simple, kindly movement served to draw the two men closer together, and they sat down to an excellent dinner in good spirits. It was quite a banquet, for Derrington lived in a most expensive manner, and in spite of a sadly diminished income he would never abate the splendor of the style in which he had lived all his life. The table was a round one, laid with exquisite taste, and was placed under a kind of velvet tent, which shut off the rest of the room and made the meal particularly cosy. George, who had a taste for art, admired the finish of the silver, the beauty of the Crown Derby service, the glitter of the cut glass, which was unusually massive, and the adornments of the table. It was a perfect little banquet, and after the somewhat stale food of his lodgings, George enjoyed the meal greatly. Derrington himself did not eat much, but he took great pleasure in seeing George enjoy his viands. "I had a fine appetite myself once," he observed; "you have inherited it from me. Never be ashamed to eat, George--it means good work. The man who starves himself, starves his public." "You mean in the quality of his work, sir?" "Of course. Poor living means poor thoughts." "Well," said Brendon, with a smile, "I don't think rich living means rich thoughts." "Certainly not. Whoever said it did? Remember the saying of the Greeks, and, egad, they were the only people who ever knew how to live." "What saying is that?" asked George. "Moderation is the corner-stone of dissipation." "Ah, that's good, sir. But were the Greeks ever dissipated?" "No, because they followed the advice of that epigram. George, if you expect me to explain epigrams I shall lose my respect for you." "Have you any, sir?" "You wouldn't be here if I had not," said Derrington, pulling his huge mustache. "There's your Cousin Walter----" "My cousin, sir?" "Of course. You know that." George thought it wiser, to say nothing, although it was strange that Derrington should mention the relationship himself. The old man gave him a quick glance and continued: "As I say, there is your Cousin Walter. I wouldn't ask him to dinner on any account. He's a fool, sir." "He means well." "If there is one class of people I hate more than another it is that Pharisaic lot who mean well. They make all the mischief." "With the best intentions," put in Brendon, taking some wine. "Best intentions are fatal. How many plans have come to naught because of best intentions? Take some of that port." "No more, thank you, sir." "I insist. There are walnuts." "I don't mind the nuts, but the port----" George shook his head. Derrington, at his own table, was too polite to press the matter, but he scored up another victory to Brendon's strong will. More, he passed off the matter with a laugh. "You have the hereditary gout, I see, George, when you are afraid of a glass of port." "It's not that, sir, but I drink very little. I work on milk." "Bah!" Derrington made a wry face. "Then your work----" "Is all the better for it. Those who drink beer think beer." "And those who drink milk think cows, I should say." "Your knowledge on that point prevents contradiction on mine." Derrington chuckled. This was just the kind of epigrammatic reply he relished. "You must enter the Diplomatic Service sir," said he, looking approvingly from under his bushy brows. "Don't you think I'm rather old?" "Brains are never old, sir. And you have 'em. It's what the Diplomatic Service in this country requires and what it never gets. I was in the Service myself at one time." "So I have heard," said Brendon, cracking nuts composedly. "Eh! What did you hear?" "You must excuse me at your own table, sir." "Pooh, if you want to say anything disagreeable my own table is the safest place you can say it at. I can't throw things at you." "Still, a guest must be polite," argued George. "I like my guests to be truthful." "Very well, sir, if you will have it--and I feel that it would be bad manners to refuse your request--it is said that you nearly set Europe by the ears when you were ambassador." Derrington roared. "I did--I did, and I wish I had brought about the war I wanted. It would have done no end of good." "Does war ever do good?" asked Brendon, doubtfully. "Certainly. It stirs up things, and teaches men how to use their hands and brains. Without war there is too much wrapping up in cotton-wool. Don't tell me, George, that you aren't a soldier at heart, for nearly all your ancestors fought for their country. "And fought their country also, I believe." "When they didn't get their rights," said Derrington, grimly. "I have been a fighter myself all my life, and I've held my own." "So they say, sir, and I admire you for it." "Hah! Very good of you, I'm sure," said Derrington, ironically, "but in my old age I can't hold my own, so I have to call in you." George looked surprised. "Do you intend to do me the honor to ask for my advice, sir?" "Bless my soul, are you also without understanding, sir? Didn't I say so when you first came?" "Of course. I forgot." "You shouldn't forget, though it's useful at times to do so." "In what cases, sir?" "Forget a woman's age, forget to talk about yourself, and forget your relations if you can. Come," he added, seeing George laughing, "the wine and food have thawed you. There's coffee in the library, and we can talk over our cigars. Up I get. George, your arm." He not only asked for it, but took it with marked pleasure. The footman in attendance returned to the servants' hall to state that the Old Devil (the domestic name for Derrington) had quite taken to the new young gentleman. Had the servants known who George was, they would have had a long gossip. As it was, they simply said that the Old Devil was always taking fancies and soon grew tired. Meanwhile, Brendon was seated in a comfortable chair, enjoying one of the best cigars he had ever placed between his lips. At his elbow smoked a cup of Mocha, and in the chair on the other side of a roaring fire of sea-timber smiled Lord Derrington. He looked a grim and determined old gentleman as he bent his shaggy brows on his grandson. He was becoming more and more delighted with the young man. "I shall have a prop for my old age at last," he thought. "Damme, he's a fine fellow! Ah, youth! youth!" George was very comfortable, and also felt grateful for the kindness which his grandfather was showing him. At the same time he felt as though he were acting wrongly in hobnobbing with a man who persistently blackened his mother's memory. But Brendon thought he saw signs of repentance in Derrington, and wished to improve the situation if he could. It was difficult for him to quite forgive the old rascal, but he was sorry for his loneliness and haggard looks. Besides, George was a Christian in more than merely going to church on Sunday. "I suppose you wondered when you received my invitation," said Derrington, in his hardest tone. "I did, sir. I wondered very much." "And you felt inclined to refuse." "I had almost made up my mind to." "Why did you change your mind?" George pondered, and looked again at his neat shoes. "Well, sir," said he, after a pause, "I thought that after a dinner we might come to understand each other better, and I am anxious for peace." "And for recognition of your birth." "Naturally. The one included the other." "Does that mean you will fight till you get what you want?" "Yes," said George curtly, and then closed his lips with a firm determination to give battle if necessary. At the same time he felt it was rather awkward after eating Derrington's food. A sudden impulse made him rise. "What's the matter now?" asked Derrington, not moving. "Well, sir," burst out Brendon with a candor unusual in him, "I have a feeling that we are going to quarrel, and in your own house, and after that very excellent dinner I don't want to behave rudely. It will be better to postpone this talk to some other time." "Not a bit of it," said Derrington, quietly; "we are relatives, and quarrels between relatives do not count. Sit down. I have something important to say to you." George sat down and prepared for the worst. "We'll leave the question of your birth alone for the present," said the elder in a hard tone. "At this moment I wish to talk of Mrs. Jersey's death." "Yes;" said Brendon, looking down. "Also about your father's death." "What has that to do with this, sir?" "I believe the one is connected with the other." George remembered what Bawdsey had said. "I've heard that remark before," he observed. "Of course. That detective I employed to watch you made it." "He did. I think you trust that man too much, sir," said Brendon, after a pause. "Do you? I thought he was a friend of yours?" "Oh--" George shrugged his shoulders--"I saved his life, but that does not constitute friendship." "I would fight a man who saved my life," said Derrington, grimly. "Well, sir, I don't think Bawdsey is worthy of your confidence." "I know he isn't. But you see I can't help myself." George looked up quickly. "Blackmail?" "Something of that sort. I intend to trust my own flesh and blood--that is, I intend to tell you all I know connected with the Jersey case, and ask you to help me to get the better of Bawdsey." "I shall do my best, sir." "Willingly?" "Assuredly, sir." Derrington was rather moved. "I have not behaved well, George." "That's true enough, sir," said George, who was not going to be weak, "but you can make amends by acknowledging that my mother was an honest woman." "I believe she was, George, for none but an honest woman could have borne a son like you. But you see I know no more than you do where the marriage took place." "Do you acknowledge that there was a marriage?" said George, starting to his feet. Derrington rose also, and the tall men faced one another. Then the elder placed his hands on the shoulders of the younger, with a look on his face which Brendon had never seen before. And certainly the look was new to Derrington. "My boy," said he, "I am sure there was a marriage. I am sure that you are my legitimate heir, and, by Heavens! I intend to acknowledge you as such before the week's out." Brendon was so moved by this sudden recognition of all he longed for that a sudden weakness seized him, and he sat down, covering his face with his hand. Derrington thought the young man did so to conceal his tears, but in reality George was putting up a short thanksgiving for this wonderful and bloodless victory. His grandfather again touched his shoulder. "My boy," he said again, and his voice was broken with emotion, "I have behaved badly. I ask your pardon." George put out his hand blindly and grasped that of his grandfather. When it was once in the old man's grip he raised his grandson with a jerk and made him look him in the face. "You forgive me?" he asked. "With all my heart and soul," said Brendon, quietly, and after another handshake they resumed their seats. The scene which both had dreaded was over, and now they sat like two friends who had known each other for years. George felt that as Derrington had done justice to the memory of his mother, and Derrington was pleased to feel that he now had a grandson and heir worthy of his name. "I can marry Dorothy now," said Brendon, with a contented sigh. "If my influence can help you--yes." Derrington paused and shook his head. "But there is a lioness in the path, George." "Mrs. Ward?" "Exactly. She will move heaven and earth to prevent the marriage." George looked puzzled. "I see no reason why she should oppose it, if I am acknowledged as your heir." "Nor do I. I thought myself that it was simply the money she wanted, and if you were the son-in-law she would not get her claws on the gold. But there is more in it than that. She seeks revenge." "On me? I have never harmed her." "It's a vicarious revenge. I believed that woman loved your father, George, and that he slighted her; that is why she wants to visit his sin--as with a vindictive spirit she may regard it--on you." "Did Mrs. Ward know my father, sir?" asked George, quickly. "Yes. She met him at San Remo." "Then she knew he was murdered?" "Of course. I saw Mrs. Ward the other day, George. She came here to force me to harm you and to consent to Walter marrying Dorothy." "Oh! You never agreed to that." "I have answered her challenge by asking you to dinner and will acknowledge you my heir. Mrs. Ward will then try and make mischief." "Can she do so?" "Yes. She knows that I was in Mrs. Jersey's house on that night." "And you were, sir?" Derrington made a most unexpected reply. "No, I was not." CHAPTER XVII LORD DERRINGTON EXPLAINS George was rather puzzled to reconcile the apparent contradiction in Derrington's speech. The old gentleman saw his bewilderment, and before the young man could speak he anticipated his question. "You are perplexed," he said quietly. "I thought you would be. To explain myself clearly it will be better to tell you the whole story from the beginning." "What story?" "The story of your mother's marriage and of my quarrel with your father. Do not be afraid, I shall say nothing to hurt your pride." George nodded. "I am sure of that. We are friends now." Derrington was much gratified by this speech. But he merely acknowledged it with a grunt and began his family history at once. "Your father and I never got on well," he said frankly, "and I fear it was my fault. I wanted Percy to obey me implicitly, and as he was of an age to judge for himself he objected. You would have done the like in his case." "I certainly should, sir. Every man should judge for himself." "If he has brains to do so. But I fear Percy was not overburdened with brains. He was gay and thoughtless and thriftless. Your talents, George, come from your mother. She must have been a remarkable woman." "So Mr. Ireland says." "Pooh! he was in love with her, and a man in love is incapable of giving an opinion. However, I saw your mother several times when she sang, although I never met her to speak to. She was very beautiful and had an intellectual face. Yes, George, it is from her that you inherit your brain. From my side of the family you inherit a strong will and a propensity to fight. There is Irish blood in our veins," said Derrington, grimly. "Was my father a fighter?" "In a way, yes. But he had not a strong will, save in resisting me." George smiled and said nothing, but he privately thought that if Mr. Percy Vane could hold his own against Derrington he must have had a stronger will than the old gentleman gave him credit for. "However, to continue," pursued Derrington, pushing away his empty cup. "Percy saw Miss Lockwood, he fell in love with her, and finally he eloped. I wrote him a letter saying he was to return or I would never see him again. He declined to return, and remained on the Continent with his wife. I never did see him again," added Derrington, quietly, "for three years later he was murdered at San Remo." "In his letter to you did my father say he was married?" "He did; but at the time, as he did not say where the marriage was celebrated, I thought he mentioned it out of obstinacy." George colored. "I don't see why you should have so misjudged my mother," he said hotly. "Admitting that she was not born in the purple, she was in a good position and had no reason to run away with my father." "She was in love with him, I believe." "Even then she would not have eloped, unless it was to be married." Derrington nodded. "You are perfectly right," he said; "I tried to disbelieve in the marriage, but in my own heart I knew there was one. I have behaved very badly, George." "You have, sir. But as we are now reconciled the less said about the thing the better. You are quite sure you do not know where the marriage was celebrated?" "No, George, I do not. After the death of your father I tried to find out, but it was impossible. Had I really seen the register of the marriage I should have acknowledged you as my heir. As a matter of fact," added Derrington, with a burst of candor, "I did not trouble much to search, as I feared lest the marriage should be verified." George wriggled in his seat. "Let us say no more," he said. "Very good. I have confessed my sins and I have received absolution from you. At the present moment we will leave the murder of your father at San Remo alone, and come to the appearance of Mrs. Jersey in my life. You were with your grandfather Lockwood in Amelia Square. I had constituted my second son my heir, and I had relegated to obscurity the escapade of my son Percy. All was nicely settled, in my humble opinion, when Mrs. Jersey appeared to make trouble. That was eight years after your father's death." "Where was she in the mean time?" "I cannot say. She told me nothing of her history, but from a word or two which she let slip I believe she must have been in the United States. Why she went there from San Remo, or for what reason, I cannot say. She came here to see me--we had an interview in this very room--to demand money." "What threat did she make?" "That she would tell where the marriage took place," "And you bribed her to keep silence?" Derrington winced at the scorn in his grandson's voice and took a turn up and down the room. "I am no saint, I admit," he said, "and at the time, George, I did not know that you would turn out such a fine fellow. I dreaded a scandal, and there was your uncle to be considered. I had made him my heir." "And what about me, sir? Were the sins of my father to be placed on my shoulders?" "I have admitted that I was in the wrong," said Derrington, impatiently, "spare me further sermons." "I beg your pardon," said George, quietly. "But please touch as lightly as possible on these matters. We will admit that you acted according to your lights." "False lights," said his grandfather, sadly. "However, we need speak no more on that particular point. Mrs. Jersey said that she knew where the marriage was celebrated, adding that if I did not give her an annuity she would go to Lockwood and help him to prove that you were my legitimate grandson and heir." "Did she say if the marriage was celebrated in England or abroad?" "No, sir; Mrs. Jersey was a remarkably clever woman, and if my son Percy had married her she would have made a man of him." "Then she really was in love with my father?" "Very deeply in love--as she told me herself. But she did not regard his memory with such veneration as to desire to aid his son. She was content that you should lose your rights, provided that I paid her an annuity. I tried in vain to learn from her where the marriage had been celebrated. She refused to open her mouth, so I allowed her an annuity of five hundred a year----" "That was a large sum," interposed George. Derrington shrugged his shoulders. "Much larger than I could afford, my good sir," he said, "but Mrs. Jersey dictated her own terms. I arranged that the money should be paid through my lawyers, and she vanished." "Where to?" "I can't say. She might have gone to rejoin Mr. Jersey if there ever was such a person. She sent a messenger regularly to the office of my lawyers for the money, but did not trouble me in any way. Her next appearance was shortly after the death of your grandfather." "What did she want this time?" "To set up a boarding-house in Amelia Square. She said that her life was lonely--a remark which made me think Mr. Jersey was a myth--and that she wanted company. I expect she learned in some way that I was buying old Lockwood's house." "Why did you buy it?" "I have a lot of property in that district, and I wanted to round it off with this house. Ireland, in his rage at me for my treatment of your mother, would not have sold it to me. I bought the house through an agent; Mrs. Jersey must have heard of the purchase, for it was then that she came to me and asked me to set her up in the house as a landlady." "I wonder why she did that," said George, thoughtfully. "She was lonely, I understand." George looked at his shoes. "As Eliza Stokes she lived in that house along with my mother previous to the elopement. I expect she had a kind a affection for it." "Well, whatever her reason was, I did what she asked. She agreed to pay me a rent, and her money was as good as any one else's. Besides, I felt that as my tenant I could keep her under my own eye. When she was away I never knew but what she might die and part with the secret to some one else, who might come on me for blackmail, also. I thought it best Mrs. Jersey should have the house so she went into it and used the old furniture. I don't deny but what she was a good business woman and made the house pay. At all events she was never behindhand with her rent." "I wonder she paid you any at all." "Oh, she had her annuity and was afraid of pressing me too hard. I refused to let her the house on a seven years' lease. She only had it from year to year, and in that way I kept a check on her. She knew if I once lost my temper that I would throw her over and acknowledge you as my heir." "I wish you had done so," said Brendon, moodily; "it would have saved a lot of trouble." "I do so now," replied Derrington, testily; "better late than never. Well, Mrs. Jersey lived and flourished for fifteen years. I tried to find you out, George, lest she should get at you----" "Oh, was that why you offered to make me an allowance?" "It was. I intended to give you a yearly income on condition that you went to Australia; then I could be sure that Mrs. Jersey would not seek you out. But you refused my offer and disappeared." "I went to college under the name of Brendon," observed George. "And that is why Mrs. Jersey never found you, and why I could not come across you until you put those advertisements about the marriage into the papers. It was that which----" "Yes, so Bawdsey told me. You had me watched." "I did," said Derrington, "and in that way I found out that you were going to stop in Mrs. Jersey's house." "How did you learn that, sir?" asked George in surprise. "I never told any one." "Oh, yes, you told Lola." "So I did," said Brendon, quickly; "she bothered me to come and see her, and I said that I was going to stop in the neighborhood of Amelia Square with a friend and would call on her the next day. I expect she told this to Bawdsey. "Exactly, and Bawdsey told me. I was afraid lest you should make Mrs. Jersey confess. I wrote to her and asked her to see me. She refused to come to my house, so I made up my mind to seek her out in Amelia Square. I arranged by letter with her to call about eleven o'clock at her place and see her secretly." "Why secretly, and why at night?" "Can't you see, George? My height and figure make me so conspicuous that I knew I would be recognized if I went in the daytime, and then people would ask themselves why Lord Derrington went to see a lodging-house keeper." "You could have put it down to her being a tenant." "Ah," said Derrington, grimly, "I never thought of that. I received a note from Mrs. Jersey saying she would wait for me on Friday evening at eleven o'clock in her sitting-room; it was a foggy night, if you remember." "Very foggy. I suppose you traced the house by means of the red light over the door." "I did not trace the house at all," said Derrington, quietly. "I did not go near the house." "But I saw you," insisted George. "You saw my coat and a man with my tall figure, and having my association with yourself in your head you jumped to the conclusion that the figure was me." "Then if not you, who was the man?" "Bawdsey!" said Derrington, curtly. George stared. "In your coat?" he said incredulously. "It seems strange," said Derrington, "but the fact is that Bawdsey is one of the few who have got the better of me in my life. It was in this way that he prevented me from seeing Mrs. Jersey. On that night I visited him at his rooms, which then were in Bloomsbury. I desired to tell him that I intended to see Mrs. Jersey and to warn her against revealing anything. I don't suppose the warning was needed, as she knew when she was well off. But the fact is, Mrs. Jersey was not in good health and was feeling compunction about keeping you out of your rights. I learned from Bawdsey that Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession of the whole matter and that she intended to leave this to her niece, Margery Watson, so that I might be forced to continue the lease of the house." George uttered an ejaculation. "I thought from what Margery said that there was some such confession," he remarked, "but it is missing; it was not found among her papers after her death. Unless Miss Bull took it and forced you to----" "No," interrupted Derrington, vigorously, "she came here quietly and put the case of the poor girl to me. She also undertook that the rent would be paid regularly, and that through Miss Watson she would manage the house. I was quite satisfied with the existing arrangements, and, moreover, thought that, if such a confession were found, out of gratitude Miss Watson might bring it to me." "If Miss Bull had told her to she would have done so but not otherwise," said George; "she is under Miss Bull's thumb." "The best place she could be, George. The girl is a born idiot from what I saw of her. However, you know why I renewed the year-by-year lease. Where the confession is I have no idea; but the person who holds it will certainly make use of it some day to extort money, and then we will learn who killed Mrs. Jersey." "I dare say. The assassin must have taken the papers. Well?" Derrington proceeded with his account of his doings on that night. "As I said, I went to see Bawdsey at his rooms. I took a cab, and as the fog was thick I had considerable difficulty in finding the place. The rain and fog chilled me, for I am not so young as I was, and when I arrived I was shivering. But I was too anxious to tell Bawdsey about Mrs. Jersey, to trouble. He heated some water to give me a glass of hot whisky. While the water was boiling I told him, I was going to see Mrs. Jersey. He asked me how I could get into the house without being admitted by one of the servants and thus run a chance of my visit being known." "Did it never strike him that Mrs. Jersey expected you and would admit you when you rang?" "Yes, it did strike him; but he knew that I didn't want any one to know that she had a visitor so late at night." "I don't know why you took all these precautions, sir." Derrington smiled dryly. "Perhaps they were rather unnecessary, but I thought it best to be on the safe side. As a matter of fact, I had a latch-key." "I thought that Mrs. Jersey never allowed latch-keys." "This one came to me when I bought the house, and was given to me by the agent. I told Mrs. Jersey I had it and that I would let myself in. She expected me at eleven." "I know she did," said George, "for on that night she asked the boarders to be in bed by eleven, and broke up her party at ten. I wondered if she was having any one to meet her then." "She was expecting me. It was after ten when I told Bawdsey, and I explained to him that I had a latch-key. He gave me the whisky, and, being chilled, I drank it. Then I fell asleep." George looked up suddenly. "The whisky was drugged," he guessed. "It was," assented Derrington, "and while I was insensible Bawdsey took the latch-key out of my pocket and put on my coat. He is rather my height, so with that and the fur coat I expect he passed himself off as me to Mrs. Jersey until she saw his face." "When she did, she would have nothing to do with him. Although," added George, "he was an old boarder in the house." "Wait till I tell you the rest," said Derrington, "and then you can give an opinion. When I woke it was after twelve. I never suspected that the whisky had been drugged, and thought that it was some sort of illness. Bawdsey was in the room when I awoke. He did not tell me that he had been to Mrs. Jersey, and I now saw that it was too late to go. He advised me to see her on the morrow, saying that it was doubtful if you would speak to her on that night." "I intended to wait till the next day, but, as a matter of fact, I became anxious to see if any one was with her, and I went down the stairs." "By means of that secret door. Bawdsey told me." "Well, I crept downstairs, and saw--as I thought--you. It was, of course, Bawdsey. He was standing at the door of the sitting-room. I was afraid lest you--as I thought it was--should see me, so I went upstairs again." "And Bawdsey left the house. However, I never suspected him. I went home and found Mrs. Ward waiting for me. She came to tell me that she had heard from Dorothy that you purposed to stop with Train at Mrs. Jersey's house, and came to warn me." "How good of Mrs. Ward!" "She is a dangerous woman, George. I threw my coat on yonder sofa, and she sat near it. Feeling something in the pocket, her curiosity led her to take out the something when I was absent from the room. It was a stiletto." George started from his seat. "A stiletto?" "Yes." Derrington opened the drawer in his desk and took out the weapon which Mrs. Ward had brought. "This was between the fur and the lining of the coat. What with the weight of the coat and the position of this weapon lying along the bottom of the coat, I never suspected it. I brought it home quite unconsciously. Mrs. Ward found it, took it away with her, and came the other day to accuse me of having murdered Mrs. Jersey." "How dare she do such a thing?" "Oh, Mrs. Ward is capable of all things! However you can see from what I tell you what happened. Bawdsey put the stiletto in my coat and either forgot to take it out or left it there so that I might be incriminated." "Did he tell you this?" "He told me, when I rebuked him too sharply, that he could get me into trouble, and explained how he had been in the house. He also referred to the stiletto. I denied that I had seen it, and it was only when Mrs. Ward brought it the other day that I saw that this part of Bawdsey's story was true." "What did you do?" "I accused him of having killed the woman." "What did he say?" "He denied that he had done so. He declared that he went to Mrs. Jersey's sitting-room door close upon twelve, having let himself in noiselessly by the front door. He discovered Mrs. Jersey lying dead, as she was found in the morning. On the floor was the stiletto. Fearing lest he should be accused of the crime, Bawdsey left the house quickly, but took the stiletto with him so that he might find out who had done the deed. He changed his mind or left it by mistake in my fur coat." "Did he ask money?" "No. He has not done so yet. But he told me very plainly that no one could prove that he had been in the house on that night, and that if he had been seen, the coat would make people think it was I." "Exactly what I did think," said George. "Well, I had to hold my tongue for you see I was in a most awkward position and I could prove nothing. I bluffed Mrs. Ward, but if the matter came into court things would look extremely unpleasant for me." "I can see that," said Brendon, "but Bawdsey----" "He has made himself secure, as no one can prove that he was in the house on that night. Even you thought it was I. I can't say for certain if Bawdsey committed the murder, or if he really did find the woman dead as he said, but he swears to his innocence. As yet he has not made any use of his power, but I am quite sure that he will try and get money out of me, so I have asked you here to advise me about the matter." "Do you think Bawdsey has the confession?" "He may have. If so, he knows where the marriage was celebrated!" Brendon mused for a time. "I think it best to do nothing at the present moment," he said. "Bawdsey is friendly to me, as I saved him from being run over. If he thought I knew this he might turn crusty and make trouble. Better wait." "For what?" asked Derrington, restlessly. "To see what he will do. If he does blackmail you, call me in." Derrington drew a long breath. "Yes. I think you are right," he said. "We will wait. But I don't trust that man." "He's a scoundrel," said George, "but I know how to conquer him." CHAPTER XVIII MISS BULL'S STORY Miss Bull was alone in the sitting-room of the late Mrs. Jersey. Margery had gone out shopping, and the old maid, left to her own resources, amused herself, as usual, with playing Patience. With the exception of a few old ladies in the drawing-room the house was empty, and Miss Bull found the quiet very soothing. After a time she grew weary of the game and seated herself in an armchair to meditate. Her thoughts were sad. Here she was, an old spinster dragging out a miserable old age in a London lodging-house, while her sister lived and fared sumptuously in accordance with her position. Miss Bull looked back on all the trials she had passed through, and wondered how she had been able to stand them. For a moment a revolt took place in her breast at the cruel fate she had endured, but the feeling died away, and she relapsed into the patient misery which was her usual frame of mind. "It can't last much longer," said Miss Bull, with a sigh. "I am getting old, and the end is coming. The sooner the better." As she gave vent to this dreary sentence there was a ring at the door. Miss Bull paid little attention to it, as she never had any visitors. But this day proved to be an exception, for George was admitted into the room. He advanced cordially toward Miss Bull. "I have come to see you again, you see," said Brendon. Miss Bull gave him her hand with a great deal of pleasure, and invited him to be seated. Now that she had thawed towards George she treated him kindly, and her face wore a less stony look. As the sun melts the frost, so did the reserved nature of the old maid melt when in the sunshine of Brendon's presence. More than that, Miss Bull actually congratulated herself on Margery's absence, as it gave her a chance of having the company of George all to herself. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Brendon," she said, ringing the bell. "You will have some tea?" "Thank you," replied Brendon, who thought she might thaw still more under the influence of the tea-urn. "I suppose you wonder why I have come again so soon?" Miss Bull smiled in her calm way. "You have come to make further inquiries likely to forward your fight for your birthright?" George laughed. "There's no need for that, thank God," said he; "my grandfather has agreed to acknowledge me." "Then there was a marriage?" "I cannot be certain of that yet. How do you know about that?" Miss Bull answered quietly: "You told me last time you were here that you were Lord Derrington's grandson, and I heard that there was some doubt about the legitimacy." "I know it was common talk at one time," replied Brendon, satisfied with this explanation. "Did Mrs. Jersey ever speak about it?" "No. She never did. What did she know about it?" "I think you can best answer that question, Miss Bull." George looked hard at her, and a faint tinge of color crept into her face. Before she could reply with a counter-question the servant brought in the tea. Miss Bull waited to supply George with a cup before she spoke. By that time the servant had left the room, and the door, as Miss Bull assured herself, was closed. "I don't know to what you allude, Mr. Brendon." "Perhaps if I allude to your life in San Remo you----" Miss Bull started to her feet and the cup she held fell on the carpet. "San Remo," she muttered. "Yes, Miss Howard," said Brendon, using her real name purposely. The little old maid put one thin hand to her head. "Miss Howard!" "The daughter of the late General Howard!" said George. "My father was a general." "He was. General Howard. You are Miss Jenny Howard." Miss Bull started and then sat down. Her face expressed pain. "He used to call me Jenny. Jenny Howard. Yes, there was a happy girl of that name, but she--she died." "Not at all," said Brendon, briskly, to arouse her from this dreamy state. "She lived and changed her name to Bull." The woman pushed back her white hair and made an effort to be calm. But her lip quivered. "Why have you come here to awaken these painful memories?" she asked. "Because I wish to know how my father came by his death." "I do not know--indeed, I do not know," moaned Miss Bull, putting out her hand as though to ward off the thought. "You may not know for certain, but you have some idea. Your sister, Mrs. Ward----" Miss Bull's face flushed crimson, and she drew a deep breath. "Oh, it's Violet's work, is it?" she said, and her eyes grew hard. "And pray, Mr. Brendon, has she sent you to cross-question me?" "No. I come on my own behalf. You knew my father?" "Percy Vane. Yes, I knew him. He loved me---ah, indeed he did! That night he asked me to be his wife, and had he not been murdered----" "Did he ask you when he was taking you home?" asked George, wondering how Miss Bull would have behaved as his stepmother. "Taking me home? He never did that on the night of the ball." "Your sister, Mrs. Ward----" "I have no sister. I disown Violet. She is a wicked woman!" George was quite of this opinion, yet for the sake of Dorothy he dissented. "She has her good points, Miss Bull. "No! no! She has no good points. She is selfish, vain, cruel, and deceitful. A child of the devil. How do you know that I am her sister? and how did you come to learn my name?" "Lord Derrington told me, and it was told to him by Mr. Ireland." "Your guardian." Miss Bull tapped her hand on the woodwork of her chair. "He recognized me when I called to see him on that day about the lease. But he promised to hold his tongue." "He would have done so had he not been startled by meeting Mrs. Ward and recognizing in her the woman who had left the ball with my father." "And Violet admitted this?" "No. She said that you had left the ball with my father. It was you who wore the blue domino and the holly sprig." "Liar! Liar!" muttered Miss Bull; "but she is always the same. When I saw her at the music-hall the other night her face wore the same false smile. Oh, that I could see her punished as she deserves!" "God will punish her, Miss Bull." "He has delayed long," said the old maid with a bitter smile. "My sister has enjoyed the good things of this life. She has had money, position, praise, and all that a woman desires. As for myself--" She looked round the room and burst into a bitter laugh. "Yet Jenny Howard was always considered the prettier sister of the two." "Then it really was Mrs. Ward who left the ball." "It was. She lays the blame on my shoulders--" Miss Bull paused, and her mouth worked nervously. "Does she accuse me of the crime?" "No. She says that you left Mr. Vane at the gate of the hotel." "Oh," muttered Miss Bull, "Percy came as far as that with her, did he? And she said he left her at the door of the room where the ball was being held. Liar! Liar! She always was. She always will be. Can the leopard change his spots?" By this time the ice in Miss Bull's nature had melted under the heat of her indignation. She walked hurriedly up and down the room, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. George was pleased to see this, as he thought she was the more likely to tell the truth when thus moved by emotion than if she had remained calm. Miss Bull was so angered by the memory of her wrongs that she struck her hand against the mantelpiece so as to inflict pain. The shock seemed to nerve her, for she drew a long breath and returned to her seat. With her eyes fixed, on George she began abruptly. "Violet has told her story," she said, "now I will tell you mine. I want to know, however, exactly what she said, in the exact words if you can remember them." "I did not hear her speak," confessed George; "it was my grandfather and Mr. Ireland to whom she told the story." "Story! Fable! Lie! Romance!" said Miss Bull, vehemently. "Well, tell me what you can remember!" This George did as concisely as possible, for he feared lest Margery should interrupt the interview. Miss Bull listened with a downcast face and pursed-up lips. Not a word did she say, but when George ended she looked up with a bitter smile. "She has simply put herself in my place," she said. "Wait!" For a moment or so she tried to compose herself. Then she raised her head and looked her visitor squarely in the eyes. "I am going to tell the truth," said Miss Bull, bravely, "therefore I have no need to shun your gaze. Mr. Brendon, I loved your father." "So Mrs. Ward said." "And Violet loved him also." "He must have been a singularly attractive man," remarked Brendon, wondering at this revelation. "My mother eloped with him; her maid was in love with him, and now you and Mrs. Ward----" "Oh, Violet really did not love him. It was simply a desire to take him from me that made her behave as she did. Violet never loved any one in her life, save the person she sees in the mirror every day. A selfish woman, Mr. Brendon, and a wicked one." This was no news to George, so he strove to coax her to tell him that which he wished to know. "I don't quite understand, but if you will relate the story----" "I shall do so at once. You may as well know all, and know also what a bad woman I have for a sister. If she was dying," cried Miss Bull, vehemently, "I wouldn't raise a finger to save her life." "We should forgive our enemies," hinted George. "I can't forgive her. I never will forgive her. She ruined my life, George Brendon, she ruined my life." Brendon said nothing, and in a few moments Miss Bull composed herself sufficiently to tell what she knew. "My father was General Howard," she said quietly, "and Violet was my only sister. We never got on well together. Violet was jealous of admiration, and as I was said to be prettier than she was she hated me intensely. Whenever any one liked me Violet would do her best to take him away from me." "I can quite believe that," said George, recalling Mrs. Ward's arts. "She did not always succeed, however," continued Miss Bull, with a flush. "I had my admirers also, and some I could keep. But when Violet could manage it, she always took them away." "You hinted that she took my father away," said Brendon. "She did--at least she tried to. But if he had not been murdered I should have been Mrs. Vane in spite of Violet's arts." "Well, tell me how you came to San Remo and met my father." "Oh, I knew him before that. We were six months at Como and saw your father frequently then. He and the General used to talk politics. Mr. Vane was always bringing us books and magazines, and we used to climb Mount Bisbino. What a delightful summer that was! I remember you then," she added, looking at George with interest. "You were scarcely two years old--a dear, good, fair little fellow. I met you and the nurse sometimes, and often carried you. "Was the nurse's name Eliza Stokes?" "No. It was--let me see, some Scotch name--Jane Fraser, I think." "Ah! Then Eliza Stokes was not at Como?" "I never saw her. Mr. Vane told me that you had had another nurse, but that he had to dismiss her at Milan for impertinence." George saw that Miss Bull was not keeping strictly to the truth, and corrected her at once, "You knew Eliza Stokes at San Remo?" "So I did, I quite forgot." Miss Bull put her hand to her head with a puzzled air. "But since my illness I have forgotten so much. It is all a blank to me. Tell me, Mr. Brendon, have you ever felt as though you were a ghost?" "No," replied George, keeping his countenance with difficulty. "I don't think I ever experienced that feeling." Miss Bull looked vaguely at the window. "It is a strange feeling," after which remark she lapsed into silence, still staring. Brendon remembered that she had been in an asylum, and thought that her mind was still weak. It might be that after all she had not told an untruth, but had quite forgotten Eliza Stokes. George was confirmed in his supposition by her next remark. "Eliza Stokes. I remember. Mrs. Jersey." "You knew she was Mrs. Jersey?" "Yes. That was why I came to this house." "Did you like her then?" Miss Bull's eyes flashed. "She was another Violet. I hated her, oh, how I hated her! I found her through my sister mentioning that Lord Derrington had given her this house, so I came here to board." "But your sister knows nothing about you. She says you ran away and that it was supposed you were dead." Miss Bull laughed bitterly. "My sister knows perfectly well that I live here, but it suits her to disown the relationship. It is my wish also, and for that reason I changed my name. No one would recognize pretty Jenny Howard in poor Miss Bull." She paused for a moment and then continued: "Yes. I knew that Eliza Stokes had become Mrs. Jersey, and that is why I came here." "But if you hated her----" "I did--I did, but she was the only person who could talk about Mr. Vane. She loved him also, but not as I did, and we have talked for hours in this very room. We quarreled, certainly, but at times she was very nice. I miss our talks greatly." It really seemed as though Miss Bull was weak in the head. She admitted to hating Mrs. Jersey, and yet she came to stop with her. It might be that Mrs. Jersey looked after her as a kind of keeper and that she acted the tyrant. At that moment, as though answering his thought, Miss Bull made a sudden observation. "Mrs. Jersey knew that I had been in an asylum. She would have sent me back if she could, the vile woman! But I was never afraid of her, never. And she always talked to me of Mr. Vane," concluded Miss Bull in a softer tone. "Did she know who killed him?" Miss Bull shook her head. "No. She never knew. No one ever knew. I sometimes thought that Violet--but she declared that he left her at the door of the ballroom." "Miss Bull," said George, growing impatient of this disconnected recital, "will you go on with your story?" "Story--yes, it is a story--a sad romance." She passed her hand again over her forehead as though wearied, and resumed with an effort. "Mr. Vane left Como and came to Milan; afterward he went on to San Remo. My father, who liked his society, joined him there. We stopped at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Eliza Stokes was a housemaid there, and it was while attending to our bedroom that she told me she had been your nurse. She was a large, stout girl with red cheeks. As Mrs. Jersey she was vastly improved, but as a girl----" Miss Bull shuddered in a prim way and continued: "Yet, she had her admirers. A waiter, called George Rates, wished to marry her. She had accepted him, but while within sight of Mr. Vane she could not love him." "How do you mean?" "Well, Eliza used to spy on Mr. Vane and follow him in his walks. She was quite insane about him. I told Mr. Vane, and he kept away from the hotel. And George Rates was jealous of Eliza's love for Mr. Vane. But he never loved her, nor Violet--he loved no one but me." "And he told you so at the masked ball?" "Yes. There was to be a masked ball, and both Violet and I were anxious to go. We made a friend of Eliza and she got us two blue dominoes. That we might recognize one another we each wore a sprig of yellow holly. My father was supposed to know nothing about the matter, but we told a young Oxford cousin of ours. He met us at the ball, and afterward took Violet away. I found Mr. Vane, and we danced together. He did not know me at first, but afterward, when we went into a quiet room, I unmasked. He was vexed at first that I and Violet should come to the ball unattended, as he said my father would be so angry, which was quite true. Then he told me that he loved me, and asked me to become his wife. I accepted, and he kissed me." Miss Bull paused, moved by an emotion too deep for words. "I was fond of you as a baby, George, and he--your father, knew I would be a good mother to you." "Did he speak of his first wife--of my mother?" "Yes. He told me how dearly he had loved her." "Did he say where the marriage was celebrated?" "No. I never thought to ask him. I always thought there was a marriage--why should I not?--until I later heard that Lord Derrington denied that such had taken place. But that was after I came out of the asylum," added Miss Bull with a troubled air, "so it might be my fancy." "No. It is true. Lord Derrington did deny the marriage; but he now recognizes that it took place. We wish to find where." "I cannot help you, Mr. Brendon. Mr. Vane never mentioned it to me. He told me that he loved me. Then he went away to get me an ice, and said he would take me home and return for Violet. I waited, but as he did not appear I went to look for him. He was gone----" "With your sister?" "Yes," said Miss Bull, clenching her fists. "Violet overheard a part of our conversation. She had just come down from the box of the Marchesa Beltrami----" "That was where she unmasked and Mr. Ireland recognized her." "She must have seen me with Mr. Vane," continued Miss Bull, taking no notice of this interruption, "so she stole behind us and heard what we were to one another. Then she slipped on her mask and followed Mr. Vane. She said she did not want an ice, but that she desired to go home at once. Mr. Vane wanted to wait for her----" "For Violet?" "Yes. He thought that I had run after him, and as Violet wore a blue domino with the sprig of holly he fancied she was me." "I understand. So he took her home." "She said he left her at the door, and then came back to look for--for Violet," said Miss Bull, contemptuously; "she disguised her voice and he quite thought she was myself. But from what Mr. Ireland said Mr. Vane saw Violet home to the gates of the hotel. I waited for a time, and as your father did not come back I ran home alone. Violet was in our bedroom and said that Mr. Vane had left her at the door of the ballroom and had gone back for me. Then the next morning we heard of the murder. I never knew, until you told me, how Violet had managed to get Mr. Vane away from me." "She tricked you," said George, sympathizingly. "She tricked every one. When I heard of your father's death I fell very ill. The world became a blank to me. When I came to myself I was in an asylum. Then I grew better and was let out. My father died, and an annuity was allowed to me. I heard about Mrs. Jersey taking this house, and wishing for some one to talk to about your father I came here, and here I have been ever since. A lonely woman, Mr. Brendon, but I find Margery a great comfort." "Then you do not know who killed my father?" "No." Miss Bull shook her head. "He was struck down on the parade when returning to the ballroom. It must have been after he saw my sister home." "Do you think Mrs. Ward knows the truth?" "She might. Perhaps some one followed, and Violet might have been mistaken for some person. I know there was a married woman in San Remo deeply in love with Mr. Vane----" "What an attractive man he must have been!" "Oh, he was the handsomest man in the world," cried Miss Bull, with genuine enthusiasm, "and so kind. No wonder Eliza Stokes loved him. But he loved no one but me--no one but me." "What did Eliza Stokes say when she heard of his death?" "Oh, she almost went out of her mind! I did altogether," said poor Miss Bull, with a wan smile; "and as they found her a nuisance in the hotel she went away. George Rates went also." "Did she marry him?" "No. I asked her when I met her here as Mrs. Jersey. She said that she returned to England and that Rates had been run over and killed in the street. She then went to America and married Mr. Jersey. He died and left her some money. Then she set up this house." "So she said nothing of the annuity from Lord Derrington?" "No. It wasn't to her interest to do so. She could hold her tongue when she liked. We very often quarreled, but on the whole we were as good friends as two women well could be who had loved the same man." George rose to go. "Thank you for telling me so much, Miss Bull," he said. "What was the name of the woman who loved my father?" "Oh, she was a common woman who kept a shop. Velez was the name." "Velez," cried George; and added to himself: "So that is how Lola knows." CHAPTER XIX THE INQUIRY AGENT As George stepped out of the front door he came face to face with Bawdsey, who was mounting the steps. The man seemed excited, and carried a carelessly folded newspaper which he had apparently been reading. He did not seemed pleased to meet Brendon, and looked at him in a suspicious manner. "I didn't expect to see you here!" he said, with a certain degree of roughness. "I did not know that this house was interdicted to me," replied Brendon, sharply. He liked neither the tone nor the peremptory manner of Bawdsey, and, moreover, was not prepossessed in his favor by the report which Lord Derrington had made of the man's duplicity. "I am glad to meet you, however," continued George, "as I wish to have a few words." "I am too busy to give you any time," retorted Bawdsey, and tried to enter the house. "Nevertheless, you will give me a quarter of an hour," said George, blocking the doorway with his stalwart form. "What I have to say cannot be left until a more convenient period." "I tell you I am busy, Mr. Brendon." "And I tell you that I intend to have this interview," rejoined Brewton, imperiously. "You talk a great deal about gratitude, Bawdsey, yet you are unwilling to put yourself out for me in the least degree." Bawdsey became penitent at once. "It is true, Mr. Brendon. But I am very worried." He cast a glance at the newspaper in his hand. "However, you have first call upon my time, so we will go to my room." "That's as it should be." No more words passed. Bawdsey mounted the stairs and led George into the well-remembered room. Brendon took a chair, and Bawdsey, with an anxious look, threw himself into another. The man's face was flushed, his red hair was in disorder, and his eyes were bright. As a rule he was calm and self-controlled, so George conjectured that something particularly important must have occurred to upset him. However, Bawdsey's troubles were none of his business, and he began talking at once of his reason for seeking the interview. "I had a conversation with Lord Derrington the other evening," he said deliberately, "and we talked of you." "Then you heard no good of me," replied Bawdsey, with a sneer. "Lord Derrington does not like me." "That matters little. No liking can exist between a man in Lord Derrington's position and his paid servant." "Oh, you call me that, do you, sir?" "What else are you? Lord Derrington engaged you as his agent to watch me, and that you have done." "Not lately. I have given you a free hand." "In any case I have a free hand," said George, loftily. "You were grateful enough for my service in saving your life to release me from your espionage, but had you not done so I should have taken means to put a stop to your dogging my footsteps." "You would not have known had I not told you, Mr. Brendon." "Oh, yes, I should. In any case, I should have seen my grandfather, and he would have told me." "No, sir. He is your enemy." "That is where you are wrong, Bawdsey. He is my friend." The detective looked astonished. "Do you mean to say that Lord Derrington has climbed down?" he demanded incredulously. "It is strange, is it not," said George, in a bantering tone, "but, as a matter of fact, after a long conversation, Lord Derrington and myself came to understand one another. He intends to recognize me as his heir." "Has he then learnt where the marriage took place?" asked Bawdsey, starting from his seat, and again glancing anxiously at the newspaper which lay on a small table at his elbow. "No. We have yet to find that out. But he is quite satisfied from the hints of the late Mrs. Jersey that a marriage did take place, and he wishes to make amends to me for his unjust conduct as regards my mother's memory and myself." "Whew! What means did you take to force him to recognize you?" "I used no force at all," responded Brendon, very dryly. "Lord Derrington would not climb down unless he were made to." "As a matter of fact he did. The olive branch was held out by him. All this is none of your business, Mr. Bawdsey, and I only tell it to you to clear the ground for what I am about to say." "It's something disagreeable, I bet," said Bawdsey, scanning the set face of his visitor. "Your penetration does you credit, sir. It is disagreeable." Bawdsey settled himself comfortably in his chair. "Then the sooner we grasp the nettle the sooner will the pain be over," he said, with quite an Eastern wealth of parable. "But first, Mr. Brendon, I should like to know your exact position." "Oh, that is easily explained, and there is no reason why you should not know what all London will know soon. Lord Derrington will join with me in searching for the register of marriage, and meanwhile will recognize me as his grandson and the heir to his estates." "Not a very large income for a future peer," murmured Bawdsey. George took no notice of this. "In a fortnight I leave my Kensington rooms and take up my residence with Lord Derrington in St. Giles Square. Then I shall assume my real name of George Vane." "And you will marry Miss Ward, I suppose." "That is entirely my business," said George, placidly. "You will gain nothing by insolence, Bawdsey." The man rose with a wounded air. "Upon my word, Mr. Vane," he said, giving George his correct name to show that he recognized his new position, "I have not the slightest intention of being insolent. I am glad for your sake that things are as they are, and pleased for my own, since Lola may now give up thoughts of you and turn to me." "That's all very well, Bawdsey," said Brendon quietly. "You profess a great friendship for me, but how can I trust you?" "I have never deceived you yet." "I have not given you the chance of doing so; but if the opportunity offered, and it was convenient to you, I am quite sure you would sell me--as the saying goes--to the highest bidder." "Why should you doubt me?" asked Bawdsey, still wounded. "I can only judge the future by the past, and since you are quite ready to play Lord Derrington false----" "Who says that?" cried the man, sitting down, but looking defiant. "I say so. Lord Derrington has told me all." "All what?" demanded Bawdsey, willfully ignorant. "All that took place on the night when you came to this house to impersonate him." Bawdsey laughed, and his face cleared. "If that is your disagreeable business, sir, I can easily put that to rights." "Can you explain why you drugged him, why you threatened him?" "I did not threaten him." "Lord Derrington informed me that you threatened to get him into trouble. That was why he consulted me, and that is why I have come to tell you that if you fight Lord Derrington you will fight me also. Lord Derrington is old, but I am young, and I am quite equal to dealing with you." "I never denied that," said Bawdsey, calmly. "I quite recognize that you are a strong man, Mr. Vane, although it is not to my interest to admit as much." "That's your business," rejoined George, coolly. "I play with all my cards on the table. What those are which you have concealed I do not know, but I am quite prepared to play the game. And at the present moment you need not call me by my father's name. I have not yet assumed my position. When I do, George Vane will have nothing to do with you." "But George Brendon has," said Bawdsey, with a flash of his eyes. "Don't press too hard, Mr. Brendon. I am willing to do you a service, and you are misjudging me." "I am sorry you should think so. Let us cease this bickering. I am willing to hear what you have to say." "If you are satisfied with my explanation, will you endeavor to get Lola to marry me?" "That has nothing to do with me." "But you have influence with her." "It shall not be used to make her miserable. I know nothing about you save what my grandfather told me, and his report does not bias me in your favor. For all I know you might make poor Lola the worst husband in the world." Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders. "Lola is well able to look after herself," he said. "I think I mentioned that before. But if you are satisfied with what I am about to tell you, will you help me?" "I'll do my best," said George, impatiently. "Lola is sure to lose this engagement sooner or later through her vile temper. I do not want to see her on the streets again, and she may as well be supported by you in a respectable manner as by any one else. Besides, as you truly say, she can take care of her own skin. But I shall not advise her to marry you unless you prove to me that you did not intend to blackmail Lord Derrington." "Nothing was further from my thoughts," said Bawdsey, earnestly; "it was to my interest that your grandfather should hold his tongue about my having been to this house----" "He would not have known had you not told him voluntarily." "Oh, yes, he would have discovered in some way. I thought it best to be on the right side by confessing voluntarily what I had done. I said I could get him into trouble--and I admit that I did threaten him so far--simply to make him hold his tongue." "You were afraid lest you should be accused of the crime?" Bawdsey looked at George in surprise. "That possibility never crossed my mind," he replied calmly. "I certainly did not kill the woman. Do you think I did, Mr. Brendon?" George shrugged his shoulders. "Going by circumstantial evidence----" "Oh!" Bawdsey flipped away that objection with a snap of his fingers, "that's all right; I will explain. No, Mr. Brendon; why I wished Lord Derrington to be silent was that I might carry out my plans so as to learn who killed Mrs. Jersey." "Then you are looking after the case?" "On behalf of Lord Derrington. He has an idea that the assassin became possessed of a confession which Mrs. Jersey left behind her----" "How do you know she left it?" "Because I knew Mrs. Jersey very well, and, as I told you long since, I was once a boarder here. One day she let slip that she had some one in her power, and would leave the evidence of that power behind her so that her niece might benefit. I told this to Lord Derrington. He insisted that I should try and discover the assassin so as to get that confession, which compromises him, back again. To spur me on he has promised me a reward of a thousand pounds should I obtain the confession and the conviction of the assassin. As I want money to marry Lola, I am doing my best. I came to live here for that purpose. Lord Derrington talking of my visit to the house on the night of the crime would have jeopardized my plans therefore I was obliged--as you say--to threaten him so as to make him keep silent. So far, do you blame me, Mr. Brendon?" "No," replied George, after some thought, "the end justifies the means. But you might have adopted less rascally means." "I have not adopted any. I have not asked Lord Derrington for money, so I am not a blackmailer; nor do I intend to claim from him anything but what is justly mine." "And what is justly yours, if you please?" "The reward of one thousand pounds for the discovery of the assassin." "Oh! Have you learned who killed her?" "Not yet, but I may learn. At present I confess I am in fault." George pondered a little. So far Bawdsey spoke frankly enough; but he could not help mistrusting him. However, since the man was in the telling vein, he thought it best to betray no doubts lest Bawdsey should turn rusty. "Well, the discovery is in your own hands," he said, "and I sincerely trust you will gain that thousand pounds. I am as unwilling as my grandfather that Mrs. Jersey's connection with this unfortunate business should become public. I am perfectly convinced that the person who took that confession stabbed the unfortunate woman." "Do you think so?" asked Bawdsey, stealing a glance at the newspaper. George nodded. "The confession was written. I learned that much from Margery. Mrs. Jersey told her it was a story. Well, as the confession was not found among Mrs. Jersey's papers when she died, it must have been taken by someone. But I can't think what interest such a thing can have had for any one unless----" "Unless what, Mr. Brendon?" "Unless it contained the name of the person who assassinated my father." "How could Mrs. Jersey know that?" "She was at San Remo when my father was killed; she loved him and she used to follow him. How I learned these things, Bawdsey, does not matter. But it is just possible that Mrs. Jersey--or Eliza Stokes as she was then--might have some knowledge of who committed the crime. If that was set down in her confession (as is highly probable), I can quite understand that the original assassin killed her to gain a dangerous document such as it undoubtedly was." "Then you think that the assassin of your father was also the assassin of Mrs. Jersey?" "I fancy so, as I can explain the disappearance of the confession in no other way. And if I remember rightly, Bawdsey, it was you who said that the San Remo crime was connected with the one committed in this house." "I did say so," replied Bawdsey, thoughtfully. He pondered for a few minutes and then looked up briskly. "Well, Mr. Brendon, that point cannot be settled without proof, and there is no use our wasting time in indulging in vain speculations. Let me tell you about the night I went to see Mrs. Jersey." "Go on," said Brendon, crossing his legs. "I am all attention." "I knew before your grandfather came to see me that you were about to pass the night here. Lola told me." "Yes, I was foolish enough to tell her; though, to be sure, I had no great reason to conceal my visit to Train. I never knew that a murder would take place. So Lola told you?" Bawdsey nodded. "She did. But I never intended to bother about the matter, as I did not think there was anything in your visit. But Lord Derrington came and put a different complexion on the affair. It was his belief that you intended to force Mrs. Jersey into confessing about the marriage." "I came to appeal to her," said Brendon, dryly. "There was no thought of forcing in my mind." "Lord Derrington judged you by himself and thought there might be. I rather agreed with him. Then, knowing his temper, I fancied if he went to see Mrs. Jersey there would be a row and a scandal, and I did not want that to happen. I was making a very good thing out of Lord Derrington," admitted Bawdsey, frankly, "and if a scandal had taken place my occupation would have been gone. I therefore determined to drug him and to go myself." "But why in his coat?" "I thought that Mrs. Jersey might not admit me." George pounced upon him at once. "There was no need that she should do so. You took the latch-key my grandfather carried." "Oh, you know that, do you?" said Bawdsey, composedly. "Then I may as well be absolutely frank." "It is your best course." "Oh, I'm not on my trial, Mr. Brendon. It is only my friendship for you that is making me speak out." "I accept that excuse. Go on." Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders to show his annoyance at the uncompromising attitude of his visitor. "I feared lest Mrs. Jersey should order me out of the house unless I could gain time by being mistaken for Lord Derrington. I drugged the old gentleman, and then, taking his coat and the latch-key, I went to see Mrs. Jersey." "At what time were you there?" "Some time before twelve. I cannot say for certain. Well, Mr. Brendon, I let myself in with the latch-key, and I found the house by the red light over the door. In former years it had been my custom to guide myself in that way. I told Lola so." "Why did you tell her that?" "Oh, she knew that you were going late to the house and made a fuss about the chance of your being lost in the fog. I said that probably Train would tell you of the red light, and that you could guide yourself by that." "Humph. Lola was always unnecessarily kind," said George. "Well?" "Well, I closed the door softly and went into the sitting-room." "You knew where that was?" "Of course. Don't I tell you I once lived in this house? I entered the sitting-room. The lamp was burning, and Mrs. Jersey was seated at the table." Bawdsey shuddered. "There is no need to tell you more. I left the room at once, for the sight horrified me." "Why did you pause in the hall?" "I thought I heard a footstep on the stairs, and the shock gave me one of my fits--the fear of open spaces, you know. How did you come to learn that I paused in the hall?" "Because I had come down the stairs to see who was with Mrs. Jersey." "Ah! Then it must have been your footstep I heard," said the detective. "Well, I soon recovered, and left the house." "What about the stiletto?" "It was lying on the floor near the table. I saw it glittering in the lamplight. As there was blood on it and I saw the wound, I knew that Mrs. Jersey had been killed by it. I slipped it into my pocket with a vague idea that thereby I might trace the assassin." "Did you leave it purposely in the coat?" "No," said Bawdsey, frankly. "I did not. I was so moved and--as a woman would say--flustered by the death, that I forgot all about it. Lord Derrington woke up and went home. I said nothing about the murder to him at the time. I had not the nerve. It was only after he departed that I remembered the stiletto. I thought he might make a row and accuse me of the crime. But he said nothing, and I judged it wise to let sleeping dogs lie. So that is all I can tell you, Mr. Brendon, and you will see that I am not such a bad man as you try to make out." "Oh, you have spoken clearly enough," said George. Then after a pause, "Yes, I think you are honest, so far as I can judge. I trust you." Bawdsey looked delighted. "Will you have a glass of wine with me to show that?" he asked rising. "On the Arab principle of bread and salt?" said Brendon. "Certainly." Bawdsey nodded in a pleased manner, and went to his sideboard at the end of the room. George mechanically took up the newspaper. His eyes were caught by a cross-heading--"Strange Affair in an Essex Church," and by the words "destruction of the registers." Just as he was about to glance over the article, never thinking what it meant to him, Bawdsey returned with the wine and two glasses. He uttered an exclamation of dismay when he saw the paper in George's hand. "Hang it, I never meant you to see that!" he said. "Why not?" replied George. "Is it this news about a lady trying to tear the registers?" He started and looked at Bawdsey, who was uneasy and pale. "It's Lola!" said George. "No, and yet--why should you not know? I believe it is Lola, though no name is mentioned." George picked up the paper again and read rapidly. No name was mentioned, as it was said that the strange lady who had been arrested refused to give any name. It seemed that she went to Wargrove Church and asked to see the registers for a certain year--the registers of marriage. The sexton took the fee and showed the books. Then it appeared that the strange lady searched for an hour. The sexton left the vestry for a few minutes. When he returned he saw that she had torn a page out of the book. Being taken by surprise she had tried to conceal her theft, but the sexton seized her, rescued the torn page, and called for assistance. The end of it was that the strange lady--who was described as having a foreign air--was arrested and placed in prison. "It is Lola," said George, breathlessly. "Yes," assented Bawdsey, also pale. "She evidently tried to destroy the evidence of your mother's marriage." George gave a cry. "Wargrove," he said, "Wargrove in Essex. It was in the parish church that the marriage took place. And Lola knew--Lola----" he paused. The eyes of the two men met. CHAPTER XX THE TROUBLE OF LOLA It was four o'clock when George left Bawdsey. The two had spoken little of the newspaper paragraph which informed them of Lola's escapade. Although her name was not mentioned there was no doubt in the mind of Brendon that she was the culprit. The newspaper gave the year of the book when the sheet was torn, and that corresponded to the year when Percy Vane married--or had been supposed to marry--Rosina Lockwood. And this was the explanation of Lola's absence from town. She had not fled from the rebuke of Brendon, but had gone to do him an injury by destroying the evidence of his parents' marriage. This finally was the meaning of her wild threat to Dorothy. By preventing George from proving his legitimacy, Lola hoped to put a final end to his chance of making Miss Ward his wife. Bawdsey was much upset over the news. He would have flown immediately to Wargrove, but some special business kept him in town. However, he purposed to go the next morning by the first train. Bawdsey did not think that Brendon had sufficient interest in Lola to go down to Wargrove at once. But George was going that very day, all the same. Lola could not have known that his parents had been married at Wargrove without having seen Mrs. Jersey's confession wherein the fact was probably mentioned.. Therefore she must have obtained the confession in some way. How she achieved this, George could not conjecture. Then he thought of Lola's hot Spanish blood, of the stiletto--a peculiarly foreign weapon--and shuddered. It occurred to him that Lola herself must have stabbed the woman. However, he put this thought aside for the moment and set about getting to Wargrove. On consulting an A. B. C. he found that a train left Liverpool Street Station for Southend at ten minutes past five, and that Wargrove was a tiny rural town which could be reached in an hour. Ever quick and expeditious in his movements, George had entered a Strand shop to buy the railway guide, and, having ascertained about the train, he simply stepped into his cab and ordered the man to drive to Liverpool Street. At the appointed time he was on his way down the country. This precipitancy of action was due to a dread lest Bawdsey should change his mind and see Lola, first. Certainly the detective had spoken frankly, and his conduct appeared to be dictated by sentiments of honor. Nevertheless, George felt that Bawdsey was playing a part and that this apparent honesty was not his real character. It behooved him to be on his guard against him; and to know as much about the death of Mrs. Jersey as Bawdsey did, so as to able to counterplot him if necessary. From the fact that she was in Wargrove, Lola evidently had possession of the confession. If Bawdsey saw her he would doubtless try and get it from her, to learn the name of Percy Vane's assassin. George wished therefore to forestall Bawdsey, and to make Lola surrender the confession--always presuming she had it--to himself. For this reason he departed quickly for Wargrove. At the Liverpool Street Station he examined all the passengers as they entered the train. Bawdsey did not put in an appearance, and as the next train would not depart for another two hours George felt that he had stolen a march on the detective. Bawdsey would never think that he had acted with such promptitude. It was a dull journey, as Brendon was worried by a commercial traveler who would talk politics. George put him off as civilly as possible, and finally turned his prattle--for it was little else--to his own advantage by asking for the whereabouts of Wargrove. It seemed that the new town of Wargrove was the place where the train stopped, but Old Wargrove was three miles distant, and it was there that the parish church was situated. The commercial traveler followed up this information with many details concerning the manners and customs of the natives, which bored George to distraction. However, he listened quietly, and paid as little attention as was consistent with politeness. His officious companion watched for the station, and roared out the name when the train stopped. George thanked him and alighted, glad to be relieved of such a weary talker. And till the train was moving the man leaned out of the window shouting directions as to the best way to reach Old Wargrove. As it proved there was no necessity for George to go there. Lola was stopping in the policeman's house prior to her removal to the prison at Chelmsford. Her attempt at robbery had been committed on the previous day, and Brendon thought she would have already been removed. However, he was informed that there was some delay owing to the illness of the Chelmsford inspector, and therefore Lola would have to remain in Wargrove for another twelve hours. Brendon was glad to hear this, as it would save him a long journey. He thanked the policeman who had explained, and was directed by the man to the house of his superior officer, which was on the outskirts of the town. George soon found a semi-detached house with a notice on it, and on knocking at the door explained his errand to a brisk little woman. She pursed up her lips, looked inquisitively at him with bright eyes, and called her husband. The policeman was a burly, slow-witted, fat man who seemed nervous on being asked for a sight of the prisoner, for such Lola was to all intents and purposes. He did not want to exceed his duty. George produced a sovereign, but the official, although his eyes twinkled, hesitated to take the bribe. It was then that Mrs. Policeman came to Brendon's assistance. "Nonsense, Jeremiah," she said briskly. "Let the young gentleman see his young lady. She's dying to have a sight of him." "How do you know that she is my young lady?" asked George. Mrs. Policeman nodded with her arms akimbo. "Why she's been crying out in that foreign way of hers for George--George----" "That is my name certainly." "And you are her gentleman. She told me what you were like, and cried all the time, poor soul. Tall, fair, with eyes of blue." "It's all very well," grumbled Jeremiah. "But 'tis against the law." "You can be present at our interview if you like." "There, Jeremiah, you can't have the gentleman saying fairer than that." Here the sharp little woman nudged her husband's arms. This was a hint for him to swallow his scruples and take the sovereign. Jeremiah agreed, and shortly the sovereign was in his pocket and he was leading George to a back upstairs room. "We'd have put her in the best parlor," he said, "as I always like to make 'em comfortable. But she'd have run away, so we was obliged to keep her in the room with the bars on the window." "Poor Lola," thought George, as he conjured up the small stuffy room and the barred window. But the room was not so comfortless as Jeremiah stated, thanks to Mrs. Policeman. It was small, certainly, but it was neatly furnished as a bed-sitting-room. The window was certainly barred, but there was no other sign that it was a prison cell. Before introducing George to this abode, it struck Jeremiah that the prisoner had been inquired for as "the young lady." He stopped Brendon at the door. "Might you know her name, sir?" "Of course I know it," replied George, promptly. "Don't you?" "Now I do," said Jeremiah, with a heavy nod, "but it was a rare time afore she'd speak. My missus got it out of her. Loler Veal it is, she says, and she's by way of being on the stage." "She is the most celebrated dancer in London, and her name is Lola Velez," said George. "I don't suppose she'll be punished much for this. She's mad at times." "Oh, if she's mad she'll get off lightly, but them parish register to be torn--it's bad work that. My father were a sexton," explained Jeremiah, soberly. "And naturally you think Mademoiselle Velez has committed the most atrocious of crimes. But don't stand chattering here, my good fellow. I have to return by the nine train." "I'll wait outside," said Jeremiah, on whom Brendon's generosity and peremptory manner had made an impression, "but you won't give her poison, or knives, or that, sir?" George laughed. "No. She is the last person to use them if I did supply her with such articles." "She's a lively young woman," said the policeman, and slowly unlocked the door. George was admitted, and then Jeremiah, so as to give the lovers--as he thought them--an opportunity of meeting unobserved, retired, locking the door after him. Lola and George were together. She was seated by the window staring out into the darkness. On the table was a small lamp, and a fire burned in the grate. Lola started up when the door closed again. "Who is--who is?" she asked in her rapid way, and came toward him. "Lola," began George, but he got no further. She ran forward and flung herself with tears at his feet, clutching his legs and wailing: "Oh, my dear one, hast thou come in anger? Trample me, make me as earth, beloved, but be not enraged--ah, no--ah, no!" "Lola. Get up and don't be a fool," said Brendon, speaking roughly to brace her nerves. She rose, sobbing, and crept to a chair in a slinking manner, quite unlike her usual free grace. She did not raise her eyes, and George was pained to see the change. Badly as she had acted, he felt sorry at beholding her depressed, and like a sick beast in confinement. "Lola," he said, taking a chair near her, "I have come as your friend." "Not in anger--ah, but yes, in anger." "I am not angry. I am very sorry." "Ah, but in your eyes--they sparkle. I see Mees Vards. I do try to steal the church books. You are furiously enraged." "Look at me and see." But Lola would not, so George took her chin and made her gaze directly into his eyes. Lola's were filled with tears, but after a time she began to smile. "Ah, you are not enraged, it was for you I did it. I wish my dear George to myself--all--all." "You know that is impossible." "But it is not. I will have you." "Not at all," said George, deliberately. "You will marry Bawdsey." "That pig--cow, horrible and miserable. _Non. Ah, non!_" She sprang to her feet. "_Jamais. Ah grand jamais!_ I do swear," and producing a small black crucifix from her dress she kissed it vehemently. She was a most impossible person to deal with, being as wild as a tigress and as impulsive as a child. George made her resume her seat, and drew his chair close to her. Much delighted, Lola took his hand within her own and looked at him affectionately. Brendon did not like the position at all, but it was necessary to humor Lola if he wished to arrive at the truth. He spoke to her very directly. "Now, Lola, I wish you to tell me the truth." "Ah, but I will. When you are kindness I tell you all." "Do you know that you have done a wrong thing?" "Pschutt," she said contemptuously. "I give that old mans knocks on the heads, but he is alive. Oh, yes, I did not kill him. "I don't mean the assault, though that is bad enough. But your trying to destroy the register of the marriage. "It is your fault," cried Lola, impetuously. "For loves of my George I did so. I wish you not to marry any but me." "We can talk of that later, Lola. Answer me a few questions, and make no remarks." "I will do what you say, my friend," said Lola, nodding. George thought for a moment. "How did you learn that Wargrove was the place where my parents were married?" "I tell not that--indeed, I will not. It is my businesses." "Mine also. You must tell." "But I will not." "For my sake, Lola." "Ah, you want to know all, and then trick me. I will not tell." "Then I will explain to you." "Aha, you cannots--you know nothings at all. Pah! La, la, la, la." George spoke sternly. "Lola, I know more than you give me credit for. I have seen the dagger." This time he struck home, for she started. "What dagger?" "The stiletto you left in Mrs. Jersey's room." "I did nothings. I was not there." "Yes you were. For all I know you may have killed the woman." "But it is foolish you talk, George. I did not. She was frightened--oh, very much afraid." "So much that she gave you the confession you asked for?" "Ah, yes--yes--yes," cried Lola, then seeing she had betrayed herself, she began to be alarmed. "Ah, you will say nothing. I would not tell anys but my George. He loves me. He will not see me dead." "Good heavens, Lola, did you kill the woman?" "That fat ladys in black silk? Ah, no, I did not. But she was so afraid of the knife." "You left her alive on that night?" "Why, yes, my George. We part--oh, such good friends." Lola blew a kiss from her finger-tips. "She quite pleased, immense!" "Well, Lola, as you have told so much, you must tell me all." "There is nothing to say," she replied, turning sullen. George rose. "Then I shall go away," he declared. "I came here to be your friend, Lola, and to save you from getting into further trouble. But if you will not be candid--" He moved to the door. "What is candids? I know not, George." She sprang to her feet. "Ah, my heart, do not go. Soul of my soul, leave me not. I will do anythings what you ask of me." "Then tell me the whole story of your visit to Mrs. Jersey." "But you will marry Mees Vard!" "I do that in any case. See here, Lola," he added artfully, "this marriage register which you wish to destroy does not matter now. My grandfather has acknowledged me as his heir." She looked at him with wide eyes and pale cheeks. "And you will be milor--you will marry Mees Vard--you will--you will--" Her mouth began to work piteously like a child being reproved. "I will always be your friend, Lola!" "You will marry Mees Vard?" she persisted. "Lola," he took her hand, "if we married we would never be happy. I and you are different people. Do you wish to see me happy?" "Ah, yes--if I die I would have you happy," she sobbed. "Then allow me to marry Miss Ward, and give me up." "Ah, but it is asking much--always too much." "Well," said George, a trifle cruelly, "you offered to die for me just now, yet to see me happy you won't deny yourself anything." "Yes--yes--but it is all so quick, my dear. Give times--oh, give times till I become used." She sobbed for a moment, then dried her eyes and sat down briskly. "I am ready, my George. You shall be happy, but you must not forget poor Lola--ah, no!" "Of course not," replied George, patting her hand. "Now tell me the story. Wait. Was it you mother who told you of my father's death?" "Yes," assented Lola. "She often talked of your fathers," "I heard she was in love with him," said George, slowly. Lola shrugged her shapely shoulders. "That I know not. My dear mother was handsome--oh, yes, and dark, and fond of gayness. She might have loved--eh--it is not impossibles." "Did she ever hint who killed my father?" Lola shook her head. "No. Never did she say anythings. He was found dead--stabbed--" she made a gesture, "that was all--all!" Evidently she could tell him nothing, so George reverted to more immediate matters. "How about that night? You knew that I was going to Mrs. Jersey's on that night?" "Ah, but yes. You did tell me." "Then what made you come also? Was it to see me?" Lola put her finger in her mouth and looked down. "No, my George. I did want that confessions of the fat old lady, to stop you being milor, and then I thought you would marry only poor Lola." "How did you know about the confession?" "That pig-man told me." "Bawdsey? Why did he tell you?" "Pschutt!" said Lola, contemptuously. "He loves me so, I can twist and twist him so," she made a rapid motion with her fingers. "We did talk of the death of your fathers. I lamented that my poor mother did loves your fathers unhappily, as I did love you. And I was enraged to think that your fathers had died. I did ask Bawdsey who made the stab--gave the death?--eh, it is, so I asked," she added, nodding. "He could not say, but he declares that Mrs.--what you call her--eh, but my friend, Mrs.----" "Mrs. Jersey. Bawdsey declared that she knew?" Lola nodded. "It was so," she assented. "Mrs.--what you call that fat ladys--she write out all she know,--of your father's death and of his marriages. I say to myself that I would get that confession and learn where the marriage was made. Then I would burn the book that no one might learn. After I would say to you, that I could tell who killed your father if you made me madame your wife." "That's a very pretty plot," said Brendon, not knowing whether to be angry with her wrong-doing or touched by a love that to gain him would not hesitate to commit a crime. "So far you have carried it out. You have the confession----" Lola put her hand on her breast. "He is here," she said, nodding. "I carries him always--always!" "Give it to me, Lola." Her eyes opened in wide alarm. "Ah, no, you will not ask me. I keep him to myself all." George saw that the moment was not propitious. But he was determined to get the confession before he left her. However, he begged her to continue her story. "How did you know the house?" he asked. "It was the scarlet windows----" "I remember. Bawdsey gave you that for guide." "Bah! He knew not I was going," said Lola with a shrug. "I got out of him the fool-man all that I did want. I thought I would get to the fat ladys on the night you were with her, that I might have you for helps if she was enraged." "It seems to me that you protected yourself very well." "With the daggers--oh, yes. I said to myself that if my George did not come for the fogs, that Mrs.--what you say--Jarsey, oh, yes, would be enraged, and I would have trouble. I took the stiletto to save myself." "How did you get into the house?" "Wait, ah, wait! I did not dance all that night. I said I was ill and I came aways. I took the daggers and a cloak, and I went to the Square--it is not far from my houses----" "No. You just turn the corner of the street," said Brendon. "Well?" "I walked by the walls. It was after ten o'clocks. I walk round and round the Squares, and I then see a red lights. The door open--it was open, and many people came out of the houses. The fat lady was on the steps waving her hands--so--" Lola waved her hand. "A crowd was around. I came into the crowd, and when the fat lady was down shaking with the handshake, I did slip into the house." "That was clever of you," said George, wondering at the dexterity with which Lola had managed to enter without exciting suspicion. "And then what did you do? Did you meet any one?" "Ah, but no. I ran into a place; there was a room with a light, and that I did go into----" "Mrs. Jersey's sitting-room," murmured George. "Yes?" "I was afraid to be thrown out, my dear, and I hided behind a curtain of the window. The fat lady she did come in and close the door. She talked to herself of Lord Derrington coming, and did seem enraged at him wishing to come--you understand?" "Yes. What then?" "A leetle boy did come in with wine and cakes. She did send him away, being angry, and did close the door. She took from a box----" "A green box, Lola?" "Yes, a green box--she did take a blue--what you, call--paper." "A blue envelope?" "Ah, yes, it is so, and she looked at a paper--a white paper she took from the envelope. She laughed, and said that milor would love to have this. I say to myself behind the curtains: It is the confessions, I will have it. Then she did put it in the envelopes and leave it on the tables. It was near me. I could steal----" "And you did!" said George, impatiently. "But no, my George. I did try, and madame she saw my arm. With a cry she leap to the doors. I come out and, say that I wish to talk of the deaths of Monsieur Vanes. She turns most white, and did not cry no more. Then she ask me what I want----" "You needn't tell all in detail, Lola. Be as short as possible." "Oh, well--but yes, assuredly. I told madame I was of San Remo, and did talk of my dear mother, and of her love for Monsieur Vane. But this pig-womans insult my mother. I become enraged, I bring my dagger and wave it so--" again Lola made a dramatic gesture. "I say that I kill her. She fall on her knees and hide her face. Then I did take the confessions out of the blue envelopes and hide it----" "That was very clever of you, Lola. Did Mrs. Jersey see?" "Ah, but no she did not. I take it when she was with the eyes covered. Then having all what I was desired, and seeing her so afraid, I had the contempt look you. I say, 'There, there,' and I throw the dagger at her feets. Then I go to the door and say I would depart. She beg me to stop. I did stop, and we talk of San Remo, and of my mother. I say that you were my love, and that Monsieur Vane was the father of you----" "Then she knew who I was on that night?" "Ah, yes, but she did. I say you wish to see her the next day. She say, 'I will tell him nothing, and now go, for I have to see a great gentlemans.' I was quite happy." "Did she not miss the confession?" "No! I said nothing of wanting that. It was in my pocket. The blue envelope was on the table. She never thought but what it was within, Then she ask me to say nothing to any one about San Remo, and we part quite happy. She allowed me out of the door, and closed it again, oh, so softly. I saw her no more." "You left the dagger behind?" "It was on the floors where I threw it. I wished to get away with the confessions, lest she should call me thieves. I did not wait for to take the dagger. I departed. That is all." "Humph!" said George. The story seemed likely enough. After letting Lola out of the house, Mrs. Jersey then came to see if he and Train were in bed. Expecting Lord Derrington, and knowing from Lola who he was, she no doubt expected George to interrupt the interview. But finding him--as she thought in bed--she departed satisfied. Then she met Margery, and after locking her in her room, went down to meet her death. It was eleven when all this happened, and Bawdsey in the coat of Lord Derrington arrived close upon twelve. Therefore, as Lola left Mrs. Jersey alive and Bawdsey found her dead, she must have been killed in the interval, and whomsoever had done this had used the dagger left by Lola. However, George had learned all he wished to know in the mean time, and it only remained to get the confession from Lola. She refused to give it up. George entreated, cajoled, stormed, insisted, she still held out. "No, I will not, I will not," she kept saying. Finally he hit on a solution of the difficulty. "If you do not give it to me it will be taken from you when you go to prison." "Ah, but will it?" cried Lola, wide-eyed with alarm. "Certainly, and will probably be published in the papers. Keep it if you like, Lola, but don't blame me if you get into trouble over it. I assure you if you keep it they will take it." Lola pulled a white packet from her breast, and ran with it to the fire. "They will not have it. I burn--I burn," and she threw the papers on the fire. George shot past her, snatched them out before they could catch alight, and thrust them into his pocket. Lola turned on him like a tigress, and he thought she would strike him. She seemed inclined to do so. Then unexpectedly she threw up her arms and fell into a chair weeping. "It is the end--you love me no more--we part--we part. The confessions will part us, all--all, alas!" CHAPTER XXI THE CONFESSION OF A JEALOUS WOMAN George returned to town with the confession of Mrs. Jersey in his pocket. On arriving at the Liverpool Street Station he wrote a note to Kowlaski telling him of Lola's plight, and advising him to engage counsel for her defense. He added that he would come around the next day to see Kowlaski and discuss what could be done toward extricating Lola from the mess she had involved herself in. Having thus done what he could, Brendon took the underground railway to Kensington, and alighted at the High Street Station. In another half-hour he was in his rooms. After making a good meal, for he felt the need of food to sustain him, he ordered coffee, and sat down to read the manuscript of Mrs. Jersey. The coffee was brought, George lighted his pipe, and having poked the fire into a blaze, made himself comfortable. The confession of the wretched woman who had come to so tragic an end, was written on several sheets of foolscap loosely pinned together. Her caligraphy was vile, and George had great difficulty in making out some of the words. Also the English was not faultless, but good grammar and fine writing were scarcely to be expected from a woman in the position of Eliza Stokes. But she wrote in a most cold-blooded way, and seemingly exulting in her wickedness. All through her confession ran a venomous strain of deadly hatred toward George's mother, and indeed against any woman who paid attention to Vane. Jenny Howard was not spared, and the woman Velez, "who kept an oil-shop," sneered Mrs. Jersey, was mentioned. When Brendon discovered that Mrs. Jersey had Italian blood in her veins he saw perfectly well whence she got her savage nature and undisciplined affections. She was like a wild beast let loose among more civilized animals, and the wonder was that with such a nature she had not committed more crimes than those she confessed to. The woman was a dangerous creature, and Brendon when he laid down the manuscript thought it just as well that she had been removed even by the violent means which Providence permitted. "My parents were of humble station," began Mrs. Jersey, abruptly. "I believe my mother was a lady's maid. She married my supposed father, who was a butler. I say 'my supposed father' as I have reason to believe that I was the daughter of a certain Italian count who had loved and betrayed my mother. In her moments of rage my mother would taunt my supposed father with this, but when calm she always denied that there was any truth. When I grew old enough to understand she rebuked me for asking about the matter. 'You are my daughter,' she said abruptly, 'and the daughter of Samuel Stokes, who is the biggest fool and the greatest craven I know.' "It will be seen that there was no love lost between my parents. My father Stokes--as I may call him, though I believe the count was my real sire--was always very kind to me, and shielded me from my mother's rage. She treated me very cruelly, and when fifteen I was glad to go out as a scullery-maid so as to escape her persecution. Shortly after I took up life on my own account she died in a fit of violent rage, during which she broke a blood-vessel. I think Stokes was glad when she died. She made his life a misery when she lived, and tormented every one around her. If I have faults, it is not to be expected that I could inherit a decent nature from such a mother. I never loved her, and when she died I did not shed a single tear. I remember singing at my work on the day I received the news. One of my fellow-servants asked me why I was so gay? I replied that I had heard of my mother's death. After that they hated me, and I had to leave my situation. But had any one of them possessed such a mother, any one of them would have been as gay and relieved as I was. So much for my mother. "As for my presumed father Stokes, I saw very little of him. He retired from business and bought a public-house. Then he married again, and was not inclined to see much of me. I did not mind, as I never loved him in spite of his kindness. I dare say I should have returned his affection, but my mother had beaten all love out of me. "It is needless to give my early life in detail. I rose from scullery-maid to housemaid. Then I became parlor-maid in a suburban villa, where the wages were poor and the food was bad. I took charge of children when not doing housework, and managed to get on. But I was ambitious. I wished to get among the servants of the aristocracy. A friend of mine who was maid to the Duchess of--taught me her duties, and I procured a situation. I pleased my mistress, and she promised to do much for me. However, she died, and I was thrown on the world. I saw an advertisement for a lady's maid, and got the situation. It was in this way that I became the servant of that woman whom I hated so deeply. "She was called Rosina Lockwood, and was no better born than myself. Her father was a low man who taught singing, and she appeared herself on the stage. I never thought she was beautiful, myself. She had good hair, and her complexion was passable, but her figure was bad, and she had no brains. An inane, silly, foolish woman. How Percy Vane could have eloped with her beats me. But men are such fools. He would not look at me, yet I was ten times as lovely as this singing-woman, and quite as well born. Oh, how I hated her! "At first I rather liked Miss Lockwood. She was kind to me in her silly way, and the gentlemen who were in love with her gave me plenty of money to deliver notes and other things. There was one gentleman who was the best of them all--and the biggest fool over her blue eyes and fair hair. His name was Ireland, and he had plenty of money. He came to learn singing from old Lockwood simply to be near her, and proposed three times, to my knowledge. But she would have nothing to do with him, which was foolish, as he had money, and she could have twisted him round her finger. Why he loved her so and what he saw in her I can't say. She had nothing attractive about her, so far as I could see. "I was a handsome girl in those days, though I say it myself. But if a woman is good-looking, why shouldn't she say so? I had a perfect figure, and a complexion like cream and roses. My hair was as black as night, and my eyes were sparkling and large. I taught myself to read and write, and I learned French. Also I learned to play the piano, and to conduct myself like a lady, as I always was. I often dreamed that I would marry a gentleman, and I could have done so but that my foolish heart was captured by the only man who would have nothing to do with it, or with me. "I never loved till I set eyes on him. There was a footman who wanted to marry me; to join our savings and set up in a public-house. But I told him I was born for better things. Then a coachman asked me to be his wife, but I hated a man who had to do with horses. Oh, I had plenty of offers, as a handsome girl should. But I knew my own value, and looked about for the gentleman who would give me my rightful position as a lady. From my Italian father I inherited aristocratic tastes, and I was not going to remain a low, vulgar common servant all my life, not me. "Then he came to the house. Oh, my adored one, my idol, my angel, how magnificent and beautiful thou wast. Percy was his dear name, and his blood was very blue. Lord Derrington was his father, a most aristocratic nobleman, who was an old brute, from my experience of him. But he was of high rank I don't deny, and Percy had the blood of heroes in his veins. He came to take lessons in singing. But after a time I saw that he was in love with my mistress. Afterward I found out that he had seen her at a concert and had fallen in love with her. I don't believe it. Who could have loved that bad figure and that silly brain? Now a woman like myself--but he never cared for me, although I adored him from the first time I set eyes on his manly form. It was her arts that captured him, else he would have turned from her to me. But he never did. "How handsome and fascinating was my hero Percy Vane. Fair hair and blue eyes, and the figure of a Life-Guardsman--just the kind of man I liked. He was kind to me--for her sake, I suppose--and gave me money and presents. She said she loved him, and used to make me sick with talking of him. I let her think I was her dear friend, as if she had known my true feelings she would have sent me away, and then I would never have seen my hero again. I made the best of my position, for at least I saw him as often as she did, and that was something. They both looked on me as their friend. Had they only known how I hated her, and loved him! "Lord Derrington was angry with Percy for loving my mistress, and I don't wonder at it, a low singing-woman. Percy had some money of his own, inherited from his mother, and he proposed an elopement. He said that Lord Derrington could not leave the estates away from him, and that some day he would come in for the title. She never lived to be Lady Derrington. I was glad of that. I should have killed her had she reached that pitch of splendor. Her position should have been mine. But it never was. "Well, they eloped. After singing at a concert in St. James's Hall, he met her outside, and took her to Liverpool Street Station. I was waiting there with the luggage. We went down to a place called Wargrove, in Essex, and the very next day they were married in the church of that parish. I was furious, but what could I do? Had I told Lord Derrington, he might have stopped the marriage, but Percy would never have forgiven me, and I did not wish to lose sight of him. As Mrs. Vane's maid, I had chances of seeing him daily, and of basking in the light of his eyes. It was weak of me, but I loved him so dearly that I would have done anything simply to be in his presence. But I wish now that I had prevented the marriage. Since I could not get him, I didn't see why she should bear off the prize. But I was a girl then, and sentimental and foolish. And she was a cat, as she always was. "Afterward we went to Paris, and from that place Percy wrote to tell his grandfather that he was married. I know he did not mention the place, for the letter was given to me to post, and I opened it. I never gave it a thought at the moment, but afterward Percy's mistake in not telling where the marriage had taken place did me a lot of good. I should not now be writing in this house, but for that lucky omission. Lord Derrington would have nothing to do with his son, and there was trouble with Mr. Lockwood. "But I don't think they minded much. Percy was wrapped up in the creature, and she loved him in her silly simpering way. I pretended to be quite happy, but I inwardly was raging all the time. For his sake I put up with the unpleasant position, and I never received my reward, never, never, never. Oh, how some women's hearts are broken by the cruelty and neglect of men. "I lived with the two of them during their married life. A son was born, and she died. I was glad when she died, and I was sorry she left the boy. Percy was wrapped up in the child, and gave him to me to nurse. Mrs. Vane was buried in Père la Chaise, and then Percy, with myself and the baby, went to Monte Carlo. He gambled there in order to forget his grief--though I don't see what he had to moan over, seeing what a silly fool his late wife was. Percy lost money, and wrote to his father, who declined to help him. Then he went to Italy and wandered about. Now that he was free I hoped to marry him. When not nursing that horrid child--he was called George after his maternal grandfather, and was a scrubby little beast. Some said he was a fine child. I could not see it, myself. He was her child, and that was enough to make me hate him as I did. But as I say, when not nursing him, I devoted myself to study so as to be worthy of the time when Percy would marry me. I knew that the future Lady Derrington would hold a high rank, and I qualified myself to fill the position gracefully. I did work. I learned arithmetic, and could write beautifully. I talked Italian and French like a native. I got an old artist to teach me to paint in water-colors, and I bought a book which taught the manners of good society. Also I tried to dress well, and do my hair becomingly. Percy saw the change in me, and congratulated me on the improvement which had taken place in me since leaving England. Had he only known that it was for his sake I had improved! "As to that child, I should have liked to drown it, or to have given it to gypsies. As Lady Derrington, I did not wish to be troubled with her brat. Besides, Percy loved the boy so, that he used to make me envious the way he nursed him. But had I got rid of the child--and I thought of a thousand safe ways I could have done so--I should only have been sent away, and then some woman would have got hold of him. I thought it best to bear with my aching pain and put up with the child so that I might be near to watch over Percy. "The end of it came in Milan. We were stopping at the Hôtel de Ville, and there was a waiter who fell in love with me. He was an English boy, called George Rates--a horrid, scrubby, red-haired, nasty, pale-faced creature, who worried me to death. Besides, he was younger than I was, and I wished for a husband to protect me. I should have had to look after George Rates, whereas Percy, in the days to come, would look after me. Besides, I felt that it was an impertinence for a low waiter to expect me to marry him--me, who had done so much to improve myself, and who looked forward to taking proud rank among the British aristocracy. "At first I laughed at him, but he became such a nuisance that I told him plainly that I would have nothing to do with him. He then accused me of being in love with my master. I acknowledged it proudly. Why should I not? A woman should glory in her love. I did! I told George Rates that I worshiped the very ground Percy walked on; I gave my passionate feelings full vent, and bore him to the ground under the storm of my indignation. He told the other servants, and they insulted me, especially the English ones, as there were two or three in the hotel. I was persecuted, but I bore all for his dear sake. Then it came to his ears. Percy heard what I had said to George Rates. He called me in: he accused me of making him ridiculous, of being out of my mind, of a thousand and one cruel things. I lost my head. I told him how I loved him. I knelt at his feet. I implored that he would reward my love--my long, long sufferings. He laughed in my tearful face. At that moment I hated him, but not for long. My life was bound up in his. When he dismissed me, I thought that my heart was broken. "I was dismissed. He procured a new nurse from England--a Scotch hussy, as ugly as she was silly. I saw her often in Milan after my dismissal. Oh, that time--oh, those weary days! I wept. I prayed. I moaned. I was a wreck. With what money I had I went to a convent near Milan, and stopped there for a month. But I could not remain away from him. I came out. He was gone. I went to inquire at the hotel. He had gone to Rome. Afterward a message came that all letters were to be sent to San Remo. I determined to go to San Remo, and to be near him. I would have died else. George Rates, who was still in love with me, proved a willing tool. I could not get to San Remo without money. He offered to advance me the railway fare, and he got me a situation in the Hôtel d'Angleterre as housemaid. He also was going there for the season as a waiter. I said that if he took me to San Remo I would marry him. He did so, and I--but that comes later. Sufficient it is to say that George believed in my promise, and that I found myself again in the presence--the heavenly presence--of my adored Percy. "But I had only come to submit myself to fresh anguish. He saw me, but took no notice of me. I was afraid to follow him too closely lest he should ask the police to interfere. George Rates was jealous, too, and I had to consider him, as, failing Percy rewarding my love I could fall back on George. He was always useful to supply the money for me to get back to England, where I was certain of a situation. I handled the situation in a masterly manner, and contrived to see Percy without his seeing me, and without exciting too openly the jealousy of George Rates. "But it was the horrid girl that caused me pain. She was one of the daughters of General Howard, whom Percy had met at Como. The two girls both laid themselves out to catch my darling. But their arts did not succeed at Como. Jenny was the one who tried hardest to get him, but Violet took her chance also. When they came to San Remo they stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. I looked after their room, and, knowing what they were, I made myself their friend. They knew me as the former nurse of Percy's horrid, little son, and wondered how I came to be a housemaid. I told some story which satisfied them. I forget what it was. They believed in me thoroughly, and they found out that I loved Percy. Then they were amused, and I hated them for it. They told Percy that I was watching him, and he came to the hotel no more. But I still pretended to be their friend, for my own ends. There was a masked ball coming off, and the Miss Howards wished to go unbeknown to their father. I entered into the spirit of the joke. I procured them two blue dominoes and each a sprig of yellow holly, so that they might know one another. They went to the ball thus disguised. "I went also--in the same dress. I had got a third blue domino and I also wore a sprig of holly. In my pocket I took a stiletto. Why did I do that? Because I was determined to kill any one who tried to make love to my Percy. I knew that Jenny Howard, the little cat, would try and get him to love her, and I would have killed her with pleasure had she become Percy's bride. As I was masked, I had no fear of being discovered should I stab any one, and, moreover, were there trouble, the Miss Howards, being dressed as I was, even to the sprig of yellow holly, might be accused of any crime that might happen. Moreover, even if I killed Jenny I knew that the two sisters quarreled, and that on the evidence of the holly and the domino Violet might be charged with the crime. Oh, I made myself quite safe! I am a clever woman. "About the stiletto. I received that from a low shopkeeper called Velez, who was in love with Percy. She and her husband kept an oil-shop, and her husband was very jealous of her. She was madly in love with Percy, as I found out when buying something at her shop, and I got to know her intimately, so that I could make use of her if the occasion arose. I did make use of her, by getting the stiletto, and I took it to the ball. "I heard Percy propose to marry Jenny, and I was minded then to kill her. I drew the stiletto from my breast, and would have rushed forward, hoping to escape in the confusion when I killed her. But my heart failed me; even when she was left alone my heart failed me. Jenny took off her mask, and I left her sitting waiting for Percy's return. Then I followed Percy and saw Violet join him. I knew it was Violet, owing to the unmasking of Jenny, and, moreover, I had seen Violet listening, as I was. She loved him also--the cat! However, I saw that she wanted to get Percy out of the place by making him think she was Jenny. She did. I followed. He took her home to the gates of the hotel and left her there. When he was coming back to the ball I stopped him at the bottom of the parade. There was no one in sight, it was late, and a clear moon was shining. "Percy thought I was Violet, whom he mistook for her sister. He addressed me in such endearing tones as Jenny, and remonstrated so gently about what he called the rashness of following him from the hotel, that I lost my temper. I snatched off the mask and poured out my wrath. Percy burst out laughing when he recognized me. He said--never mind what he said--but it was an insult, and my Italian blood boiled in my veins. I drew the stiletto and rushed on him. At that moment my hand was caught from behind, and I fell. It was that man Ireland, who was then at San Remo, and a great friend of Percy's. He had wrenched the stiletto out of my hand. For a moment no one said anything, and I arose to my feet. Ireland addressed me as Miss Howard--Miss Violet Howard. Percy laughed again and corrected his mistake, saying that I was a love-sick nursemaid whom he had discharged. Then I lost my temper. "Stop! I must say exactly how it happened. Percy was leaning against the parapet of the parade in a careless attitude. He did not even move when I rushed on him with the stiletto, and had Ireland not caught my arm, I should have killed him. Ireland said that he had followed me--thinking I was Violet Howard--to ask me to return to the hotel. He talked some rubbish about a gentle-born English girl being out at night; but when he found that I was only a servant there was no more of that talk. Poor Eliza Stokes could have been out till dawn for all these gentlemen cared. They laughed at me, Percy leaning against the parapet, Ireland beside me, holding the stiletto carelessly in his hand. As I said, I lost my temper, and I told Percy what I thought of that fool Rosina Lockwood. He lost his temper also, but that only made me more angry. At last he dashed forward, and I believe he would have struck me but that Mr. Ireland intervened. I don't know exactly how it happened, but, in moving, Mr. Ireland evidently forgot how he held the stiletto, and put out his hand with the weapon pointing outward. In rushing on me, Percy came against it, and it ran right into his heart. With a choking cry he fell dead. I was terrified, and began to wring my hands. Ireland knelt down and found that Percy was dead. He seized my wrist and told me to hold my tongue lest I should be accused of the death. I said it was his fault. He replied it was an accident. But I had got the stiletto, I had tried to kill Percy, and Ireland declared that if I said anything that he would denounce me as the criminal. I was terrified as I saw the danger in which I was placed. Ireland suggested that we should throw the body over the parapet on to the beach, and that it would be thought robbers had killed Percy. I agreed, and we threw the body of my darling over. Oh, how my heart ached when I heard it fall on the cruel, cruel stones. "With Ireland I arranged to hold my tongue, and on his part he promised he would say nothing. The next day the news of the discovery of the body came. I was nearly out of my mind. Señora Velez, from whom I had borrowed the stiletto, knowing of my love for Percy, and being in love with him herself, accused me of the crime. I denied it, and said that if she did not hold her tongue I would tell her husband how she had loved Percy. She was afraid of her husband, who was a jealous brute, so she remained quiet. I gave her back the stiletto, which I had obtained from Ireland. We were both safe, but I was so ill that I left the hotel and returned to England. George Rates, who never suspected my share in the death, followed----" It was at this point that George ceased reading. He now knew the worst. His father had died by accident, and Ireland had been the unwitting cause of his death. Brendon wondered how the old man could have carried the knowledge all these years without speaking. He determined to have an interview with him. But at last he knew the truth about the death in San Remo. It inculpated no one, and he could not see how--according to Bawdsey--it could be connected with the murder of Mrs. Jersey. CHAPTER XXII WHO BAWDSEY WAS George read the remainder of Mrs. Jersey's confession and then put it away. Even when he got to the end he could not connect the San Remo crime with that of Amelia Square. It was in his mind to see his grandfather and tell the story to him, backed by the production of the confession. But on second thought he decided to see Bawdsey first. He wired for an appointment, and received a reply stating that Bawdsey was going out of town at three o'clock that day, but would be in his rooms till then. George lost no time. He called a cab, and within an hour of receiving the answer to his request he was on his way to Bloomsbury. On arriving he found that the detective expected him, and went to his room. Bawdsey was still in a disturbed state, as he was most anxious to get down the country and to help Lola out of her difficulty. He received Brendon irritably and in silence. George saw that the man was all nerves, and did not resent his sharp greeting. He sat down and opened the conversation. "You are going down to see Lola?" he asked. "Of course. I am much worried over her. She may get into serious trouble over this freak." "Well, why not tell the judge she is insane at times? Then she will get off lightly." "Would that be true?" asked the detective, struck by the idea. "As true as most things. She really is not accountable for her actions when she gets into these frenzies, and in such a one she must have been to attempt the burglary." "Poor soul, I wonder how she is now?" "Oh, she is not troubled much. Her spirits are as good as usual. She hardly seems to realize the enormity of her offense." "How do you know?" asked Bawdsey with a stare. "Because I saw her last night." "You saw her?" "I did. After I left you I took the train to Wargrove and had an interview with her." "You might have told me, Mr. Brendon," said Bawdsey, in a wounded tone. "Where would have been the use of that? I can manage my own business, I hope." "Considering how I love her, it is my business also." George shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you see, Bawdsey, it was your intention to see Lola first. I guessed as much, so I stole a march on you." Bawdsey fenced. "I don't see how you can say that." "I can. You know that Lola was in this house on the night the woman died." "I presume so, since she got the confession, and she must have secured it to know where your parents were married." "Well, then, knowing that, you wished to get that confession." "Yes, I did," said the detective, "and why not? I desired to know if Mrs. Jersey said anything about the San Remo crime in it." "I can tell you that. She did. I have the confession." Bawdsey bounded from his chair. "Where is it?" he asked. "In my rooms, locked away." "I do call that a shame," grumbled Bawdsey. "You might have trusted me, Mr. Brendon?" "Might I? Would you have trusted me?" "I do; you know I do." "To such an extent as suits yourself. But would you have shown me that confession had it come into your possession?" "You are not showing it to me," said Bawdsey, evasively. "That is not an answer. But I'll show you the confession whenever you like. Come, now, would you have shown it to me?" "Since you have read it, why ask me that question?" snapped the detective. "You know----" "Yes, I know that you would have burnt the confession. I know that to have a paper in existence which sets forth that Mr. Bawdsey's true name is George Rates is not to your liking." "I never did anything to disgrace that name, Mr. Brendon." "That is between yourself and your conscience," replied George, coolly, "and has nothing to do with me. You are George Rates?" Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders. "There is no use denying it," he said; "you have my wife's handwriting." "Was Mrs. Jersey really your wife?" "She was. We married soon after we left San Remo. She was hard up or she would not have married me." "And you went to the States?" "We did. There I took the name of Jersey, and tried a variety of things, none of which came to any good. Then I left Eliza." "Why did you do that?" "Because she was a devil," said Bawdsey, his face lighting up. "I tried all the means in my power to make her happy, but she was always quarreling and nagging, and lamenting that she had not married that Vane--your father, Mr. Brendon." "Did she tell you about the murder?" "It wasn't a murder," protested Bawdsey. "No, she did not tell me, but from a hint or two she dropped about getting money from Mr. Ireland I guessed that he had something to do with it. I came across to England and I saw him. He told me the whole story." "Did you get money from him?" "I did not. I am an honest man, although you do not seem to think so. I left all that blackmailing to my wife. She came over to get money out of Ireland. He simply said that he would tell the whole truth and would call the woman Velez as a witness about the dagger." "But that woman is dead?" "Oh, no, she isn't," said Bawdsey, coolly. "Lola told me that she was alive and still in San Remo. She could have made things very hot for my wife. But failing Ireland, my wife--Mrs. Jersey we will call her--had another string to her bow. She heard how Lord Derrington denied the marriage, and how you were living with your grandfather Lockwood. She went to Derrington and----" "I know the rest. And you came to live in this house." "Not at the time. I went back to the States, but as I could do nothing there I returned to England. Then I took up the private-inquiry business and called myself Bawdsey. I came to see my wife. She would not let me call myself her husband, and, as I had no great liking for her, I agreed. I was in this house for a few weeks and then I got my own diggings. I saw as little of Mrs. Jersey as was possible." "Why was that?" "Well, sir," replied Bawdsey, frankly, "I didn't hold with the annuity she was getting." "In a word, you disapproved of the blackmail?" "That's a good, useful word, sir," said Bawdsey, easily. "Yes, I did. I never would take a penny from her, and when I lived here during the few weeks I paid my board. Yes, sir, I'm an honest man." George stretched out his hand and shook that of Bawdsey heartily. "I am convinced you are, Bawdsey, and I apologize for my suspicions. But in some ways--eh?" "I didn't act very straight, you mean. Well, sir, when one deals with a criminal case one can't be too careful. I have had to tell lies, sir. And I say, Mr. Brendon," cried the detective, with a burst of confidence, "I would not have shown you that agreement. I guessed that Eliza would state who I was, and I didn't wish you to think that I was connected with her." "Why not?" "Well, sir, I fancied, seeing what you know, that you might suspect me of killing her." "No, Bawdsey. As you have acted so fairly all through, I am convinced that you are innocent on that score. But why did you say that the San Remo crime was connected with the death of Mrs. Jersey?" Bawdsey opened his eyes. "Can't you see, sir? The stiletto." "Oh, you mean that the weapon used by Lola was the same one as my father was killed with?" "Certainly, Mr. Brendon. It belonged to Señora Velez, the mother. She gave it to Lola, for I saw it in her rooms, before the death of Mrs. Jersey, and I recognized it from the description given by my wife." "But there are dozens of stilettoes like that one. Lord Derrington showed it to me." "Yes, that's true enough. But you see, from what my wife told me, I knew that she had got the dagger from the woman Velez. It wasn't hard to see, when I dropped across a similar weapon in the room of a woman also called Velez, that it was the same. Now you see how it is that Lola knew so much about the death of your father, and how she and I came to talk of the matter." "How did you drop on the subject in the first place?" "The name was enough for me. I saw Lola, and I fell in love with her, as you know. Then I remembered the name Velez and got an introduction to her. One thing led to another until I knew the whole story, and she admitted that the stiletto was the one with which Mr. Vane had been killed." George thought for a few minutes. "Tell me, Bawdsey," he said at length, "did you suspect Lola of committing the crime?" "Yes, I did," admitted Bawdsey, frankly; "you see she has a devil of a temper. I never knew that she had gone to see Mrs. Jersey on that night, although I might have guessed it because of the way she tried to learn the whereabouts of the house." "You mean the crimson light? Her excuse was foolish I thought the other day when you stated it," said George. "But when did you first suspect her?" "When I picked up the stiletto. I recognized it at once. It was my intention to take it round to her, so that she should not be incriminated, but I was so upset--as I said the other day--that I forgot all about the matter. When I did think, it was too late, for Derrington woke up and put on his coat. I wondered whether he would mention the stiletto to me. But he never did." "Because he knew nothing about it," said George. "Mrs. Ward stole it, as I told you." "Oh, I see how it is now. But I really did suspect Lola. I asked her if she was in the house. She said that she had been, although she denied it at first." "That's Lola's way," said George; "she always begins by denial. How did you bring her to confess?" "I threatened to identify the stiletto. Then she told the truth--if it was the truth," said Bawdsey, doubtfully. "Oh, I think so. I don't believe she killed the woman." "But you know her temper?" "Yes, I do, but since she has got what she wanted--the confession--there was no sense in her committing a murder. No, I quite believe that she threw the dagger at Mrs. Jersey's feet, as she said. It is just like one of Lola's impulsive actions." Bawdsey scratched his head. "I wonder who did kill Eliza," he muttered, "if Lola is innocent and I am innocent?" He looked at Brendon. "I can't help you," replied George, rising; "the thing is quite beyond me. It must have been some one in the house." "No," replied Bawdsey, positively; "remember, Mr. Train heard a door close--the front door--some time about half-past eleven." "That was you, was it not?" "No sir. I did not arrive till close on twelve, and Mrs. Jersey was already dead. The door must have been opened and closed by the murderer, and he left just before I arrived." "But how could he have entered? You alone had the latch-key. As to Lola, she slipped in while Mrs. Jersey was dismissing her guests." Bawdsey shook his head. "I can't understand it, sir. Of course there was another gentleman who had the house for a short time." He looked meaningly at Brendon. George looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Well, sir," began Bawdsey, with his invariable formula, "I don't like to mention names, and I am sure what I say will go no further, but there is Mr. Ireland----" Brendon started to his feet with an agitated face. "Ireland! Oh, no, that is impossible," he declared, "quite impossible! Why should he have a latch-key?" "After your grandfather's death he was in possession of the house for a time, and the keys would be with him. In handing them to Lord Derrington's agent he might have forgotten one." "It's improbable!" "I don't think so. It was a chance, I think, at first, but when he knew that Mrs. Jersey occupied the house he might have found the latch-key useful to see her when he felt inclined. I dare say she tried to get money out of him again." "But he refused her." "He did--once," said Bawdsey, meaningly, "but Mr. Ireland was not so young as he had been, and dreaded lest his--accident should be known." "It was an accident," said George. "Much as I deplore the death of my father, yet I acquit Ireland of all blame. But he didn't know she lived here until Miss Bull told him." "Oh, yes, he did. I'm sure Mrs. Jersey would let him know that she was just round the corner. She always kept in touch with useful friends." "But why should he kill her so suddenly?" "Well, he might have heard that she had written out a confession, or even about Lord Derrington's visit. And then he would come round to ask her if she had incriminated him in her confession. He would ask her for a sight of it. Not having it, for she found the blue envelope empty after Lola left, she would deny that she had it. The stiletto left by Lola would be on the table. What was more natural than for Ireland to pick it up and kill her in a sudden access of dread? Remember, Mrs. Jersey could accuse him of the crime, as it was known that Ireland was jealous of your mother's marriage to Vane. Oh, there was plenty of motive. As to his having refused her before, he was getting old, and thinking he might be brought to justice by her confession, for he never knew when she would die or into whose hands it would fall, he might have lost his nerve." "It strikes me that if he struck the blow he had a great deal of nerve," said George, dryly; "but you go on a lot of suppositions. You suppose that Ireland retained a latch-key of this house, that he knew Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession, that he knew my grandfather was coming on that night--in fact, that's all theory, Bawdsey. I do not believe Mr. Ireland had anything to do with the matter." "Then who had?" asked the detective. "What would you say to Margery?" "What, the niece--that half-witted girl?" "Exactly. Half-witted. She is more like an animal than anything human. She gets these sudden fits of rage. When Miss Bull fainted Margery rushed in and threatened me with her fists. Seeing what an uncontrollable temper she had, it occurred to me that she might have killed her aunt." "But Miss Bull says that the aunt locked the girl in her room." "Of course, but Miss Bull may know the truth, and may be shielding Margery--she seems to have a strange affection for the girl. What if Mrs. Jersey--to vary the story--found Margery down the stairs after Lola was gone, and instead of rebuking her as Miss Bull said in the passage----" "At eleven o'clock, mind." "Later, I think," said George, quickly. "You did not arrive till nearly twelve, and the woman was just dead." "I don't think a few minutes would make much difference," said Bawdsey, quietly, "but go on, sir. Let me hear your theory." "Well, I fancy that Mrs. Jersey caught Margery down the stairs, and took her into her own room to rebuke her quietly, so that the rest of the house might not hear. Also she would be anxious to learn if the girl had overheard her conversation with Lola. If Margery had, she would assuredly have told Miss Bull. Mrs. Jersey would be afraid of that, and I dare say she stormed at Margery to make her speak." "But there could have been no row, sir. No one heard a disturbance." "Oh, the boarders are old and sleep lightly. But I am bound to say I did not hear a disturbance myself," said George, reflectively. "Mrs. Jersey may have argued quietly. Then, as you say, the stiletto was on the table. Margery, goaded into action, might, with the sudden rage of a dumb animal, might have----" "Well, it's not impossible. But about the door closing?" "When Margery saw what she had done," pursued George, still trying to guess what had taken place, "her first impulse would be to run away. She would steal out and open the door. I am pretty sure Miss Bull was on the watch and saw her. She would draw the girl back and close the door--at half-past eleven, as Train heard. Then she would pacify Margery and lock her in her bedroom, after previously instructing her what to say next morning. That is what I believe, Bawdsey." "It's a very pretty case," murmured the detective, "and things might have happened as you say. But if it is the case, there is not much chance of learning the truth. Both Margery and Miss Bull will be silent. And after all, my theory regarding Ireland is just as good, Mr. Brendon." George rose to go. "Stick to your theory and I'll stick to mine," he said, smiling. "But what about Lola?" "Well, sir, I'll go down with Kowlaski and see her. We will do whatever we can to get her out of her trouble. And you, sir----" "Oh, I shall have nothing more to do with Lola. Take her away to the States as your wife, Bawdsey, and I will get my grandfather to give you the thousand pounds to start life on." "It's very good of you, sir," said Bawdsey, gratefully. "And you will try and persuade her to marry me?" "Yes. She knows--as I told her--that, register or no register, my grandfather intends to recognize me as his heir. Therefore she is certain--as she may well be--that I shall marry Miss Ward. She will gradually get over her fancy for me and will be quite content to take you." Bawdsey sighed. "I hope so. I love that woman, sir." "Yet she is a violent woman--almost as violent as your first wife." "Yes," assented Bawdsey, rather dolefully, "it seems as though I was always to fall into the hands of violent women. What do you intend to do now, sir?" "Leave matters alone, Bawdsey. I don't want to learn who killed Mrs. Jersey. Now I know about my father's marriage I shall change my name, take my rightful one, and have done with all this crime and mystery. The Yellow Holly can go hang, for me." CHAPTER XXIII THE TURNING OF THE LANE The proverb says that "Good luck comes to those who know how to wait." It had certainly come to George Brendon, or, as he was now called, George Vane. Lord Derrington could not make enough of him. After the interview with Bawdsey the young man called at St. Giles Square and related to his grandfather all he had learned. The old man was much astonished. "I don't think Ireland was to blame," he said, "not even in holding his tongue. After all, the thing was an accident, although undoubtedly that woman was the cause. Have you seen Ireland?" "Not yet, but I will soon." "Then tell him from me that I don't consider he was responsible, and that I quite believe from what I know of Mrs. Jersey that he has told the entire truth." "I will, sir," answered George. "I suppose you mean that if he really committed the crime with malice aforethought Mrs. Jersey would have blackmailed him." Lord Derrington nodded approvingly. "You are what the Scotch call 'quick in the uptake,' George. That is what I mean. Mrs. Jersey must have been afraid for herself or she would never have kept her claws off Ireland's money. She had plenty of mine," added the old gentleman, grimly. "Bad lot, George!" "I quite agree with you, sir. Poor Bawdsey was honest, however." "Well--" Lord Derrington did not assent immediately to this--"if Bawdsey had been really honest he would have asked me to be silent on the matter, and need not have used threats, however unwilling he was to carry them out. No, George, Bawdsey is like the serpent in the bamboo, straight so long as it is kept in check. I suppose he will marry the girl?" "I think so. He is madly in love with her. I promised that you would give him a thousand pounds if he went to America." "The deuce you did!" said Derrington, wrathfully. "Why not, sir?" rejoined Brendon, calmly. "We want him out of our lives. He knows too much. Better send him abroad, so that he may not make any remark about this unpleasant family history." Lord Derrington winced. George certainly had rather an unpleasant way of putting things. However, the old man silently acknowledged the justice of the speech. "You are right," he said. "But Bawdsey ought to do something for his money." "You mean that he ought to discover the assassin?" "Yes, I do. Whosoever killed that woman should be brought to justice, George." Brendon looked down. "I think it will be best to let sleeping dogs lie, sir," he said significantly. "Because of some scandal," said Derrington, looking hard at him. "Are you alluding to the possibility of Mrs. Ward having killed her?" At this supposition George laughed right out. "No, sir. I don't think Mrs. Ward would go so far as that." "She would, were there no law to restrain her." "I dare say. She has the instincts of a female despot. But as there is a law she would not jeopardize her neck. No, I mean Ireland." Derrington sat up. "Nonsense! Do you mean to say he is guilty?" "I don't think so, but Bawdsey has an idea," and George related the theory of the detective. Derrington grunted in a disgusted manner. "The man's a born idiot," he said. "Why should Ireland run the risk of getting his neck into a noose for a second crime? If he thought that she would leave a confession behind inculpating him, he would have waited to make certain. I don't believe there is a word of truth in the matter. However, when you see him, you can question him about his doings on that night." "I shall certainly do that," replied Brendon, quietly, "but failing Ireland (and his guilt is presumed by Bawdsey) there remains Margery." "That idiot of a girl! Yes?" George detailed his reasons for believing in Margery's guilt. Again Derrington sniffed. "It's all supposition. If the girl came into the room, if the stiletto were on the table, if Mrs. Jersey scolded her into a fury. Pah! I don't believe it." "And you really wish to find the assassin?" "I should like to know, out of mere curiosity. But if it is your opinion that things should be left as they are, why, Bawdsey can take his thousand pounds and sail for America whenever he chooses. But I grudge setting the rascal up in business," added Derrington who was still sore about the way in which he had been threatened. After this conversation George took his leave. Dorothy was out of town, so he could not visit her. After the interview with Ireland in Derrington's library, Mrs. Ward had found it convenient to go down the country. She felt that she was in an unpleasant position. Not that there was any danger of her being accused of murdering Vane. But if the police got hold of the story they might make inquiries--in fact, they certainly would make inquiries--and then the disagreeable fact would come out that Miss Bull was her sister. Mrs. Ward knew that she had not behaved well to Jenny, and that if the truth were known her friends would blame her. As Mrs. Ward did not like blame, and disliked to have her actions criticised, she went down the country, saying to Dorothy she desired a change of air. Lord Derrington wrote a note to Mrs. Ward after George had departed. "I'll ask her to come up," said Derrington, grimly, as he sealed the letter. "George will return in three days with the copy of the marriage certificate and with news of how that case has been disposed of. Mrs. Ward shall apologize to him and formally consent to the marriage. Dorothy shall come also. And Walter"--Derrington rubbed his hands, chuckling. He was rather anxious to see Walter's face when he heard that he was no longer the heir. Meantime George went with Kowlaski and Bawdsey to Chelmsford to see after Lola. Kowlaski was in despair, as if Lola received a term of imprisonment his ballet would be brought to an untimely end. Now that Lola was out of the bill, the hall was not so full as usual, and Kowlaski foresaw that if Lola did not come back he would lose money. He therefore went down prepared to spend a large sum to set her free. But there was no need for fear. Lola was brought up before the magistrates, and evidence was given as to her excitable nature. The old sexton produced the torn register and detailed how he had been assaulted. He thought the lady was queer, himself. Kowlaski went into the box, also Bawdsey and George. The result of their evidence as to Lola's foreign ways was that the magistrate admonished her and inflicted a small fine. This was triumphantly paid by Kowlaski, who returned to town with his principal dancer under his jealous eye. More than that, Kowlaski made quite a story out of the events. It was known in London that Lola Velez had been arrested, as all the London papers copied the account of the trial which had appeared in the country press. Kowlaski put it about that Lola had gone off her head owing to grief for her dying mother. Few people believed this, but the public was so pleased to see the favorite again that she was saluted with cheers. In a few days every one forgot about the matter, which, after all, did not amount to much. Luckily it was not stated why Lola had wished to destroy the register. There were several marriage entries on the page, and no one could say which of these she wished obliterated. Besides, Brendon got the magistrate to suppress the book, and not let the press report the matter. He accomplished this by telling the magistrate exactly how the matter stood. So the judicial authority used his power, and the fourth estate quailed. Everything was settled in a most satisfactory manner. Later on Brendon had copies made of the marriage entry of Percy Vane, Bachelor, and Rosina Lockwood, Spinster, and brought them to his grandfather. The old man read them carefully, then laid down the paper with a sigh of relief. "I never thought I would be pleased to see that in black and white," he said. "And are you pleased now?" "Of course I am. You are to revive the glories of the Derrington Vane family. They have faded of late, but you, sir----" He clapped his grandson on the back, and George laughed at the old man's enthusiasm. "There is one strange thing," he said after a pause. "Seeing that my parents were married so near London I cannot understand how the marriage was not discovered before." Derrington looked thoughtful also. "It is strange," he admitted, "but you remember the tale of Poe's Purloined Letter. People always look in the most unlikely places first, and because the church was so near to town and nobody had replied to the advertisement, they--the searchers, I mean--must have thought that the marriage took place in some moorland parish where people never looked at the journals. It was the very closeness of Wargrove church to London, George, that prevented the certificate being discovered sooner." "I suppose you are right," said Brendon, "but it does seem strange." "Everything in life is strange," said Derrington, "and not the least strange thing is that I kick out Walter to make room for you. By the way, George, he will be here soon." "Have you told him?" "Yes, and he wants to see you about the matter. I said that he could in my presence. What he has to say I don't know. There is another reason for your remaining, George. Mrs. Ward and her daughter are coming here." "She won't be pleased to see me," said Brendon. "Oh, I think she will. After Ireland put her in a corner she grew afraid, and now she would like to see the matter settled at any price. When she is your mother-in-law, George, keep her out of your house or there will be trouble." "You must stand sentinel, sir. She won't come near me then." "Egad, that's true. She is afraid of me. I hold that stiletto, you see, and I know about her doings at San Remo. The minx!" said Derrington with great vigor. "I wonder that her daughter is so charming." "So good, you mean," said George, fondly, whereat Derrington gave a sigh. "Oh, love--love, and again--love," said he. "It seems I am going to have a most sentimental time with you two." "Be at rest, sir. Neither Dorothy nor I am sentimental. We are too serious for that." "That's worse. I hate serious lovers." "Then we will be gay," said George, with a laugh. "Don't overdo it," replied Derrington, with a kindly smile; "be as you are, both of you, and I shall not complain. Ah, here is Walter! Well, my boy, have you come to see your new cousin?" Walter Vane entered the library with an injured air. He looked neater and more fragile than ever, and wonderfully old, considering his years. Derrington looked from him to the fine figure of George, with a queer look in his eyes. "No one would ever take you for relatives," he said. "Why, they say we are like one another," said Walter. "Mrs. Ward remarked on the likeness when we dined with her. I wondered why we should resemble one another, but it is explained now," and Walter cast a not unkindly look in his cousin's direction. Derrington snarled. "George is like me, and you take after your father, Walter, who was a shrimp if ever there was one." George hastened to the rescue of his cousin. "It seems to me that the conversation is getting somewhat personal," he remarked. "Walter, I hope you bear me no grudge for stepping into your shoes." Walter took the hand in his own limp grasp. "Well, of course it is hard on a fellow," he answered in a rather whining manner, "but you and I got on well together, so I would rather it was you than another fellow. That Train friend of yours, for instance. He's such a cad!" "But a very good fellow for all that," said Brendon, dryly. "Oh, people always say that of a fellow who has nothing to recommend him," retorted Walter; "but as you are to be the head of the family I am glad you are not a bounder." "That's very kind of you," said George, dryly. "And very silly of Walter," growled the grandfather. "What do you mean, sir, by talking rubbish? Is it likely that any one of my blood would be what you call a bounder?" "No," said Walter, pacifying the old man. "I only mean----" "Never mind what you mean. It's sure to be something foolish. This," said Derrington, pointing with his cane to George, "is the future head of our family. Pay him all respect." "We'll get on capitally," said George, clapping Walter on the back. "And what about my income?" asked Walter. "You will have what you have now," said Derrington; "don't bother me about the matter. You and George can settle it between you." Considering how he had been ousted, Walter really took things very calmly. But he had not enough vigor to protest. He sighed. His grandfather had cowed him, and Walter profoundly admired his newly found cousin, who did not hesitate to stand up to the despot. He began to think it was a good thing that George had come into the family. He would at least save him--Walter--from constant bullying. This interesting family council was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Ward, as pert and pretty as ever. She had quite recovered her spirits, and knowing that Derrington would say nothing about the card-cheating or about the San Remo matter, she was prepared to be as insolent as she dared. But she was quite determined not to cross swords again with the old man. Like a burnt child she dreaded the fire. Derrington was altogether too much, even for her. As it was, she came sailing in with the prettiest air in the world, and held out both hands, her head on one side like a sick canary. "My dear Lord Derrington, how well you are looking! How"--here her astonished eyes fell on George. "You!" said Mrs. Ward, aghast. "Mr. Brendon! and here!" "Not Mr. Brendon," said Derrington enjoying her confusion, "but my grandson, George Vane." Dorothy, who had remained below to give some instructions to the footman, entered the room just in time to hear this announcement. She flew to her lover. "My dearest George, I am glad, glad, so glad," and before them all she kissed him. Mrs. Ward screamed: "Dorothy! What manners!" "Very good manners," said Derrington, coolly, "seeing that they are natural. Well, Mrs. Ward, George--my grandson, and heir," added the old man with emphasis, "has something to say to you." "Really. I shall be most happy to hear it." George took his cue. "I have to ask you for the hand of your daughter Dorothy," he said, looking very proud and manly as he stood with the girl's hand within his own. "Really," said Mrs. Ward again, "I don't know. I fancied that Walter, you see----" And she cast her eyes on the neat little man. "Oh, I scratch," said Walter, in his elegant way. "There's no fighting against George. He has all the luck." "You call him George?" "Why shouldn't I? He's my cousin; the head of the house----" "When I go to my long home," finished Derrington. "Well, Mrs. Ward, do you consent to the match?" "Do, mother," said Dorothy, imploringly. Mrs. Ward sank into a chair and pretended to be overcome by emotion. In fact, she did this merely to gain time, as she did not wish to answer too quickly. It was plain that Walter, whom she had wished Dorothy to marry, took, in her own phraseology, "a back seat." George was promoted _vice_ Walter resigned. George would be Lord Derrington and would have the money. He was an obstinate man, certainly, and would be difficult to manage. Still, she might be able to get the better of him. She could always work him through Dorothy, if Dorothy would only get over her absurd notions of religion and all that sort of thing. On the whole Mrs. Ward thought it was best to agree. Knowing what Derrington knew, and how obstinate both lovers were, she did not see very well what else she could do. However, she made the most of her compulsory surrender. After a few sighs, and having squeezed a few tears, she cried to her daughter, in a muffled voice, expressive of deep emotion, "Dorothy, my dear child." Dorothy, with a look at George, went and knelt down by her mother's chair. She was not the dupe of this play-acting, but, knowing that her mother would insist on making an effective scene, wished to get it over as speedily as possible. Mrs. Ward put her hand on Dorothy's shoulder in a maternal manner. "Do you love George?" she asked. "Yes," said Dorothy, simply, "you know I love him." "George, do you love my child?" "I do," replied George, curtly, while Derrington surveyed this touching scene with a grim smile. He always loved to watch the antics of Mrs. Ward. She believed in them so thoroughly herself, and they deceived no one gifted with ordinary intelligence. "It is hard," said Mrs. Ward with a deep sigh, "to see a child leave its parent. But you love her, you have won her;" here she rose, and raising Dorothy from her knees gave her to George. "Take her, George, and with her take a mother's blessing." The idea of Mrs. Ward's blessing was too much for Walter, and he went off into a shriek of laughter, which ended in his leaving the room. George was quite unmoved. He thanked Mrs. Ward and kissed Dorothy. Then he took her to a distant seat near the window, where they could talk sensibly. Lord Derrington was left to console the afflicted mother. This he proceeded to do immediately. "Egad, you did it well!" he said, looking at the pretty woman. "I don't believe Miss Terry or Mrs. Siddons could have done it better." Mrs. Ward flushed a little, but still kept up the pose. "Nature spoke, my dear Lord Derrington. I am aware that you consider Nature vulgar." "I was not aware that I did. I see so little of it, that your scene touched me--positively touched me." Mrs. Ward saw that it was useless to hide the truth from this keen-eyed old man any longer. "Oh, don't be nasty," she said plaintively, and rustled up to him. "Of course, I wanted Dorothy to marry Walter, but George does just as well." "I don't think she has made a bad exchange, Mrs. Ward." "He's good-looking enough," said the little woman, "but so serious and dull. Of course, I suppose you'll allow him an income." "He shall have all that is necessary to keep up his position as my heir," said Derrington dryly. "I hope he and Dorothy will live here. The house is big enough." "And they won't have to pay any rent, which is always a consideration, isn't it? Oh, I hope dear Dorothy will be happy. I shall see much of her--much of my darling child." "No," said Derrington, thinking it just as well to nip these plans in the bud, "you care very little about Dorothy, and you don't like George. When they are married you must stop away as much as is consistent with your feelings." "I'll do what I like," said Mrs. Ward, beginning to tap her foot. "No, I don't think you will. You threatened me in this room." "I was only playing a game," protested Mrs. Ward. "Well, I can play a game also. Mrs. Jersey has left behind her a confession in which she details how you managed to cheat your sister, Miss Bull. If you don't leave that couple severely alone I shall show the confession to Dorothy." "You would never be so cruel." "Oh, yes, I would," replied Derrington, who had not the slightest intention of fulfilling his threat. "I never did anything to my sister. Mrs. Jersey tells lies----" Derrington made a gesture of disgust. "There--there," he said, "what is the use of talking further? Things are settled. When Dorothy and George are married I'll see what I can do for you." Mrs. Ward's face became wreathed with smiles. She was such a frivolous, heartless little woman that she could change from one mood to another with wonderful rapidity. "Oh, thank you, dear Lord Derrington," she said artlessly, and pressing his arm. "I know you are the most generous of men. But I really can't stop talking here all day." She rustled over to Dorothy. "My darling, I must go and do some shopping. No, you can stay here. I will call again in an hour. George," she presented her cheek, "you can kiss your mother-in-law." George did so, delicately, so as not to spoil the tint of the cheek. Mrs. Ward departed. "He's like a block of wood," she said to herself; "never did a man kiss me so coldly before. Ugh! The bear!" CHAPTER XXIV A STARTLING SURPRISE Having thus settled matters in a satisfactory manner with Mrs. Ward and Dorothy, George sought out Ireland the next day. He passed a delicious hour with Dorothy, and they renewed the vows they had made when there was little chance of a bright future. Now the future was altogether bright, and the two built castles in the air. George was to marry Dorothy, they were to take up their residence with Lord Derrington, and George was to enter Parliament on the first opportunity. "But you must not neglect your literary work," said Dorothy; "the novel must be finished." "I hope that many novels will be finished," said George, laughing. "I will be like Beaconsfield, and write novels between whiles of politics--it will be an amusement." "Which will be the amusement?" asked Dorothy. "Both. Politics is an amusing game, and when one has time to write what one pleases, and at the pace one pleases, that is amusing also. You will be my inspiration--my Egeria." "That is very like Beaconsfield," replied Miss Ward; "he always called some unknown woman his Egeria." "I am more lucky. I know who my Egeria is." More talk of this light and fanciful kind passed. It would have sounded foolish to sensible people, but George and his beloved were so happy that they talked nonsense out of sheer lightness of heart. At the end of the hour Mrs. Ward carried off Dorothy, and George took leave of his grandfather. It was the next day that he went to see Ireland. At the door he was informed that Ireland had been very ill with his heart, and that the doctor had been called in. Nevertheless, Ireland would not obey the advice of his physician and stop in bed. He was up and dressed as usual and in his study. George entered the large bare room, papered with the gaudy advertisements, and saw his former guardian seated at his desk as usual. The man looked very ill. His large, placid face was extremely pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he even seemed to have grown lean. His clothes hung loosely on him, and he did not rise when George entered. The young man knew that Ireland must be ill to fail in this courtesy, as he was extremely punctilious. "Excuse me, George," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "but I am not so well as I might be." "You are looking ill--very ill," said George, taking his seat. Ireland nodded. "I can't live long," he remarked in his heavy voice. "So the doctor informs me. My heart is extremely weak. I may die at any moment." George was shocked. "It's not so bad as that, I hope," he said. "It's as bad as it well can be. For the last few days I have deviated sadly from my usual habits. I have not taken a walk, and my system of life is quite upset. It's the beginning of the end." He paused and sighed. "You are looking well, George." "I have every reason to. Mrs. Ward has consented to my marriage." "With her daughter? How is that?" "Well, the church where my parents were married has been discovered." Ireland looked interested. "That is good news. Where were they married?" "In Wargrove Church. It is a parish in Essex, an hour's journey from town. Quite a small place." Ireland made the same remark that George himself had made. "Strange," he said, "that being so near town the place was not discovered before. I have no doubt that your advertisement set many people hunting. Well, I'm glad that the marriage has been proved at last, both for your sake and in justice to the woman I loved--to her dear memory. She was Rosina Vane after all." "That has been proved beyond a doubt. My grandfather has seen the copy of the certificate and now holds it." "Is he pleased?" "Very pleased. He is now as friendly toward me as he has been hitherto hostile." Ireland nodded, breathing heavily. "I thought he would be. He and I had a long talk about you on the day I called. That was when I saw Mrs. Ward and----" "You can go on," said George, seeing his hesitation. "I know the whole story." "What story?" asked Ireland, suspiciously. "The story of what happened at San Remo. Mrs. Ward I know was Violet Howard, and her sister Jenny is Miss Bull." "Yes. Poor Jenny, she was the better of the two, and now she drags out a miserable life in a London lodging-house. While Violet, who is a bad woman----" "And the mother of Dorothy," interrupted George, imperiously. "Say no more, sir." "You are quite right. As I can't say good of the woman let me say no bad. Well, you know how she loved your father." "I think she flirted with him, but it was Jenny who really loved." "And look at her reward!" said Ireland, with a deep sigh. "Those who try to do their best always come off worst. I loved your mother, George, and I have been a lonely man all my life." It was a sad case. George wished to get at the truth, but he was so sorry for Ireland, who had passed so many miserable years, that he did not like to inflict more pain. Nevertheless, it was necessary to learn if Ireland had really visited Mrs. Jersey on that night, so as to set Bawdsey's mind at rest. If George did not learn the truth, Bawdsey might attempt the discovery, and he would handle the old man in a much worse manner than George was likely to do. While pondering how he could set about his unpleasant task, George was saved from making the first step, always the most difficult, by an observation from Ireland, which paved the way to an explanation. "How did you discover the church?" he asked idly. "In rather a queer way. Lola Velez----" Ireland opened his eyes, which had been closed, and looked up. "Who is Lola Velez?" he asked anxiously. "She is a dancer whom I helped--oh, quite in a proper way, Mr. Ireland. You know the name?" Ireland, contrary to George's expectation, nodded. "There was a woman in San Remo about the time of your father's death. She was called Velez, and was in love with him." "He seems to have been a fascinating man," said George, smiling, to set Ireland at his ease. "But this Lola is the daughter of the woman you mention. It was she who found the church." By this time Ireland was quite awake, and keenly anxious for details. "How did she learn its name?" he demanded quickly. "She found it in the confession of Mrs. Jersey." Ireland snapped the paper-cutter he was holding, and, leaning back in his chair, looked anxiously at George. "What do you mean?" "Well," replied the young man, keeping his eyes fixed on Ireland's face, "it seems that Mrs. Jersey left a confession behind her as to what took place at San Remo." "Who has that confession?" "I have! I got it from Lola!" "And how did she manage to obtain it?" For answer George related how Lola had called to see Mrs. Jersey, and how she had managed to steal the confession. "It was from reading it," finished George, "that she learned of the church in which my parents were married. Desiring that I should marry her, and thinking I would not do as were my birth proved, she went to the church to destroy the registers. She was caught with the torn leaves, and arrested." "Arrested?" "Yes. I wonder you did not see the case reported in the papers." "I have been too ill to read the papers lately," said Ireland, looking round the room in rather a helpless way, "and none of my servants told me. What happened?" "Oh, Lola was let off with a small fine. She is now back dancing at her music-hall. She gave the confession to me." "Did any one else see it--the authorities?" "No. You can set your mind at rest, Mr. Ireland. I got it from Lola before she was taken to prison. No one had seen it but myself and Lord Derrington." Ireland drew a long breath of relief. "You made a strange remark just now, George," he said, not looking at the young man. "You told me to set my mind at rest. Why did you say that?" "I have read the confession," said George, quietly. Mr. Ireland rose from his chair and began to pace the room. He seemed so weak that George wished him to return, but the old man waved his hand impatiently. "It's all right--it's all right," he said, then stopped opposite to George. "Then you know?" "I know that my father's death was due to an accident." "What! Did that wretched woman tell the truth?" "She told the truth." "And she did not accuse me of having murdered your father?" "No. She did not. I suppose she thought it was as well to go to her long home with as few sins as possible on her conscience. But she certainly exonerated you." "Thank God for that," said Ireland, and returned to his seat. Then he looked at his visitor in a piteous manner. "George," he said in faltering tones, "I have suffered greatly on account of that most unhappy accident----" "I am sure you must have, sir. But don't let it worry you any more. It was an accident, and both Lord Derrington and I heartily forgive you for having been the unconscious cause of my father's death." Ireland nodded. "Thank God again," he said solemnly. "Your father and I were not very good friends, as I found it difficult to forgive him for having taken from me the woman I loved. But at San Remo we got on better together. I stifled my resentment so that I might see as much of you as possible, George. Knowing that I was not on good terms with Vane, I thought that Mrs. Jersey might have accused me of the crime. She did try to get money out of me." "So Bawdsey told me." "Bawdsey. Who is he?" "I forget you don't know. He is a private-inquiry agent who has been looking after the case on behalf of Lord Derrington. I learn from the confession of Mrs. Jersey that he is her husband." "George Rates. I remember. She told me she married him and went to America. It was after her return from America that she tried to get money out of me. I refused; not that I did not realize the danger to which she could expose me, but I knew that if I once yielded I would be in her power. Besides, I had a defense, as she got the stiletto from the woman Velez." "And it was with that same stiletto that Mrs. Jersey was killed." "By whom?" asked Ireland. "Did her husband----" "No. We do not know who killed her. Perhaps you may know?" "I!" Ireland looked genuinely surprised. "No; how should I know?" "Well," said George, rather awkwardly, "it seems that Bawdsey has got it into his head that you knew about this confession." "I did not!" "That you were afraid it would be published after her death, and that you went to the house on that night to get it." "I did not. How could I have entered the house?" "Bawdsey thinks you had a latch-key." "No. All the keys were handed to Lord Derrington's agent when the house was sold. In plain in words, George, this man Bawdsey--Rates--whatever he calls himself; accuses me of the murder." "He doesn't exactly accuse you, but----" "I don't know what else you would call his statements but accusations," retorted Ireland with some heat, "but I never was near the house. I certainly thought that Mrs. Jersey might leave some such confession, but I never asked her about it. I never thought that such a healthy woman would die before me, and I knew that sooner or later my bad heart would carry me off in spite of the regularity of my life." "Then you cannot guess who killed her?" "No. I was never near the house. I was in bed and asleep. My servants will tell you so." "I need not ask them," said George, quickly. "I never thought you were guilty, and I only came to receive your assurance, so that I might tell Bawdsey and prevent him troubling you." "If Bawdsey comes here I'll soon make short work of him," said Ireland, sharply. "I am not afraid." "You need not be. Mrs. Jersey's own confession exonerates you." "I don't mind even that. I would have faced the worst had it to be faced. I never was a coward--except in one thing." He paused and looked timidly at George. "I shrank from telling you how I was the unhappy cause of your father's death." "You were not the cause, in my opinion. Mrs. Jersey was the cause." "Well, I thought you would shrink from me did you know all." "I do know all, and I do not shrink from you," replied George, leaning across the desk to shake Ireland's hand. "It was a pure accident, and has been related by your enemy." "I am so glad the truth is known to you at last," faltered the old man, "and that you see how unconsciously I caused the death. You are her son, George, the son of the only woman I ever loved--of the woman for whose sake I have remained lonely all these years. Had you condemned me----" His emotion prevented him from saying more. George grew alarmed by his pallor. "Please think no more of the matter, Mr. Ireland," he said; "you are ill. Go and lie down!" "Yes, I'll lie down." Ireland leaned heavily, on George's arm. "I shall lie down for ever. But I am glad you know. I am glad you are not angered." "We are the best of friends, Mr. Ireland. You have always been kind to me. And I am sure my dead mother blesses you for all your goodness to her orphan boy." "Rosina! Rosina!" murmured Ireland, "how I loved her. You have her eyes, George, and her kind nature. Come, let me get to bed. Soon the curtain will drop." "I am afraid my visit has been too much for you." "No. I am glad you came. I am glad you spoke out. I always intended to do so, but I feared lest you should blame me." By this time they were ascending the stairs. George conducted the old man to his room and sent for the doctor. Ireland undressed and got to bed. Then he insisted on George leaving him. "But you are ill," protested the young man. "I am dying, but what of that? I am glad to die. I shall meet Rosina again after long, long years of sorrow. Go, George. We understand one another, and you have forgiven me. There is no more to be said." "There is nothing to forgive," replied George, softly; then, to humor his old guardian, he departed. A strong grip of the hand was exchanged between them. George left the room and saw Ireland lying as still as any corpse. Only his lips moved, and they murmured continuously, "Rosina! Rosina!" He was true to the woman he loved to the very end. George left the house, as there was nothing he could do, but he intended to call in again. Meanwhile he repaired to Amelia Square to see Bawdsey. Derrington wished him to tell the detective to stop looking after the case and discharge him from his employment. In his pocket George had a check for one thousand pounds, and when this was paid the whole case was to be relegated to obscurity. Now that Derrington was reconciled to his grandson he was anxious, for obvious reasons, that the sordid tragedy of Mrs. Jersey's death should not come to light. He had not played a very respectable part in it himself, and, moreover, he did not wish that confession published. It would only be a case of washing the family linen in public, and both George and he agreed that this was undesirable. The sooner Bawdsey married Lola and went to America the better, Derrington thought. And for his own sake Bawdsey would hold his tongue, seeing what a close connection he was of the dead woman. Bawdsey was at home and saw George at once. He looked rather excited, and could hardly keep his seat. "Well, Mr. Brendon," he asked, "what is it?" "I should rather ask you that;" said George; "you seem excited." "Not very. Only I have been fortunate in some business, and----" "What is the business?" "I'll tell you that later. What is yours?" "A pleasant one," rejoined George. "Here is the check for one thousand pounds which my grandfather promised you. Marry Lola and go to the States, and stop searching for the assassin of Mrs. Jersey." "Thank you," replied Bawdsey, taking the check eagerly, "your grandfather is a prince, Mr. Brendon. As to the case, why should I stop searching?" "You will never find the assassin." "Pardon me," said Bawdsey, in high glee. "I have found the assassin. Yes!" as George uttered an ejaculation. "Miss Bull killed Mrs. Jersey." CHAPTER XXV THE TRUTH George stared at the triumphant detective in surprise. It seemed impossible that what he stated could be true. Miss Bull was the very last person whom Brendon would have accused. No one had been more candid than she had been, and no one at the time of the discovery of the crime had done more to help the detectives. "You must mean Margery," said George after a time. "No, I don't," replied Bawdsey, in a determined voice. "I mean that little white old woman with the black eyes--Miss Bull, or, as you know her, Miss Jenny Howard." "But what reason----" "Ah, that's a long story! She shall tell you herself." "Have you had her arrested?" "Not yet. But she will be arrested before the end of the day. I have already communicated with Scotland Yard." George rose and walked to the window. He felt irritable and upset now that the truth had come to light. He wished that Bawdsey had not been so confoundedly interfering, and the detective's next words annoyed him still further. "It was your idea about Margery that put me on the scent," he said with great complacency; "though, to be sure, I had my suspicions before. It was to watch Miss Bull that I came here." "What made you think that she was guilty?" "She has confessed--in the calmest manner, too--that----" "I mean before. Why did you suspect her?" "Well, it seemed to me that she was the only person who could have killed Eliza. She and Eliza hated one another because of their mutual love for your father." George groaned. What a lot of trouble his father had caused with his handsome looks and charming manners. Even after his death the fatal attraction he exercised seemed to bring about disaster. "She did not kill Mrs. Jersey on that account," he said. "Wait till you hear. She will tell you. In fact, she asked me to send for you, as she wishes to speak." "Where is she now?" "In the famous sitting-room playing Patience." "Doesn't she realize the peril of her position?" "In a way she does. But she seems quite ready to face the worst." "Poor woman," said George, thinking of the sad life which the old maid had led; "if she has sinned, she has suffered." "If people will use knives in that way they must be punished," was the rather harsh retort of Bawdsey. "Don't talk stuff, Bawdsey. You have your own sins to think of." "I never committed murder." "No one said you had, but you may do so before you die." Bawdsey shuddered. "I hope not, Mr. Vane," he said. "I don't know why you should say such a thing. I am an honest man." "You say that so often that I shall begin to disbelieve it," replied Brendon, rather cynically; "but if you marry Lola, either you will kill her or she will kill you." "I'll take my chance of that. And if you----" George made an impatient gesture with his hand and returned to his seat. "Never mind further chatter. Let me hear how you came to learn that this poor creature struck the blow." "If you talk that way of a criminal, Mr. Vane, what will you say of a good woman?" "My good man, there is more joy over a sinner that repenteth----" "But Miss Bull doesn't repent," said Bawdsey. "I'll hear the story before I give an opinion on that point. You say that it was some remark I made which----" "Yes, it was," said Bawdsey, eagerly, and throwing himself into a seat. "Your remark that Margery might be guilty----" "One moment," interrupted George, in his turn. "I may tell you that I have seen Mr. Ireland, and he declares that he never was near the house on that night, that he knew nothing of the confession, and that he had no latch-key. He is innocent." "Now that I have heard Miss Bull I know that, sir. She's the one." "Well, and how did you find out?" Bawdsey cleared his throat and began, with a most important air: "I rather agreed with your idea that Margery might be guilty," he said, "and when I turned it over in my own mind I thought it more and more probable. I therefore determined to get Margery alone and work on her fears." "Pah!" said Brendon, with disgust. "Well, sir," retorted Bawdsey, shrugging his shoulders. "I had to get at the truth somehow, and detective's work is not all so honorable as novelists make out. I got Margery alone." "And how did you set to work?" "Well, it was this morning in the sitting-room. Miss Bull had gone out and had left Margery to make up some accounts. The girl was laboring away at them and getting into a hopeless mess. I came to speak with her, and offered to do them. I soon put the accounts to rights and then began to talk of Miss Bull." "Why of Miss Bull?" "Why--" Bawdsey pinched his lip--"I thought at the time that Margery was guilty, and that if in talking to her I laid the blame on Miss Bull that the girl would speak out." "You traded on the poor wretch's friendship. Bawdsey, I'm ashamed of you." "I'm ashamed of myself," replied the detective, penitently; "but Lord bless you! Mr. Vane, one gets used to this sort of thing. In our business the means justifies the ends far more than in religion." "I certainly don't think it justifies any end in religion," said George, sharply. "Well, you accused Miss Bull of the crime?" "In a way I did. Margery denied it." "What did you say?" "That she might as well confess. I declared that I had evidence to prove Miss Bull's guilt, and that she would be arrested when she came back. I declare, Mr. Vane, I thought that girl would strike me. She was like a wild-cat." "I wish she had," growled George, whose generous spirit was revolted by the use Bawdsey had put Margery to. "She said if I arrested Miss Bull she would kill me. I said, 'As you killed your aunt.' She up and said: 'Yes, I did kill her. Miss Bull is innocent, and you know she is.' Of course, when she admitted the fact I at once began to suspect Miss Bull." "Why did you do that?" "Because if Margery had been guilty she would not have owned up. But if Miss Bull was guilty, Margery would certainly take the guilt on herself." "Poor girl!" murmured George "there is something noble in that dull soul." Bawdsey could not see this, and mentally disagreed with it. However, he did not want to argue down Brendon's too tender conscience, so he went on with his recital. "While Margery was threatening me and taking the guilt on herself, Miss Bull came in. That stupid girl ran to her and fell at her feet, crying that I knew all, but that she would die for her dear Miss Bull." "And what did the woman say?" "She asked me if I knew. I said I did. She demanded how I found out. I told her that that was my business. She began to smell a rat and suspected that I was bluffing. She would have held her tongue, but Margery was in such terror for her friend that she came out with the whole story. Miss Bull tried to stop her, but Margery kept repeating that she would die for her dear Miss Bull, and so let the cat out of the bag." "The girl is half-witted--all this may not be true." "Oh, yes, it is. When Miss Bull saw that the game was up she sat down and admitted that she had killed Mrs. Jersey. She also said that she was glad the truth had come to light, that she wished to die, and so on." "She was raving," said George, incredulously, not thinking any one would incriminate himself or herself so freely. "No, she wasn't. She told me the whole story in the calmest manner, just as though she were asking me to have a cup of tea. Then she asked me to send for you and sat down to play Patience." "I wonder you are not having her watched," said George, with scorn. "Oh, she won't run away," replied Bawdsey, easily, and not perceiving the irony of the remark. "Come along, Mr. Vane, we'll go down and see her. She is desperately anxious to see you." "Do any of the boarders know?" "Not yet, but they will when she is arrested." George shuddered and followed Bawdsey down the stairs. It seemed terrible to him that such a fragile little creature as Miss Bull should be subjected to this disgrace. He did not condone her crime. She had acted wrongly and must take the consequences. But he could not forget that she was Dorothy's aunt, and he wished he could see some way of rescuing her from this dreadful position. Miss Bull was--as Bawdsey had stated--playing Patience. Seated at the very table where her victim had sat, she dealt the cards, and seemed quite interested in the game. Margery was seated in a chair near at hand, looking with tearful eyes into the face of her friend. Beyond the fact that Miss Bull was whiter than usual, she showed no signs of emotion. "You have come, George," she said, addressing him by his name. "I am glad to see you. Mr. Bawdsey, you may go." The detective was taken aback and would have remonstrated, but Margery rose and approached him. "You have done your worst," she said, her eyes flashing. "Go, or I'll twist your neck." Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders, and with a glance at George went out. After all, he had heard the story before and did not particularly care to hear it again. Besides, Bawdsey was a kindly man, and he felt sorry that he had proceeded to such extremities. Miss Bull shuffled her pack of cards and laid them away in a box. "I shall play that game no more," she said. "I have been playing Patience all my life, but the end has come, and I am glad it has come. Hush, Margery," for the girl had burst into tears, "I will see that you are left well off and looked after, my dear." "I don't want that. I want you," sobbed the girl. She slipped to the floor and laid her head on Miss Bull's knee like a faithful dog. Miss Bull patted her head and allowed her to remain in this position while she spoke to George. Margery sobbed for a time, and then remained quiet, listening to every word, and quite content to feel the gentle hand of the old maid smoothing her hair. "I suppose you were astonished when Mr. Bawdsey told you?" said Miss Bull, looking with piercing eyes at Brendon. "I was. I never thought that you--you----" "That I would kill Mrs. Jersey," finished the woman, quietly. "Why not? She was a bad, wicked creature, and caused the death of your father. She boasted of it." "Where? When?" asked the astonished young man. "In this very room, in my presence. But to make you understand, I had better tell you all." "One moment, Miss Bull. When you told the fortunes on that night, did you intend to kill Mrs. Jersey?" "No. The death card did turn up. That was a strange coincidence, George. When I came down the stairs I had no more idea than you of killing the wretched woman." "What made you do it?" "I am telling you," replied Miss Bull, folding her hands on her lap. "Wait and hear. Mrs. Jersey was very rude to me on that night. I intended to remonstrate with her. She added insult to injury by locking Margery in her bedroom, so as to keep her from me. I heard her scolding Margery in the passage, and when all was quiet, and Mrs. Jersey had gone down the stairs, I went up to Margery's room and unlocked the door. Mrs. Jersey had struck the poor child, and she was sobbing on her bed. I then determined to go down for the second time and see Mrs. Jersey." "For the second time? Were you down before?" "I was," replied Miss Bull, calmly. "I wondered who Mrs. Jersey had coming to see her, particularly after she had lost her courage when she saw the yellow holly in your coat." "You noticed that?" "Yes, and I noticed the holly also. I wondered why you wore it. The sight of it put into my mind that fatal night when he--" Miss Bull brushed aside her thoughts--"but no matter. I thought I would see if Mrs. Jersey was seeing any one, and also I wished to talk about the yellow holly." "But why should you trouble about her seeing any one?" Miss Bull looked down and then looked up abruptly. "Mrs. Jersey would have sent me back to the asylum if she could, and I was always afraid lest she should see some one secretly about the matter. I crept down the stairs, leaving Margery in my room playing at Patience. Mrs. Jersey's door was closed. I heard the murmur of voices and I put my ear to the keyhole. I heard that dancer--afterward I learned that it was the dancer--I heard her accuse Mrs. Jersey of having killed Percy Vane." "On what grounds did Lola base that accusation?" "She said her mother told her." "I remember," muttered George. "The mother, on receiving back the stiletto, certainly might have thought so. And what did Mrs. Jersey say?" he asked aloud. "She denied it, and made some sort of excuse. I remained to hear no more. I knew then that Mrs. Jersey had killed my Percy." "But she did not; it was an accident." "I know. She explained. But she was the cause. I was right to kill her. But for her Percy would have been alive, I would have been his wife, and you, George, would have been my step-son." "What did you do next?" "I went up to my room and resumed my game of Patience. I intended to have a talk with Mrs. Jersey the next morning, but when I found that she had struck Margery I came down at once---" "That was after eleven?" "About a quarter past. Mrs. Jersey was in her room. We talked, and I told her what I had heard. She denied it. I pointed to the stiletto which was on the table as a proof that the girl had been here. Mrs. Jersey said that it was the same stiletto with which Percy had been killed, as Lola had received it from her mother. That put the thought into my head that God intended Mrs. Jersey should be slain with the same weapon with which my darling had been stabbed." "A terrible thought. You should have put it away." "I did, but it came again. I accused Mrs. Jersey of having killed Percy. She gloried in the fact that it was through her he had died. She declared that if Ireland had not held her hand she would have laid him dead at her feet. She exulted that the accident had fulfilled her intention, and taunted me with the fact that I never became his wife. I was very quiet," added Miss Bull, her eyes glittering, "but my blood was boiling. Mrs. Jersey turned her back on me with an insolent laugh and sat down. The stiletto was on the table, her head was turned away. I softly took the dagger, and----" "No! no!" cried Margery, wailing, "you never did it--you never did it, dear Miss Bull. It was I who----" "Don't be a fool, child! I did it, and I would do it again." Miss Bull rose. "George, you now know all, go--no, do not shake hands. I have avenged your father, and I expect I will be hanged." Margery burst out into renewed weeping, and Miss Bull soothed her, talking to George the while. "Tell my sister," she said, "that the name of Howard will not be mentioned. I will die under my false name. No disgrace will be brought on her. As to Dorothy--" here Miss Bull's eyes grew tender--"no disgrace will befall her. Marry her, George, love her, make her a good husband, and--take this kiss to her from a sorely tried woman." Before the astonished George knew what she was about, he felt a pair of cold lips pressed to his own. The next moment she had pushed him out of the room and had locked the door. That was the last George saw of her. Whether Margery had agreed to die with her, or whether Miss Bull, knowing what a miserable life the girl would lead after her death, compelled her to take the poison, it will never be known. But when the door was burst open the two women were found on the floor in one another's arms. On the table was an empty glass, and it was ascertained that Miss Bull and Margery had taken prussic acid. Bawdsey entered the room an hour after the death, alarmed by the silence. He found that his prey had escaped. Miss Bull was buried under her false name, and Margery was buried with her. Nothing of Miss Bull's sad past or of her killing of Mrs. Jersey came to light. She passed away with her only friend, and her story was told. Six months later George Vane was seated in the library of the mansion in St. Giles Square. It was after dinner, and Lord Derrington occupied his usual chair. The old man looked brighter and happier than he had looked for many years. Daily George grew a greater favorite with him, and on the morrow George was to be married. Lord Derrington had insisted that as it was his last night as a bachelor George should dine alone with him, and would not admit even Walter. "It's the last time I'll have you all to myself, George," said the old man, piteously; "after to-morrow Dorothy will possess you." "Not at all," replied George, "you will have us both. We will come back from the honeymoon in a month, and then we will live here." "That's all been arranged," said Derrington, testily, "but we won't be two independent bachelors." "All the better," replied his grandson, cheerily; "a lady in the house will make a lot of difference. You won't know this place when Dorothy is flitting about." "Don't! Her mother is the kind of woman who flits, and I won't have her doing the butterfly business in that way." "Oh, I don't think we'll be troubled much with Mrs. Ward. Since the shock inflicted by her sister's sad death she has become religious." "Bah! That's only a phrase. Poor Miss Bull," said Derrington. "I like to think of her under that name. She had a sad life. I don't wonder she killed herself. Do you think she was mad, George?" "No. But I think the memory of her wrongs, which were all caused by Mrs. Jersey, was too much for her. She was mad for the moment, but she told me the terrible story in the calmest manner." "And who came in at the front door that night?" asked Derrington. "No one. After the murder Miss Bull opened it to fly--panic-struck, I expect--but Margery came downstairs and stopped her. Miss Bull closed the door and remained to face the worst." "Well, she is dead and buried, and the scandal is laid at rest. Unless that Bawdsey revives it." "Oh, you can trust Bawdsey," said George, smiling; "he and Lola are quite happy, and she has almost forgotten me. I got a letter from Bawdsey the other day. He is acting as his wife's agent, and they are making a lot of money." "All the better. He won't talk about that business. By the way, I forgot to ask you about Ireland's money?" "The money he left to me? I have settled that on Dorothy. How suddenly he died," said George, reflectively; "just an hour after I left the house. I hope his end was peace. I think it was, as he felt relieved that you and I had forgiven him." "There was nothing to forgive. It was an accident, and if any blame is due it is to that Jersey woman." "Well, she is dead, and the woman who killed her is dead, so let them all rest in peace. But it was good of Ireland leaving me his money." "I don't see who else he had to leave it to. And five thousand a year is not to be despised. Have you settled it all on Dorothy?" "Every penny. Don't you approve?" "Oh, yes, so long as Mrs. Ward doesn't get it." "She's a reformed character. Why, the other day she told me that she considered Dorothy irreligious." "Pah! New brooms. She'll soon grow weary of that pose. When the effect of poor Jenny Howard's death wears off she will be as gay and silly as before. Don't have her in this house, that's all." "You can depend upon that, sir. But Dorothy will be here--Dorothy, whom I shall see to-morrow crowned with orange-blossoms, and----" Derrington laughed, but not unkindly. "Well, well. Better orange-blossoms than yellow holly." George nodded. "I hope never to see yellow holly again," he said, and Derrington agreed. So their conversation ended on the threshold of George's new life with that last reference to the old. THE END 
62301	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 62301-h.htm or 62301-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62301/62301-h/62301-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62301/62301-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/canoematesstoryo00munriala Transcriber's note: Emphasised text is shown thus: _italics_ =bold= [Illustration: SUMNER AT HOME. (Page 18)] CANOEMATES A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades by KIRK MUNROE Author of "The Flamingo Feather" "Derrick Sterling" "Dorymates" "Campmates" etc. Illustrated [Illustration] New York Harper & Brothers, Franklin Square 1893 Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. IN THE FAR SOUTH 1 II. THREE CANOES, AND THE FATE OF ONE 8 III. SUMNER RECEIVES A SECOND OFFER 18 IV. TEACHING A THIEF A LESSON 26 V. THE GREAT FLORIDA REEF 33 VI. PINEAPPLES AND SPONGES 41 VII. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CANOES 49 VIII. LIFE ON THE LONELY ISLAND 57 IX. THE NOCTURNAL VISITOR 64 X. WHOSE ARE THEY? AND WHERE DID THEY COME FROM? 73 XI. SUMNER DRIFTS AWAY ON A RAFT 80 XII. PICKED UP IN THE GULF STREAM 89 XIII. A MYSTERY OF THE REEF 96 XIV. WORTH AND QUORUM ARE MISSING 105 XV. WORTH AND QUORUM IN SEARCH OF SUMNER 112 XVI. A NIGHT IN ALLIGATOR LIGHT 121 XVII. AN ENTERTAINMENT ON THE KEY 128 XVIII. OFF FOR THE EVERGLADES 137 XIX. THE CANOES ARE AGAIN LOST, AND AGAIN FOUND 145 XX. THE PSYCHE AS A LIFE-BOAT 153 XXI. SUMNER'S SELF-SACRIFICE 160 XXII. GOOD-BYE TO THE TRANSIT 168 XXIII. WORTH MEETS A PANTHER 175 XXIV. RATTLESNAKES AND RIFLE-SHOTS 184 XXV. WORTH'S LONELY NIGHT-WATCH 192 XXVI. THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES 201 XXVII. A PREHISTORIC EVERGLADE MOUND 209 XXVIII. WHAT BECAME OF QUORUM AND THE CANOES 218 XXIX. A VERY SERIOUS PREDICAMENT 226 XXX. QUORUM AS AN AMBASSADOR 234 XXXI. A CLOSELY GUARDED CAMP 242 XXXII. CROSSING THE 'GLADES WITHOUT SEEING THEM 250 XXXIII. AN ADVENTUROUS DEER-HUNT 258 XXXIV. HEMMED IN BY A FOREST FIRE 266 XXXV. THE BOYS IN A SEMINOLE CAMP 275 XXXVI. ONE OF THE RAREST ANIMALS IN THE WORLD 284 XXXVII. FISHING FOR SHARKS 292 XXXVIII. LITTLE KO-WIK-A SAILS OUT TO SEA 301 XXXIX. A BLACK SQUALL AND THE STRANDED STEAMER 308 XL. THE HAPPY ENDING OF THE CRUISE 317 ILLUSTRATIONS. SUMNER AT HOME _Frontispiece._ "WITH THE NEXT SEND OF THE SEA THE CANVAS CANOE WAS CRUSHED BENEATH THE PONDEROUS BOWS" _Facing p._ 18 "HE RETURNED TO THE BUOY, ON WHICH THE RECENT FUGITIVE WAS NOW SITTING" " 30 THE "CUPID" AND "PSYCHE" START ON THEIR CRUISE " 32 TORCH-FISHING FOR MULLET " 40 THE CANOES ARE GONE " 48 "'SOME ONE WAS TRYING TO PULL MY GUN AWAY'" " 64 "THE LATTER WAS ROLLING ON THE GROUND AT THE FOOT OF A COCOANUT-TREE" " 68 A GREAT DISCOVERY " 78 QUORUM IS HAPPY " 84 "TWO PAIRS OF POWERFUL ARMS DRAGGED HIM INTO THE BOAT" " 94 "AS HE STEPPED ASHORE A PLEASANT-FACED YOUNG MAN ADVANCED TO MEET HIM" " 108 QUORUM RESIGNS HIMSELF TO FATE " 126 QUORUM DANCES A BREAK-DOWN " 136 "HE FOUND RUST NORRIS CROUCHING IN THE LEE OF THE LITTLE DECK-HOUSE" " 158 REPAIRING THE "PUNKIN SEED" " 168 "A VOLLEY OF RIFLE-SHOTS FLASHED AND ROARED FROM THE FOREST" " 188 "ROUGH-LOOKING CHARACTERS, WHOM HE AT ONCE RECOGNIZED AS SOUTH FLORIDA COWBOYS" " 200 "HIS WRISTS WERE UNBOUND, AND THE CLOTH THAT ENVELOPED HIS HEAD WAS SNATCHED FROM IT" " 220 "DIRECTLY AFTERWARDS A CANOE APPEARED AT THE OPENING IN THE BUSHES" " 240 "THEY WERE SUDDENLY CONFRONTED BY AN INDIAN ARMED WITH A RIFLE" " 248 "THE ORDEAL OF FIRE LASTED BUT A MINUTE" " 272 SUMNER AND WORTH IN THE SEMINOLE CAMP " 282 SUMNER RESCUES KO-WIK-A " 310 "THE SURPRISE AND DELIGHT OF THE TWO GENTLEMEN CAN BETTER BE IMAGINED THAN DESCRIBED" " 322 _CANOEMATES._ _A Story of the Everglades._ CHAPTER I. IN THE FAR SOUTH. "Really, mother, it doesn't seem as though I could stand it any longer! Life in this place isn't worth living, especially when it's a life of poverty, and what people call 'genteel poverty,' as ours is. Our struggle is for bare existence, and there doesn't seem to be any future to it. If you'd only let me go to New York, I'm sure I could do something there that was worth the doing, but I can't do anything here, and I'd almost rather die than live here any longer!" With this Sumner Rankin flung himself into a chair, and his flushed face was as heavily clouded as though life held nothing of hope or happiness for him. "Why, my dear boy," exclaimed his mother, standing beside him and smoothing his tumbled brown curls with her cool hands, "what is the matter? I never knew you to speak so bitterly before." Mrs. Rankin still looked so young and pretty that she might almost be taken for an elder sister of the handsome, seventeen-year-old boy over whom she now bent so tenderly. To the casual observer the Rankins' home was a very pleasant one. It was a pretty, broad-verandaed cottage nestled in the shadows of a clump of towering cocoanut palms, on the far southern island of Key West. It stood on the outskirts of the town, and so close to the beach that the warm waters of the Mexican Gulf rippling on the coral rocks behind it made a ceaseless melody for its inmates. Jasmine-vines clambered over it, glossy-leaved myrtles, a hedge of night-blooming cereus and other sweet-scented tropical shrubs perfumed the air about it. Through these, looking out from the shaded coolness of the verandas, the eye caught fascinating glimpses of blue waters with white sails constantly passing, and stately men-of-war swinging idly at their moorings. It looked an ideal home; but even in this tropical Eden there was one very large serpent, besides several that were smaller though almost equally annoying. The big one was poverty, and it held the Rankins in its dread embrace as though with no intention of relaxing it. Mrs. Rankin was the widow of a naval officer who had been stationed at Key West a few years before. He had sent his wife and only child north to escape a dreadful summer of yellow-fever, while he had stayed and died at his post. Shortly before his death Commander Rankin, believing that Key West property was about to increase rapidly in value, had invested all that he had in the little jasmine-clad cottage, expecting to be able to sell it at a handsome profit when his term of service at that station should expire. Thus it was all that remained to his family, and to this haven Mrs. Rankin, sad-eyed and wellnigh broken-hearted, had returned with her boy. The fever had caused real estate to become of so little value that there was no chance of selling the cottage; so they were forced to live in it, and the widow eked out her scanty pension by letting such rooms as she could spare to lodgers. During the pleasant winter season she rarely had difficulty in filling them, but through the long, hot summer months desirable lodgers were few and far between, and the poverty serpent enfolded them closely. One of the lesser serpents against which the Rankins had to contend was the lack of congenial society; for, with the exception of a few government employés and those whose business compels them to live there, the population of Key West is composed of spongers and wreckers, Cuban and negro cigar-makers. Another was the lack of good schools, and the worst of all was the lack of suitable business openings for Sumner, or "Summer," as his Chinese nurse had called him when he was a baby, and as he had been called ever since on account of his bright face and sunny disposition. He would have loved dearly to go through the Naval Academy and follow the profession that had been his father's, but the Rankins had no political influence, and without that there was no chance. He could not go into a cigar-factory, and though his boyish love of adventure had led him to take several trips on sponging vessels, it was not the business for a gentleman. Born in China, the boy had, with his mother, followed his naval father to many of the principal ports of the world. Both his father and mother had devoted all their spare time to his education, and thus he was well informed in many branches of which the average boy knows little or nothing. He loved the sea and everything connected with it. From his babyhood he had played with and sailed boats. Now there was no better sailor in Key West than he, nor one more at home among the reefs of those southern waters. He knew the secrets of boat-building from keel to truck, and from stem to stern, while his favorite employment was the whittling out of models, the drawing of sail plans, and the designing of yachts. But nobody wanted yachts in Key West, nor did its sailors care to have improved models for their fishing-boats or sponge-vessels. So Sumner was considered a dreamer, and people said he ought to be doing something besides whittling and idling about home. The boy thought so himself, but what to do and how to set about it were problems the attempted solution of which caused him many an unhappy hour. On the perfect winter day that he had come home in such a despairing frame of mind, his own life had just been presented in vivid contrast to that of another boy who seemed to have the very things that Sumner most longed for. He had been down to the wharf to see the _Olivette_, the West Indian fast mail-steamer from Tampa, come in. There he had been particularly attracted by a boy somewhat younger than himself, standing with a gentleman, whom Sumner supposed to be his father, on the after-deck. As the steamer neared the wharf this boy amused himself by flinging silver coins into the water for the fun of seeing little negroes dive after them. "Only think, mother!" exclaimed Sumner in relating this incident, "he threw money away as I would so many pebbles, and didn't seem to value it any more. Just imagine a boy having money to waste like that! And some of those little rascals who dived for it made more in a few minutes than I have to spend in months." "But, Sumner," said Mrs. Rankin, gravely, "I hope your unhappiness does not arise from jealousy of another's prosperity?" "Yes, it does, mother," replied the boy, honestly; "though it isn't only because he could throw money away; it is because he has the very thing that I would rather have than anything else in the world--the prettiest, daintiest, cedar sailing canoe that ever was built. I never saw one before, but I've read of them, and studied their plans until I know all about them. She is as different from my old canvas thing as a scow is from a yacht." "But you thought your canvas canoe very nearly perfect when you built her." "I know I did, but I have learned better since then, and now it seems as though I should never care to look at it again." Yet this same despised canvas canoe, which Sumner had built himself the year before without ever having seen one, had been considered both by himself and his friends a masterpiece of naval construction, and he had cruised in her ever since with great satisfaction. "You have yet to learn, dear, that it is ever so much harder to be satisfied with the things we have than to obtain those for which we long, no matter how far beyond our reach they may seem," said Mrs. Rankin, gently. "I suppose it is, mother, and I know it is horrid to come to you with my miserable complainings; but I wish I had never seen those canoes--for there were two of them just alike--and I wish wealthy people wouldn't come to Key West with such things. They don't do us any good, and only make us feel our poverty the more keenly. Why, there they are now! Turning in here too! What can they want with us, I wonder? I won't see them at any rate. I've no more use for wealthy snobs than they have for me." So saying, Sumner left the room by a rear door, and the steps of the approaching visitors sounded on the front veranda. CHAPTER II. THREE CANOES, AND THE FATE OF ONE. As Sumner's mother opened the door, she saw that the gentleman who, politely lifting his hat, asked if she were Mrs. Rankin, was too young to be the father of the boy by his side. "May I introduce myself as Mr. Tracy Manton, of New York?" he said, when she had answered his question in the affirmative; "and my nephew, Master Worth Manton? We have called to see if we can engage rooms here for a week or so. We will take our meals at the hotel; but we have two canoes that we propose fitting out here for a cruise up the reef, and we want to find a place close to the water where we can keep them in safety, and at the same time be near them. Mr. Merrill advised us to come here, and it looks as though this were exactly the place of which we are in search. So if you can accommodate us we shall esteem it a great favor." With the remembrance of Sumner's last words, Mrs. Rankin hesitated a moment before replying; whereupon Mr. Manton added: "I trust you are not going to refuse us, for I have set my heart on coming here, and will gladly pay full hotel rates for the accommodation." "If my vacant rooms suit you I shall be pleased to let you have them at my regular rate, which is all they are worth," answered the widow, quietly, as she reflected on the poverty which would not allow even a mother's feelings to interfere with honorable bread-winning. "Will you step in and look at them?" "We are in luck, my boy, and our little expedition has begun most prosperously," said Mr. Tracy Manton an hour later, as he and his nephew sat in one of the two pretty back-rooms that they had engaged, surrounded by their belongings, and looking out on the sparkling waters of the Gulf. On the grass of the palm-shaded back yard, and in plain sight from the windows, lay the two canoes that had so excited Sumner's admiration and envy. They were indeed beauties as they lay there divested of their burlap wrappings, and that they were fresh from the builder's hands was shown by their unscratched varnish and gleaming metal fittings. They were fifteen feet long by thirty inches wide amidships, were provided with folding metal centre-boards, metal drop-rudders, foot-and-hand steering gear, water-tight compartments fore and aft, and were decked, with the exception of their roomy cockpits. These were surrounded by stout oak coamings three inches high, sharp-pointed, and flaring outward at the forward ends, but cut down so as to be flush with the deck aft. Beside them lay the confused mass of paddles, sails, spars, canoe tents, rubber aprons, cushions, and cordage, that completed their equipment. They were simply perfect in every detail, and the most beautiful things Sumner Rankin had ever set his eyes upon. At least he thought so, as, returning from a long tramp on which he had tried to walk off his unhappiness, he found them lying in the yard. In spite of his surprise at seeing them there, and a return of his unwelcome feeling of envy, he could not help stopping to admire them and study their details. "Hello!" exclaimed Mr. Manton, again looking from his window. "There's a chap down there staring his eyes out at our boats. I shouldn't wonder if he were our landlady's son--the one, you know, we were advised to engage as a guide. You wait here while I run down and find out." So Worth waited and watched from the window to note the result of his uncle's negotiations. At a first glance one would have said that Worth Manton was an effeminate boy, with a pale face, blue eyes, and fair hair. If, however, the observer looked long enough to note the square chin, the occasional compression of the thin lips, and flash of the eyes, he might form a different opinion. He was the son of Guy Manton, the great Wall Street operator who had made a fortune out of western railroads, and he had all his life been accustomed to lavish luxury. He was rather delicate, and it was largely on his account that his parents had decided to spend a winter at St. Augustine. The boy had taken but slight interest in the gayeties of the Ponce de Leon, nor had he gained any benefit from the chill rain-storms driven in from the ocean by the east winds of midwinter. The doctor had advised his going farther south; and when his uncle Tracy proposed that they make a canoe trip up the great Florida Reef, which lies off the most southerly coast of the United States, Worth had eagerly seconded the proposition, and had finally won the reluctant consent of his parents. He knew nothing of canoeing, nor did his uncle know much more; but the latter was a good yachtsman, and Worth had had some experience of the same kind, so they felt confident they could manage. They intended to devote some time to studying their craft, and learning their possibilities in the waters about Key West; so two canoes, completely equipped, were ordered from the builder by telegraph. Worth's father promised to charter a yacht, sail down the coast in it, and meet them at Cape Florida about the first of April, and the two would-be canoemen started for Key West full of pleasant anticipations. Sumner Rankin started at being asked if that were his name, for he had not heard Mr. Manton's step on the grass behind him, and answered rather curtly that it was. "Well," said the young man, plunging into business at once, as was his habit, "I have been told that you are a first-class sailor, as well as a good reef pilot. My nephew and I are going to cruise up the reef, and I should like to engage your services as boatman and guide. I am willing to pay--" "It makes no difference what you are willing to pay," interrupted Sumner, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "My services as boatman are not for hire at any price." With this assertion of his pride, or, as he imagined, of his independence, the boy turned and walked into the house. "Whew!" whistled Mr. Manton, gazing after the retreating form in amazement. "There's a bit of dynamite for you! Pride and poverty mixed in equal parts do make a most powerful explosive. However, I haven't forgotten my own days of poverty, and can fully appreciate the boy's feelings. I'll try him on a different tack as soon as this little squall has blown over. He and his mother must be different from the majority of the people down here, for they are the first we have met who don't seem to want to make money out of us." Mr. Tracy Manton had no idea of giving up his purpose of engaging Sumner to accompany them on their trip, for he was the kind of a man who wins his way by sticking to whatever plan he has decided upon, in which respect his nephew Worth strongly resembled him. So the next time he met the lad, which was in the afternoon of the following day, he held out his hand and said: "I beg your pardon for my unintentional rudeness of yesterday, and my forgetfulness of the fact that a gentleman is such, no matter where he is found. Now, I want you to forgive me, forget my offence, and do me a favor. I can't make head or tail of our sails, and they don't seem to me right somehow. If you will come and look at them I shall be greatly obliged." By this time Sumner was so heartily ashamed of his conduct of the day before that he was only too glad to accept this overture of friendship, and a few minutes later the two were busily discussing the sails of the _Cupid_ and _Psyche_, as the Mantons' canoes were named. The spars were much heavier than they need be, while the sails were of the ill-shaped, unserviceable pattern generally furnished by canoe builders, and these defects were quickly detected by Sumner's experienced eye. When he pointed them out to Mr. Manton, the latter readily comprehended them, but was at a loss how to make the improvements that were evidently demanded. In order to explain more thoroughly the idea that he wished to convey, Sumner dragged out his own canvas canoe, stepped her masts, and hoisted her sails. They were of a most ingenious and effective lateen pattern, such as Mr. Manton had never before seen. "Where did you get hold of that idea?" he asked, after studying them carefully a few moments. "It is a capital one." "I got it partly from an Arab dhow that I once saw off Madagascar, and partly from the feluccas at Civita Vecchia." "Madagascar and the Mediterranean!" repeated Mr. Manton, in astonishment. "If you have visited both of those places you must have travelled extensively." "Yes," answered Sumner, quietly, but with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "The son of a naval officer who attempts to follow his father about the world is apt to see a good bit of it before he gets through." Mr. Manton, who had known nothing of Sumner's history, no longer wondered that he had been offended at being taken for a boatman whose services could be hired. He was, however, too wise to make further mention of the subject, and merely said, "Then you have had a splendid chance to study sails." And again turning to the subject under consideration, he asked, "Would you be willing to help us cut out some for our canoes after your models?" Sumner answered that he would not only be willing but glad to lend every aid in his power towards properly equipping the two canoes for their trip. In the mean time the sun had set, and the sky was black with an approaching squall that caused them to watch with some uneasiness for Worth's return. He had gone out in one of the canoes, an hour before, for a paddle, and had not since been seen. Just as the storm broke he appeared around a point and headed towards the little landing-place near which they were standing. As his course lay directly in the teeth of the wind, his struggle was long and hard. They watched him anxiously, and more than once Sumner offered to go to the boy's assistance; but his uncle said he wished Worth to learn self-reliance more than anything else, and this was too good a lesson to be spoiled. Finally the young paddler conquered, and, reaching the landing-place in safety, sprang ashore. He was either too exhausted or too careless to properly secure his canoe, and as he stepped from it a spiteful gust of wind struck it full on the side. In another moment it was beyond reach and drifting rapidly out to sea. Both the Mantons were confused by the suddenness of the mishap. Before they could form any plan for the recovery of the runaway, Sumner had shoved his own canvas canoe into the water, jumped aboard, and was dashing away in pursuit of the truant. He was almost within reach of his prize, and his tiny sail was almost indistinguishable amid the blackness of the squall, when the watchers on shore were horrified to see another and much larger sail come rushing down, dead before the wind, directly towards it. Then the tiny canoe sail disappeared; and as the larger one seemed to sweep over the spot where it had been, the Mantons gazed at each other with faces that betokened the dread they dared not put into words. CHAPTER III. SUMNER RECEIVES A SECOND OFFER. For a few minutes Sumner Rankin's peril was most imminent. He was almost within reach of the drifting canoe, which he had been watching too closely to take note of any other object, when he became conscious of the clumsy, wood-laden schooner rushing down on him before the squall. She was manned by a crew of two negroes, and by the manner in which she yawed, heading one moment this way and the next another, he saw that they had but little control of her movements. In vain did he shout to them to lookout. His voice was lost in the shriek of the wind, and they did not hear him. He tried to cross their bows, and might have succeeded in so doing, but at that moment their main-sail gybed over with a crash, and the heavy craft, looking as large as a man-of-war in comparison with his cockle-shell, headed directly for him. With the next send of the sea the canvas canoe was crushed beneath the ponderous bows, and blotted from existence as though it had been a drifting leaf. [Illustration: "WITH THE NEXT SEND OF THE SEA THE CANVAS CANOE WAS CRUSHED BENEATH THE PONDEROUS BOWS."] As Sumner saw the black mass towering above him, and before it could descend, he rose to his feet, and taking a straight header, dived deep into the angry waters. When he again came to the surface he was swimming in the foaming wake of the schooner, and drifting down towards him from the windward was the beautiful cedar canoe which was the cause of all the trouble, and which he had passed in his effort to save his own from destruction. A few strokes took him to her, and with a feeling of devout thankfulness he clutched her gunwale. Worth Manton, or any other inexperienced canoeman, would have attempted to climb up over the bow or stern, and, sitting astride the slippery deck, to work his way into the cockpit. Such an attempt would have been almost certain to roll the light craft over and fill her with water, in which case she would become wholly unmanageable. But Sumner knew better than to do such a thing. He had practised capsizing so often in his crank canvas canoe that to get into this comparatively broad-beamed and stable craft was the easiest kind of a performance. Seizing hold of the coaming directly amidship, he placed his left hand on the side of the cockpit nearest him, and reaching far over, grasped the other side with his right. Then kicking in the water behind him until his body lay nearly flat on its surface, and bearing as much weight as possible on his right hand, he drew himself squarely across the cockpit, and in another moment was seated in it, without having shipped a drop of water over the coaming. There was no paddle in the canoe, and though she rode the waves like a cork, she was entirely at the mercy of the wind and tide. Although the squall was passing, the darkness of night was rapidly shutting out all familiar objects, and Sumner was on the point of resigning himself to a night of aimless drifting, with an interesting uncertainty as to when he should be picked up, when a distant shout, that sounded exceedingly like his own name, was borne to his ears. He sent back an answering cry, the shout was repeated, and a few minutes later the shadowy form of the _Psyche_, with Mr. Manton wielding a double-bladed paddle, shot out of the darkness. "I never was so glad to find any one in my life!" exclaimed the new-comer. "We were afraid that clumsy schooner had run you down. I tell you what, boy, the last ten minutes have been the most anxious I ever passed, and I wouldn't go through with them again for all the canoes in the world. But what has become of your own boat?" "She has gone to the bottom, like many a good ship before her," replied Sumner; "and it wasn't the fault of those lubbers on the schooner that I didn't go with her. Have you an extra paddle with you?" "No; I neglected to bring one, and I shall have to take you in tow." They had already drifted down past the fort that commands the harbor from the south-west point of the island, and as they could not hope to make their way back against wind and tide, they were compelled to work in behind it, and make a landing on the south beach a mile or more from where they started. Here Mr. Manton remained in charge of the canoes, while Sumner ran home to announce his own safety, obtain a change of clothing and another paddle. He found his mother and Worth in a terrible state of anxiety concerning him; but he made so light of his recent adventure that it was not until after the canoes were brought safely back, an hour later, that they learned the full extent of his recent peril. This incident seemed to cement a firm friendship between Sumner and the Mantons, and while the former stubbornly refused to accept the recompense for his lost canoe that Mr. Manton tried to force upon him, declaring that it was only his own carelessness in not keeping a sharper lookout, the latter made up his mind that, in spite of his pride, the boy must and should be rewarded in some way for what he had done. The following week was busily and happily spent in making new sails for the two canoes, rerigging them, and in teaching Worth how to manage his. It struck Sumner as a little curious that, even after the new sails were made, Mr. Manton was always too busy to go out on these practice trips with his nephew, and invariably asked him to take the _Psyche_ and act as instructor in his place. Of course he could not refuse to do this, nor did he have the slightest inclination to do so; for what boy who loved boats would not have jumped at the chance of sailing that dainty craft? How Sumner did appreciate her speed and seaworthy qualities! He raced with every sponger and fisherman in the harbor, and caused their eyes to open with amazement at the ease with which he beat them. How fond he became of the canoe that bore him to so many victories! How, with all his heart, he did wish he were going in her on the cruise up the reef, for which such extensive preparations were being made! Much as he wished this, however, he was very careful not to express the wish to any person except his mother, to whom he always confided all his hopes, fears, and plans. After his refusal of Mr. Manton's offer to accompany them as guide, he would not for anything have let that gentleman know how eagerly he longed to have the offer repeated in such form that his pride would allow him to accept it. Still, as he had no canoe now, it would be impossible for him to go, and there was no use in thinking of it. So he tried to make the most of his present opportunities, and gain all the pleasure that they held. Nor did he neglect Worth, but instructed him so thoroughly in the art of canoe-handling, that at the end of a week the boy was as much at home in his canoe as he had ever been on a yacht. One day, as the two beautiful craft, with their perfect setting lateen-sails, were glancing in and out among the anchored sponge fleet on the north side of the island, like white-winged sea-birds, a young sponger, named Rust Norris, called out from one of the boats, "Say, Sumner, come here a minute, will yer?" As the latter sailed alongside and asked what he wanted, the sponger answered: "I want to try that fancy trick of yourn. Let me take her a few minutes, will yer?" "No," replied Sumner; "I can't, because she isn't mine to lend. Besides, as you are not accustomed to this style of craft, you couldn't sail her, anyhow; and you'd upset before you had gone a length." "Oh, I would, would I? Well, I'll bet I can sail anything you can, or any other landlubber that thinks he knows it all because his daddy belonged to the navy." Then, as Sumner, with a flushed face, but disdaining any reply, sheered off and sailed away, he added, "I'd jest naturally hate myself if I was as mean as you be, Sumner Rankin, and I won't forget your disobligingness in a hurry, neither!" In the mean time Mr. Manton had studied Sumner's character carefully, and the more he did so the more he was pleased with the boy. He found him to be proud and high-tempered, but also manly, straightforward, and honest to a fault, as well as prompt to act in emergencies, self-reliant, and a thorough sailor. In the course of several conversations with the boy's mother he learned much of Sumner's past history and of his dreams for the future. To her he finally confided a plan, formed on the day that Sumner saved Worth's canoe at the expense of his own, and after some discussion won her assent to it. It was nothing more nor less than that Sumner should take his place on the proposed cruise up the reef, and act the part of guide, companion, and friend to the younger canoeman. "I shall not for a second time be guilty of the mistake of trying to hire you to take this cruise," said Mr. Manton, smiling, as he unfolded this plan to Sumner; "but I ask you to do it as a favor to both me and Worth. Indeed, it will be a great favor to me," he added, hastily, as he saw an expression of doubt on the lad's face; "for I really ought to be in New York at this very minute, attending to some important business, which I was only willing to neglect in case Worth could not take this trip without me. Now, however, I am confident that he will be safer with you than he would be with me alone, and if you will take my canoe and accompany him to Cape Florida, where I shall try to meet you about the first of April, you will place me under an obligation. Will you do it?" CHAPTER IV. TEACHING A THIEF A LESSON. Was there ever such a chance to do the very thing he most longed to do offered a boy before? Sumner did not believe there ever had been, and with a quick glance at his mother's smiling face, in which he read her assent to the plan, he answered: "I don't know how to thank you, sir, for making me such a splendid offer, and not only will I gladly accept it, but I promise to do everything in my power to make Worth have a good time, and see that no harm befalls him. But I wish you were going too. I hate to think of taking your place and depriving you of all the pleasure of the trip." "My dear boy," replied Mr. Manton, "you must not look at it in that way, for, as I said before, you will be doing me a real favor in taking my place. I am more of a yachtsman than a canoeman anyway, and I look forward with fully as much pleasure to cruising down the Indian River from St. Augustine in the yacht that my brother proposes to charter, and meeting you at Cape Florida, as I should to running up the reef in a canoe. There is one more thing, however. I must insist upon your sailing your own canoe, for I make it a rule never to lend my boats to any one, and you will have enough responsibility in looking after Worth, without having the added one of caring for another person's canoe. So, from this moment, the _Psyche_, and all that she contains, is yours." "Oh, Mr. Manton!" "That will do. Not another word," laughed the young man. "I am as obstinate as a mule when I have once made up my mind to a thing, and so there is nothing for you to do but take the canoe, and make the best use you can of her." Sumner's protests against this generosity were but feeble ones, and were quickly disposed of by Mr. Manton, who simply refused to listen to them. He cut them short by saying, "Now that this matter is settled, and everything is in readiness for a start, I propose that you get off in the morning, for I want to take to-morrow night's steamer for Tampa." That night, after everybody had gone to bed and the house was still, Sumner lay wide awake, thinking over the good-fortune that had befallen him. At length he could not resist the temptation of getting up, partly dressing himself, and slipping out for a look at his canoe, his very own! the most beautiful craft he had ever seen, and such a one as in his wildest dreams he had never hoped to possess. The two canoes had been drawn up on the grass not far from the water's edge, and covered with some bits of old canvas. Although it was a moonlit night, the moon was occasionally obscured by drifting clouds, and when Sumner left the house everything was in shadow from this cause. He moved very quietly, for he did not wish any one to know of the weakness that led him to look at something with which he was already familiar, merely because it had acquired the new interest of possession. To his amazement, when he reached the place where the canoes had been left, he could find but one of them. In vain did he lift the canvas that had covered them both, and look hurriedly about the little yard. One of them was certainly gone, and no trace of it remained. As the boy stood irresolute, wondering what he ought to do, he was startled by a slight splash in the water. At the same moment the cloud passed from the face of the moon, and by the light thus afforded Sumner saw the figure of a man seated in the missing canoe, and cautiously paddling from the shore. Without an instant's hesitation he slid the remaining canoe over the grass and into the water, sprang into it, seized a paddle, and started in pursuit. Of course the paddler in the first canoe might be one of the Mantons, but Sumner did not believe it was either of them. He thought it more than likely that the stranger was some one who only desired to try the canoe, but it might be a thief. At any rate, the boy determined to discover who he was, and what he meant by his stealthy performance before they were many minutes older. The stranger did not realize that he was pursued until Sumner had shoved off from shore, and was urging his own craft forward with vigorous strokes of his double-bladed paddle. When, by a glance over his shoulder, he discovered this, he redoubled his efforts to escape, and by his clumsy splashings proved himself a novice in the art of paddling. Still he made fair headway, and it was not until they were several hundred yards from shore that Sumner overtook him. Here was anchored an immense mooring-buoy, with a round, slightly conical top, having in its centre a great iron ring. It did not rise more than a foot from the surface of the water, and in trying to watch Sumner, the occupant of the leading canoe did not notice it until his light craft struck it a glancing blow, and very nearly upset. The next instant an effort to recover his equilibrium had precipitated the fellow into the water, and as Sumner shot past him he was wildly clutching at the buoy, with desperate efforts to gain its upper surface. Satisfied that he could not drown so long as he clung to the buoy, Sumner first picked up the drifting canoe. With it in tow he returned to the buoy on which the recent fugitive was now sitting, clinging tightly to the iron ring, and presenting a comical picture of misery. "Don't leave me here, Sumner!" he cried, in an imploring tone, in which the boy at once recognized the voice of Rust Morris. "I didn't mean no harm. I only just wanted to try the trick, and I meant to put her back again where I found her. Honest I did!" [Illustration: "HE RETURNED TO THE BUOY, ON WHICH THE RECENT FUGITIVE WAS NOW SITTING."] "Well, I don't know," replied Sumner, who could not help laughing at the other's plight, in spite of his anger at him for taking the canoe without leave, and his suspicion that it would not have been returned so promptly as Rust claimed it would. "You look quite as comfortable as you deserve to be; besides, you will have a nice quiet chance out here to learn the lesson that it is better to leave other people's property alone than to take it without permission. So, on the whole, I think I will leave you where you are for a while. I did think of having you arrested for stealing, but I guess this will do just as well." Thus saying, the boy began to paddle towards shore, and at the same time Rust changed his pleading tone to one of bitter invective, uttering loud threats of what he would make Sumner suffer in the future. Without paying any attention to these, the young canoeman continued on his way to the shore. From there he watched until he saw the dim form of a fishing-boat come silently drifting down the harbor with the tide. As she neared the spot where he knew the buoy with its unwilling occupant to be, he heard shouts, saw the boat alter her course, and stop for a minute. As she again proceeded, and he was satisfied that his prisoner had been rescued, Sumner again went to bed, this time to sleep soundly until morning. When he related this adventure at breakfast-time, Mr. Manton said he had served the rascal right; but Mrs. Rankin was fearful lest some future mischief should come of it. At this Sumner laughed, and said he thought the lesson would teach Rust Norris to let his things alone in the future, also that he was not afraid of anything the young sponger could do anyhow. The morning was spent in loading the canoes and in making final preparations for the start. By noon all was in readiness, and after a hasty lunch the two young canoemates stepped aboard their dainty craft. Then, amid a waving of handkerchiefs and a chorus of hearty good-byes from the group of spectators assembled to see them off, they hoisted sail, and bore away on the first reach of what was to prove one of the most eventful and exciting cruises ever undertaken up the Florida Reef. [Illustration: THE "CUPID" AND "PSYCHE" START ON THEIR CRUISE.] CHAPTER V. THE GREAT FLORIDA REEF. The great Florida Reef, up which our young canoemates had just started on their adventurous cruise, is about 230 miles long. It extends from Cape Florida, on the Atlantic coast, completely around the southern end of the peninsula, and far out into the Gulf of Mexico on the west. The island of Key West lies some 70 miles off the main-land, and about the same distance from the Dry Tortugas, which group of little coral islets forms the western extremity of the reef. Between Key West, on which is a city of the same name containing nearly 20,000 inhabitants, who live farther south than any one else in the United States, and Cape Florida, 150 miles east and north, a multitude of little keys or islands, covered to the water's edge with a dense growth of mangroves and other tropical trees and shrubs, stretch in a continuous line. Between these keys[A] and the main-land lies a vast shallow expanse of water known as the Bay of Florida. Outside of them is the narrow and navigable Hawk Channel, running along their entire length, and bounded on its seaward side by the almost unbroken wall of the outer reef. This rarely rises above the surface, and on it the busy coral insects pursue their ceaseless toil of rock-building. Beyond the reef, between it and the island of Cuba, eighty miles away, pours the mighty flood of the Gulf Stream. [A] The word "key" is a corruption of the Spanish _Cayo_ or island. Thus Key West was originally "Cayo Hueso," or Bone Island, so called from the quantity of human bones found on it by the first white settlers. For nearly 300 years these peaceful looking keys, with their bewildering net-work of channels, kept open by the rushing tide-currents, and coral reefs were the chosen resorts of pirates and wreckers, both of whom reaped rich rewards from the unfortunate vessels that fell into their hands. Now the pirates have disappeared, and the business of the wreckers has been largely taken from them by the establishment of a range of light-houses along the outer reef, at intervals of twenty to thirty miles. The first of these is on Loggerhead Key, the outermost of the Tortugas. Then comes Rebecca Shoal, half-way between Loggerhead and Sand Key Light, which is just off Key West. From here the lights in order up the reef are American Shoal, Sombrero, Alligator, Carysfort, and Fowey Rocks, off Cape Florida. With this chain of flashing beacons to warn mariners of the presence of the dreaded reef, the palmy days of wreckers and beach-combers have passed away, and they must content themselves with what they can make out of the occasional vessels that are still drawn in to the reef by the powerful currents ever setting towards it. Consequently most of those who would otherwise be wreckers have turned their attention to sponging in the waters behind the keys, which form one of the great sponge-fields of the world, or to the raising of pineapples and cocoanuts on such of the islands as afford sufficient soil for this purpose. There are four ways by which one may sail up the reef. The first is outside in the Gulf Stream, or by "way of the Gulf;" the second is between the reef and the keys, through the Hawk Channel; the third is through the narrow and intricate channels among the keys, or "inside," as the spongers say; and the fourth is the "bay way," or through the shoal waters behind the keys. Of all these, the third, or inside way, was the one chosen by Sumner as being the most protected from wind and seas, the most picturesque, the one affording the most frequent opportunities for landing, the most interesting, and in every way best adapted to canoes drawing but a few inches of water. As the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ are running easily along the north shore of the key before a light southerly breeze, there is time to take a look at the "duffle" with which they are laden. In the first place, each has two lateen-sails, the long yards of which are hoisted on short masts rising but a few feet from the deck. These sails can be hoisted, lowered, or quickly reefed by the canoeman from where he sits. The two halves of the double-bladed paddles are held in metal clips on deck, on either side of the cockpit. Also on deck, securely fastened, is a small folding anchor, the light but strong five-fathom cable of which runs through a ring at the bow, and back to a cleat just inside the forward end of the coaming. On the floor of each canoe is folded a small tent made of gay-striped awning-cloth, and provided with mosquito-nettings at the openings. Above these are laid the pair of heavy Mackinaw blankets and the rubber poncho that each carries. These, which will be shelter and bedding at night, answer for seats while sailing. Under the deck, at one side of each cockpit, hangs a double-barrelled shot-gun; and on the other side are half a dozen tiny lockers, in which are stowed a few simple medicines, fishing tackle, matches, an alcohol lamp (Flamme forcé), loaded shells for the guns, etc. In the after-stowage lockers are extra clothing and toilet articles. The _Psyche_ carries the mess-chest, containing a limited supply of table-ware, sugar, coffee, tea, baking-powder, salt, pepper, etc., and a light axe, both of which are stowed at the forward end of the cockpit. The _Cupid_ carries in the same place a two-gallon water-keg and a small, but well-furnished tool chest. The provisions, of which bacon, flour, oatmeal, sea-biscuit, a few cans of baked beans and brown bread, dried apples, syrup, cocoa, condensed milk, corn-meal, rice, and hominy form the staples, and the few necessary cooking utensils, which are made to fit within one another, are evenly divided between the two canoes and stowed under the forward hatches. By Sumner's advice, many things that the Mantons brought with them have been left behind, and everything taken along has been reduced to its smallest possible compass. Besides the shot-gun that Mr. Manton had given him as part of the _Psyche's_ outfit, Sumner was armed with a revolver that had been his father's. Late in the afternoon they passed the eastern point of the island of Key West, and crossing a broad open space, in the shoal waters of which, but for Sumner's intimate knowledge of the place, even their light canoes would have run aground a dozen times, they approached the cocoanut groves of Boca Chica, a large key on which they proposed to make their first camp. The western sky was in a glory of flame as they hauled their craft ashore, and from the tinted waters myriads of fish were leaping in all directions, as though intoxicated by the splendor of the scene. "We will catch some of those fine fellows a little later," said Sumner, as they began to unload their canoes and carry the things to the spot they had already chosen for a camp. "But it will be dark," protested Worth. "So much the better. It's ever so much easier to catch fish in the dark than by daylight." There was plenty of drift-wood on the beach, and in a few minutes the merry blaze of their camp-fire was leaping from a pile of it. While waiting for it to burn down to a bed of coals, each of them drove a couple of stout stakes, and pitched their canoe tents near a clump of tall palms, just back of the fire, looped up the side openings, and spread their blankets beneath them. "Now let's fly round and get supper," cried Sumner, "for I am as hungry as a kingfish. You put the coffee water on to boil, while I cut some slices of bacon, Worth, and then I'll scramble some eggs, too, for we might as well eat them while they are fresh." With his back turned to the fire, the former did not notice what Worth was doing, until a hissing sound, accompanied by a cry of dismay, caused him to look round. "I never saw such a miserable kettle as that!" exclaimed Worth. "Just look; it has fallen all to pieces." For a moment Sumner could not imagine what had caused such a catastrophe. Then he exclaimed: "I do believe you must have set the kettle on the coals before you put the water into it." "Of course I did," answered Worth, "so as to let it get hot. And the minute I began to pour water into it, it went all to pieces." "Experience comes high," said Sumner, "especially when it costs us the loss of our best kettle; but we've got to have it at any price, and I don't believe you'll ever set a kettle on the fire again without first putting water or some other liquid inside of it." "No, I don't believe I will," answered Worth, ruefully, "if that is what happens." In spite of this mishap, the supper was successfully cooked, thanks to Sumner's culinary knowledge, and by the time it was over and the dishes had been washed, he pronounced it dark enough to go fishing. First he cut a quantity of slivers from a piece of pitch-pine drift-wood, then, having emptied one of the canoes of its contents, he invited Worth to enter it with him. "But we haven't a single fish-line ready," protested Worth. "Oh yes, we have," laughed Sumner, lighting one end of the bundle of pine slivers, and giving it to Worth to hold. "You just sit still and hold that. You'll find out what sort of a fish-line it is in a minute." Then he paddled the canoe very gently a few rods off shore, at the same time bearing down on one gunwale until it was even with the surface of the water. "Look out, here they come!" he shouted. [Illustration: TORCH-FISHING FOR MULLET.] CHAPTER VI. PINEAPPLES AND SPONGES. The next instant Worth uttered a startled cry and very nearly dropped his torch, as a mullet, leaping from the water, struck him on the side of the head, and fell flapping into the canoe. "Never mind a little thing like that," cried Sumner. "Hold your torch a trifle lower. That's the kind!" Now the mullet came thick and fast, attracted to the bright light like moths to a candle-flame. They leaped into the canoe and over it, they fell on its decks and flopped off into the water, they struck the two boys until they felt as though they were being pelted with wet snowballs; and at length one of them, hitting the torch, knocked it from Worth's hand, so that it fell hissing into the water. The effect of this sudden extinguishing of the light was startling. In an instant the fish ceased to jump, and disappeared, while the recent noisy confusion was succeeded by an intense stillness, only broken by an occasional flap from one of the victims to curiosity that had fallen into the canoe. "Well, that is the easiest way of fishing I ever heard of," remarked Worth, as they stepped ashore, and turning the canoe over, spilled out fifty or more fine mullet. A dozen of them were cleaned, rubbed with salt, and put away for breakfast. Then the tired canoemates turned in for their first night's sleep in camp. Sumner's eyes were quickly closed, but Worth found his surroundings so novel that for a long time he lay dreamily awake watching the play of moonlight on the rippling water, listening to the splash of jumping fish, the music of little waves on the shell-strewn beach, and the ceaseless rustle of the great palm leaves above him. At length his wakefulness merged into dreams, and when he next opened his eyes it was broad daylight, the sun had just risen, and Sumner was building a fire. "Hurrah, Worth! Tumble out of bed and tumble into the water," he called at that moment. "There's just time for a dip in the briny before this fire'll be ready for those fish." Suiting his actions to his words, he began pulling off his clothes, and a minute later the two boys were diving into the cool water like a couple of frisky young porpoises. Oatmeal and syrup, fresh mullet, bread-and-butter (which they had brought from home), and coffee, formed a breakfast that Sumner declared fit for a railroad king. The sun was not more than an hour high before they were again under way, this time working hard at their paddles, as the breeze had not yet sprung up. Having left their first camp behind them, they felt that their long cruise had indeed begun in earnest. For the next three days they threaded their way, under sail or paddle, among such numberless keys and through such a maze of narrow channels, that it seemed to Worth as though they were entangled in a labyrinth from which they would never be able to extricate themselves. Whenever a long sand-spit or reef shot out from the north side of one key, a similar obstruction was certain to be found on the south end of the next one. Thus their course was a perpetual zigzag, and a fair wind on one stretch would be dead ahead on the next. Now they slid through channels so narrow that the dense mangroves on either side brushed their decks, and then they would be confronted by a coral reef that seemed to extend unbrokenly in both directions as far as the eye could reach. Worth would make up his mind that there was nothing to do but get out and drag the canoes over it, when suddenly the _Psyche_, which was always in the lead, would dash directly at the obstacle, and skim through one of the narrow cuts with which all these reefs abound. For a long time it was a mystery to Worth how Sumner always kept in the channel without hesitating or stopping to take soundings. Finally he discovered that it was by carefully noting the color of the water. He learned that white water meant shoals, that of a reddish tinge indicated sand-bars or reefs, black water showed rocks or grassy patches, and that the channels assumed varying shades of green, according to their depth. They camped with negro charcoal-burners on one key, and visited an extensive pineapple patch on another. Having heard this fruit spoken of as growing on trees, Worth was amazed to find it borne on plants with long prickly leaves that reached but little above his knees. The plants stood so close together, and their leaves were so interlaced, that he did not see how any one ever walked among them to cut the single fruit borne at the head of each one; and when he tried it, stepping high to avoid the bayonet-like leaves, his wonder that any human being could traverse the patch was redoubled. "I would just as soon try to walk through a field covered with cactus plants," he said. "So would I," laughed Sumner, "if I had to walk as you do. In a pineapple patch you must never lift your feet, but always shuffle along. In that way you force the prickly leaves before you, and move with their grain instead of against it." Although the crop would not be ready for cutting much before May, they found here and there a lusciously ripe yellow "pine," and after eating one of these, Worth declared that he had never before known what a pineapple was. He did not wonder that they tasted so different here and in New York, when he learned that for shipment north they must be cut at least two weeks before they are ripe, while they are hard and comparatively juiceless. At the end of three days an outgoing tide, rushing like a mill-race, swept the canoes through the green expanse of "The Grasses," that looked like a vast submerged meadow, and into the open waters of the Bahia Honda, or, as the reef-men say, the "Bay o' Hundy." Here they first saw spongers at work, and devoted an entire day to studying their operations. Worth had always supposed that sponges were dived for, but now he learned his mistake. He found that in those waters they are torn from the bottom and drawn to the surface by iron rakes with long curved teeth attached to slender handles from twenty to thirty feet in length. The sponging craft are small sloops or schooners, each of which tows from two to six boats behind it. When a sponge bed is discovered, two men go out in each of these boats. One of them sculls it gently along, while the other leans over the gunwale with a water-glass in his hands, and carefully examines the bottom as he is moved slowly over it. The water-glass is a common wooden bucket having a glass bottom. This is held over the side of the boat so that its bottom is a few inches below the surface of the water, or beyond the disturbing influence of ripples. With his head in this bucket, the sponger gazes intently down until he sees the round black object that he wants. Then he calls out to the sculler to stop the boat, and with the long-handled rake that lies by his side secures the prize. It is black and slimy, and full of animal matter that quickly dies, and decomposes with a most disgusting odor. To this the spongers become so accustomed that they do not mind it in the least, and fail to understand why all strangers take such pains to sail to windward of their boats. When the deck of a sponge boat is piled high with this unsavory spoil of the sea, she is headed towards the nearest key on which her crew have established a crawl, [B] and her cargo is tossed into it. The crawl is a square pen of stakes built in the shallow water of some sheltered bay, and in it the sponges lie until their animal matter is so decomposed that it will readily separate from them. Then they are stirred with poles or trodden by the feet of the spongers until they are free from it, when they are taken from the crawl, and spread on a beach to dry and whiten in the sun. When a full cargo has been obtained, they are strung in bunches, and taken to Key West to be sold by the pound at auction. There they are trimmed, bleached again, pressed into bales, and finally shipped to New York. [B] Crawl is a corruption of corral, meaning a yard or pen. Sponges are of many grades, of which the sheep's wool is the finest, and the great loggerheads the most worthless. As spongers can only work in water that is smooth, or nearly so, half their time is spent in idleness; and though they receive large prices for what they catch, the average of their wages is low. One hot afternoon at the end of a week found our canoemates half-way up the reef, and approaching a key called Lignum Vitæ, which is for several reasons one of the most remarkable of all the keys. It is a large island lifted higher above the surface of the water than any of the other keys, and it contains in its centre a small fresh-water lake. It is covered with an almost impenetrable forest growth, and concealed by this are ancient stone walls, of which no one knows the origin or date. Sumner had told Worth so much concerning this key as to arouse his curiosity, and they both looked forward with interest to reaching it. All day they had seen it looming before them, and when they finally dropped sail close beside it, Worth proposed that they take advantage of the remaining daylight to make a short exploration before unloading their canoes and pitching camp. To this Sumner agreed, and as they could not drag the laden boats up over the rocky beach, they decided to anchor them out and wade ashore. So the _Psyche's_ anchor was flung out into the channel, the _Cupid_ was made fast to her, and a light line from its stern was carried ashore and tied to a tree. Then, taking their guns with them, the boys plunged into the forest. When, an hour later, they returned from their exploration, bringing with them a brace of ducks and half a dozen doves that they had shot, they gazed about them in bewildered dismay. The canoes were not where they had left them, nor could any trace of them be discovered. [Illustration: "THE CANOES ARE GONE!"] CHAPTER VII. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CANOES. "The canoes are gone!" cried Worth. "It looks like it," replied Sumner, in an equally dismayed tone. "Are you sure this is where we left them?" "Yes; sure. There is the stern line that we made fast to the _Cupid_, or what is left of it." Sure enough, there was a portion of the light line still fast to the tree, and as Sumner pulled it in, both boys bent over to examine it. It had been broken, and not cut. From its length it must also have been broken close to the canoe. "Oh, Sumner, what shall we do?" asked Worth, in a tone of such despair that the former at once realized the necessity of some immediate action to divert his comrade's thoughts. "Do?" he cried. "There's plenty to do. First, we'll go down to that point and take a look to seaward; for, as the tide is running out, they are more likely to have gone in that direction than any other. It would be a comfort even to catch a glimpse of them. Then, perhaps, they have only drifted away, and are stranded on some bar near by. Besides looking for the canoes, we must build some kind of a shelter for the night, cook supper, and discuss our plans for the future. Oh yes, we've plenty to do!" While he spoke, the boys were making their way to the point in question, and when they reached it, they eagerly scanned every foot of water in sight. Diagonally to the right from where they stood stretched the long reach of Lower Metacumba, desolate and uninhabited as they knew. Almost directly in front, but several miles away, rose the palm-crowned rocks of Indian Key, with its two or three old shed-like buildings in plain view. These had been used and abandoned years before by the builders of Alligator Light, the slender tower of which they could see rising from the distant waters above the outer reef. Diagonally on the left was the tiny green form of Tea Table Key, and dimly beyond it they could make out the coast of Upper Metacumba, which Sumner said was inhabited. In all this far-reaching view, however, there were no signs of the missing canoes. "I'm glad of it!" said Sumner, after his long searching gaze had failed to reveal them. "It would be rough to have them in sight but out of reach." Already the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops of Lower Metacumba, fish were leaping in the placid waters, and a few pelican were soaring with steady poise above them. Every now and then these would swoop swiftly down, with a heavy splash that generally sealed the fate of one or more mullet off which the great birds were making their evening meal. A flock of black cormorants, uttering harsh cries, flew overhead with a rushing sound, returning from a day's fishing to their roosts in the distant Everglades. With these exceptions, and the faint boom of the surf on the outer reef, all was silence and desertion. Besides the light-house tower there was no sign of human life, not even the distant glimmer of a sail. While the boys still looked longingly for some trace of their canoes, the sunset, and a red flash, followed at short intervals by two white ones, shot out from the vanishing form of Alligator Light. "Come!" cried Sumner, heedful of this warning. "Night is almost here, and we have too much to do in every precious minute of twilight to be standing idle. I'll take the bucket and run to the pond for water, while you cut all the palmetto leaves you possibly can, and carry them to the place where we landed." "The bucket?" repeated Worth, looking about him inquiringly. "Where are you going to find it?" Without answering, Sumner sprang down the rocks to the water's edge, where he had noticed a stranded bamboo, and quickly cut out a short section of it with the hatchet that he had thrust into his belt before leaving the canoes. As he made the cuts just below two of the joints, his section was a hollow cylinder, open at one end, but having a tight bottom and capable of holding several quarts of water. With this he plunged into the forest in the direction of the pond, handing Worth the hatchet as he passed, and bidding him be spry with his palmetto leaves. A few minutes later, as Sumner emerged from the trees, carrying his full water-bucket, and breathless with his haste, he indistinctly saw the form of some animal at the very place where they had left their guns and birds. As the boy dashed forward, uttering a loud cry, the alarmed animal scuttled off into the bushes. "Oh, you vil-li-an!" gasped Sumner as he reached the place, "I'll settle with you to-morrow, see if I don't." Four of the doves had disappeared, and the head was torn from one of the ducks. "What is it?" cried Worth, in alarm, as he entered the clearing from the opposite side, staggering beneath an immense load of cabbage-palm leaves. "A rascally thieving 'coon," answered Sumner, "and he has got away with the best part of our provisions, too; but I'll get even with him yet. Now give me the hatchet, and then pick up all the drift-wood you can find, while I build a house." Worth would gladly have helped erect the house, as Sumner called it, for he was very curious as to what sort of a structure could be built of leaves, but he realized the necessity of doing as he was bidden, and at once set to work gathering wood. Sumner, after carefully propping his water-bucket between two rocks, so as to insure the safety of its contents, began cutting a number of slender saplings, and turning them into poles. The stoutest of these he bound with withes to two trees that stood about six feet apart. He fastened it to their trunks as high as he could reach. Then he bound one end of the longer poles to it, allowing them to slant to the ground behind. Crosswise of these, and about a foot apart, he tied a number of still more slender poles, and over these laid the broad leaves. He would have tied these securely in place if he had had time. As he had not, for it was quite dark before he finished even this rude shelter, he was forced to leave them so, and hope that a wind would not arise during the night. For himself alone he would not have built any shelter, but would have found a comfortable resting-place under a tree. Knowing, however, that Worth had never in his life slept without a roof of some kind above him, he thought it best to provide one, and thereby relieve their situation of a portion of the terror with which the city-bred boy was inclined to regard it. It was curious and interesting to note how a sense of responsibility, and the care of one younger and much more helpless than himself, was developing Sumner's character. Already the selfishness to which he was inclined had very nearly disappeared, while almost every thought was for the comfort and happiness of his companion. Worth, accustomed to being cared for and having every wish gratified, hardly appreciated this as yet; but the emergencies of their situation were teaching him valuable lessons of prompt obedience and self-reliance that he could have gained in no other way. As Sumner finished his rude lean-to, and placed the guns within its shelter for protection from the heavy night dews, Worth came up from the beach with his last load of drift-wood. It was now completely dark, and the notes of chuck-wills-widows were mingling with the "whoo, whoo, whoo ah-h!" of a great hoot owl in the forest behind them. "Now for a fire and some supper," cried Sumner, cheerily. "You've got some matches, haven't you?" "I don't believe I have," replied Worth, anxiously feeling in his pockets. "I thought you must have some." "No, I haven't a sign of one!" exclaimed Sumner, and an accent of hopelessness was for the first time allowed to enter his voice. "They are all aboard the canoes, and without a fire we are in a pretty pickle sure enough. I wonder how hungry we'll get before we make up our minds to eat raw duck? This is worse than losing the canoes. I declare I don't know what to do." "Couldn't we somehow make a fire with a gun? Seems to me I have read of something of that kind," suggested Worth. "Of course we can!" shouted Sumner, springing to his feet. "What a gump I was not to think of it! If we collect a lot of dry stuff and shoot into it, there is bound to be a spark or two that we can capture and coax into a flame." So, with infinite pains, they felt around in the dark until they had collected a considerable pile of dry leaves, sticks, and other rubbish that they imagined would easily take fire. Then, throwing a loaded shell into a barrel of his gun, and placing the muzzle close to the collected kindlings, Sumner pulled the trigger. There was a blinding flash, a loud report that rolled far and wide through the heavy night air, and the heap of rubbish was blown into space. Not a leaf remained to show where it had been, and not the faintest spark relieved the darkness that instantly shut in more dense than ever. "One cartridge spent in buying experience," remarked Sumner, as soon as he discovered the attempt to be a failure. "Now we'll try another. If you will kindly collect another pile of kindling, I'll prepare some fireworks on a different plan." Thus saying, he spread his handkerchief on the ground, cut off the crimping of another shell with his pocket-knife, carefully extracted the shot and half the powder, and confined the remainder in the bottom of the shell with one of the wads. Then he moistened the powder that he had taken out, and rubbed it thoroughly into the handkerchief, which he placed in the second pile of sticks and leaves that Worth had by this time gathered. A shot taken at this with the lightly charged blank cartridge produced the desired effect. Five minutes later the cheerful blaze of a crackling fire illumined the scene, and banished a cloud of anxiety from the minds of the young castaways. CHAPTER VIII. LIFE ON THE LONELY ISLAND. The influence of a brisk wood-fire on a dark night is remarkable. Not only does it give freely of its heat and light, but gloom and despair are banished by its ruddy glow, while cheerfulness and hope spring forward as if by magic to occupy their vacant places. At least, this was the effect of the cheery blaze our canoemates had at length succeeded in coaxing into life, and though it had cost them two of their half-dozen cartridges, they felt that these had been well expended. Their prospects had looked dismal enough when they had been compelled to contemplate an existence without a fire; but with it to aid them, they felt equal to almost any emergency, and they turned to the preparing of their ducks for supper with renewed energy. Surely fire is well worthy of being classed with air and water as one of the things most necessary to human life and happiness. Now that they had time to think of it, the boys were very hungry, for since an early breakfast they had eaten but a light lunch of crackers and jam. So they barely waited to assure themselves that their fire was going to burn, before the feathers from their ducks were flying in all directions. When the birds were plucked and cleaned, two sharpened sticks were thrust through their bodies. These were rested on one rock, with another above them to hold them in place, so that the ducks were lifted but a few inches above a great bed of glowing coals. Then the hungry lads sat down to watch them, and never, to their impatient belief, had two fowls taken so long to roast before. They began testing their condition by sticking the points of their knives into them long before there was a chance of their being done. At length Sumner declared that he was going to eat his even if it were still raw, and the half-cooked ducks were placed on two broad palm leaves that served at once as tables and plates. "My! but isn't this fowl tough!" exclaimed Worth, as he struggled with his share of the feast. "Sole-leather and rubber are nothing to it." "Yes," replied Sumner; "ten-ounce army duck would be easier eating than this fellow. I wish we could have stewed them with rice, a few bits of pork, a slice or two of onion, and a seasoning of pepper and salt. How do you think that would go?" "Please don't mention such things," said Worth, working at a drumstick with teeth and both hands. "Ducks ought always to be parboiled before roasting," remarked Sumner, wisely. "I believe this fellow would be like eggs," replied Worth; "the more you boiled him the harder he would get." However, hunger and young teeth can accomplish wonders, so it was not very long before two little heaps of cleanly-picked bones marked all that was left of the ducks, and though they could easily have eaten more, the boys wisely decided to reserve the doves for breakfast. Although the darkness rendered it a difficult task, Sumner managed to cut a few armfuls more of palmetto leaves. These, shredded from their heavy stalks and spread thickly over the floor of the lean-to, made a couch decidedly more comfortable than a bed on the bare ground would have been. They could do nothing more that night, and lying there in the firelight they had the first opportunity since discovering the loss of their canoes to thoroughly discuss the situation. "What would our mothers say if they could see us now, and know the fix we are in?" queried Worth, after a meditative silence. "I'm awfully glad they can't know anything about it," replied Sumner. "But I wish some one could know, so that they could send a boat for us. I am sure that we don't want to stay on this island for the rest of our lives." "Of course not, and I don't propose to, even if no boat comes here." "What do you propose to do?" inquired Worth, leaning on his elbow, and gazing at his companion with eager interest. "Well, in the first place, I propose to explore this key thoroughly to-morrow, and see if any traces of the canoes are to be found, as well as what it will afford in the way of food and lumber. Then, if we don't find the canoes, and no boat comes along, I propose to build some kind of a raft, on which we can float over to Indian Key. While boats rarely pass this way, some are certain to pass within a short distance of it almost every day. So from there we would have little difficulty in getting taken off." "Well," said Worth, regarding his companion admiringly, "I'm sure I couldn't build a raft with only a hatchet, and I'm awfully glad that I'm not here all alone. What can possibly have become of our canoes, anyway?" "I'm sure I can't imagine," replied Sumner, "unless some one stole them, and I don't know of any one on the reef mean enough to do that. Besides, we haven't seen a sail all day, nor a sign of a human being. They couldn't have gone adrift, either--at least, I don't see how they could. So, on the whole, it's a conundrum that I give up. You'd better believe that I feel badly enough, though, over losing _Psyche_. That worries me a great deal more than how we are going to get away from here, for I never expect to own another such beauty as she is. But there's no use crying over what can't be helped, so let's go to sleep, and prepare for a fresh start to-morrow. Whenever you wake during the night you want to get up and throw a fresh stick on the fire, and I will do the same, for we can't afford to let it go out." "All right," said Worth. "But, Sumner, there aren't any wild beasts or snakes on this key, are there?" "I don't believe there are any snakes," was the reply, "while there certainly aren't any animals larger than 'coons, and they won't hurt any one. No, indeed, there is nothing to be afraid of here, and you may be as free from anxiety on that score as though you were in your own room in New York City. More so," he added, with a laugh; "for there you might have burglars, while here there is no chance of them. I only wish there was; for burglars in this part of the country would have to come in boats, and we might persuade them to take us off the key. Now go to sleep, old man, and pleasant dreams to you." "Good-night," answered Worth, and closing his eyes, the boy made a resolute effort to sleep. Somehow he found it harder to do so now than it had been on his first night of camping out. The loss of the canoes seemed to have removed an element of safety on which he had depended, and to have suddenly placed him at an infinite distance beyond civilization, with all its protections. It was so awful to be imprisoned on this lonely isle, in those far-away southern seas. He wondered what his father and mother and Uncle Tracy were doing, and if there was a dance at the Ponce de Leon that night, and what his school-fellows in New York would say if they knew of his situation. He wondered and thought of these and a thousand other things, until finally he, too, fell asleep, and the silence of the lonely little camp was unbroken save by the voice of the great hoot owl, who called at regular intervals, "Whoo, whoo, whoo-ah!" It still wanted an hour or so of moonrise, when the waning firelight half disclosed a human figure that emerged from the woods behind the lean-to, and stealthily crouched in the black shadow beside it. For some moments it remained motionless, listening to the regular breathing of the boys. Then it moved noiselessly forward on hands and knees. Suddenly Worth awoke, and sprang into a sitting posture. At the same time he uttered a startled cry, at the sound of which the creeping figure drew quickly back, and disappeared behind the trunk of a tree. "What is it?" asked Sumner, who, awakened by Worth's cry, was also sitting up. "I don't know," answered the boy, "but I am almost certain that some one was trying to pull my gun away." CHAPTER IX. THE NOCTURNAL VISITOR. For a full minute the boys sat motionless, listening intently for any sound that should betray the presence of the intruder who, Worth was positive, had visited their camp. Once they both heard a slight rustling in the bushes behind them, and Worth, putting his hand on Sumner's arm, whispered, breathlessly, "There!--hear that?" "That's nothing," answered Sumner. "Probably that 'coon has come back to look for the rest of his supper." "But a 'coon wouldn't pull at a gun," insisted Worth. "Oh, you must have been dreaming," returned Sumner. "Your gun hasn't disappeared, has it?" [Illustration: "SOME ONE WAS TRYING TO PULL MY GUN AWAY."] "No, but I am sure I felt it move. I threw my arm across it before I went to sleep, and its moving woke me. I felt it move once after I was awake, as though some one were trying to pull it away very gently. Then I sat up and called out, 'Who's there?' but there wasn't any answer, and I didn't hear a sound. But, Sumner, there's some one on this island besides ourselves, I know there is, and he'll kill us if he gets the chance. Can't we get away somehow--can't we? I shall die of fright if we have to stay here any longer!" "Yes, of course we can," answered Sumner, soothingly, "and we'll set about it as soon as daylight comes. Until then we'll keep a sharp lookout, though I can't believe there is a human being on the key besides ourselves. We surely would have seen some traces of him." As the boy finished speaking he went outside and threw some more wood on the fire. In another minute a bright blaze had driven back the shadows from a wide circle about the little hut, and rendered it impossible for any one to approach without discovery. Then the canoemates sat with their precious guns in their hands, and talked in low tones until the moon rose above the trees behind them, flooding the whole scene with a light almost as bright as that of day. By this time Worth's conversation began to grow unintelligible; his head sank lower and lower, until at length he slipped down from his sitting position fast asleep. Then Sumner thought he might as well lie down, and in another minute he, too, was in the land of dreams. Worth was very restless, and occasionally talked in his sleep, which is probably the reason why the dark form still crouching in the shadows behind the camp did not again venture to approach it. It was broad daylight, and the sun was an hour high, when the boys next awoke, wondering whether their fright of the night before had been a reality or only a dream. Under the fear-dispelling influence of the sunlight even Worth was inclined to think it might have been the latter, while Sumner was sure of it. After replenishing their fire, they went down to the beach in the hope of seeing a sail, and for their morning plunge in the clear water. There was nothing in sight; but while they were bathing, Sumner discovered a fine bunch of oysters. These, roasted in their shells, together with the birds saved from the evening before, made quite a satisfactory breakfast. After eating it, and carefully banking their fire with earth, they set forth to explore the island. As they were most anxious to search for traces of the lost canoes, and had already penetrated the interior as far as the central pond of fresh-water, they decided to follow the coast-line as closely as possible. Accordingly, with their loaded guns over their shoulders, they set out along the water's edge. Their progress was slow, for in many places the mangroves were so thick that they found great difficulty in forcing a way through them. Then, too, they found a quantity of planks, many of which they hauled up, as well as they could, beyond the reach of the tide for future use. While thus engaged, the meridian sun and their appetites indicated the hour of noon before they reached a small grove of cocoanut-trees on the north end of the island, beneath which they decided to rest. Sumner climbed one of the tall, smooth trunks, and cutting off a great bunch of nuts, in all stages of ripeness, let it fall to the ground with a crash. As he was about to descend, his eye was arrested by something that instantly occupied his earnest attention. It was only the stem of another bunch of nuts; but it had been cut, and that so recently that drops of fresh sap were still oozing from it. From his elevated perch he could also see where other bunches had been cut from trees near by, and he slid to the ground in a very reflective frame of mind. He could not bear, however, to arouse Worth's fears by communicating his suspicions until he had reduced them to a certainty. The nuts might have been taken by some passing sponger, though he did not believe they had been. So he said nothing of his discovery while they lunched off of cocoanuts, ripe and partially so, and took refreshing draughts of their milk. He did, however, keep a sharp lookout, and finally spied what resembled a dim trail leading through the bushes behind them towards the interior. Finally, on the pretext that he might get a shot at some doves, and asking Worth to remain where he was for a few minutes, Sumner entered the bushes, determined to discover the mystery, if that trail would lead him to it. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when his foot was caught by a low vine, and he plunged head first into a thick ty-ti bush. He fell with a great crash, and made such a noise in extricating himself from the thorny embrace that he did not hear a quick rush and a rustling of the undergrowth but a short distance from him. What he did hear, though, a minute after he regained his footing, was a startled cry, and the roar of Worth's gun. Then came a succession of yells, mingled with cries of murder, and such shouts for help, coupled with his own name, that for a moment he was paralyzed with bewilderment and a sickening fear. Then he bounded back down the dim trail, just in time to see Worth throw down his gun and rush towards the struggling figure of a negro. The latter was rolling on the ground at the foot of a cocoanut-tree, and uttering the most piercing yells. [Illustration: "THE LATTER WAS ROLLING ON THE GROUND AT THE FOOT OF A COCOANUT-TREE."] As Worth became aware of Sumner's presence, he turned with a white, frightened face, exclaiming: "Oh, Sumner, what shall I do? I've killed him, and he is dying before my very eyes! Of course I didn't mean to, but he came on me so suddenly that I fired before I had time to think. The whole charge must have gone right through his body, judging from the agony he is in. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" "Well, he isn't dead yet, at all events," said Sumner. "Perhaps, if he will keep still for a minute and stop his yelling, we can find out where he is hurt and do something for him." With this he attempted to catch hold of the struggling figure at his feet; but the negro rolled away from him, crying: "Don't tech me, Marse Summer! Don't yo' tech me! I's shot full o' holes, an' I's gwine ter die. Oh Lordy! Oh Lordy! Sich pain as I's a-suff'rin'! An' I didn't kill nobody, nuther. I didn't nebber do no harm. An' now I's full ob holes. Oh Lordy! Oh Lordy!" "Why, it's Quorum!" exclaimed Sumner, mentioning the name of one of the best cooks known to the Key West sponging fleet. Sumner had sailed with him, and knew him well. About a month before, the captain of the schooner on which he was employed had been found dead in his bunk. Quorum was accused of poisoning him for the sake of a sum of money that the captain was known to have had, but which could not now be found. The cook had been arrested, and an attempt was made to lynch him for the alleged crime. He had, however, succeeded in escaping, and had disappeared from the island. That no active search was made for him was because the money was found concealed in the captain's bunk, and it was proved that heart-disease was the cause of his death. At length the negro, exhausted by his struggles, lay still, though groaning so heavily that Worth imagined him to be dying, and Sumner, bending over him, searched for the fatal wound. His face became more and more perplexed as the examination proceeded, until finally, in a vastly relieved tone, he exclaimed: "You good-for-nothing old rascal! What do you mean by frightening us so? There isn't a scratch anywhere about you. Come, get up and explain yourself." "Don't yo' trifle wif a ole man what's dyin', Marse Summer," said Quorum, interrupting his groans and sitting up. "You are no more dying than I am," laughed Sumner, who was only too glad to be able to laugh after his recent anxiety. "I don't know what Worth, here, fired at, or what he hit; but it was certainly not you." "Didn't I, really?" cried Worth. "Oh, I'm so glad! I don't know what possessed me to fire, anyhow; but when he came dashing out of the woods right towards me, my gun seemed to go off of its own accord." "Yo' say I hain't hit nowheres, Marse Summer?" asked the negro, doubtfully; "an' not eben hurted?" "No," laughed Sumner, "not even 'hurted.' You know, Quorum, that I wouldn't hurt you for anything. I like your corn fritters and conch soup too much for that." "Why for yo' a-huntin' de ole man, den?" "Hunting you? We're not hunting you. What put such an idea into your head?" "Kase ebberbody er huntin' him, an' er tryin' ter kill him for de murder what he nebber done." "Of course you didn't do it. Captain Rube died of heart-disease. Everybody knows that now." "What yo' say?" cried the negro, springing to his feet, his face radiant with joy. "He die ob he own sef, an' ebberybody know hit, an' dey hain't er huntin' ole Quor'm any mo'? Glory be to de Lawd! Glory be to de Lawd! an' bress yo' honey face, Marse Summer, for de good news! De pore ole niggah been scare' 'mos' to def ebber sence he skip up de reef in a ole leaky skiff, what done got wrack on dis yer key. Now he free man, he hole he head up an' go cookin' agin. Bress de Lawd! Bress de Lawd!" CHAPTER X. WHOSE ARE THEY? AND WHERE DID THEY COME FROM? "Look here," said Sumner, sternly, to the negro, after his excitement had somewhat subsided, "didn't you try to steal one of our guns last night?" "Yes, honey, I's afeared I did," confessed the black man, humbly. "But I didn't know hit war you, Marse Summer, an' I did want er gun so powerful bad." "I'm glad that mystery is cleared up, at any rate," said Worth, with a relieved air. "And I'm glad to find out that I was right about some one being in the camp, too. Now I wonder if he doesn't know something about our canoes?" "Do you, Quorum, know anything about the canoes that we came here in?" asked Sumner. "No, I don't know nuffin' 'bout no cooner. I's bin wonderin' what sort of er boat you'll come in, an' er lookin' fer him, but I don't see him nowhere." "I suppose you would have stolen it if you had found it?" "Maybe so, maybe so. Ole Quor'm not 'sponsible fer what him do when he bein' hunted like er 'possum or er 'coon. Yo' like 'possum when he roasted, Marse Summer?" "Indeed I do when you roast him, Quorum. Why? Have you got one?" "Yes sah, cotch him in er trap dis berry mawnin'. I jist settin' hit agin when yo' come er trompin' troo de trees an' scare de pore ole niggah 'mos' to def. Now, if yo' say so, we go roas' him, and hab berry fine suppah." "Certainly I say so. You lead the way, and we'll follow you. I tell you what, Worth, we've struck it rich in falling in with one of the best cooks on the reef." "I don't know how I shall like 'possum," replied Worth, "for I have never eaten any; but I am sure it will make fully as good a meal as raw cocoanut. I do wish, though, that we had some bread, or at least some crackers, and a little butter." "And sugar and coffee and bacon, and a cooking outfit," laughed Sumner. "I wouldn't mind spending a few days here if we had all those things." "Wouldn't it be fine?" replied the boy, who had all his life revelled in luxuries that he hardly cared for, but would now have appreciated so highly the commonest of what are generally regarded as necessities. As they talked in this strain, they followed the negro through the narrow trail leading back from the cocoanut grove to his camp. It was but a short distance from the place where Sumner had taken his header into the ty-ti bush. Here Quorum had built himself a snug palmetto hut in a place capitally concealed from observation, and had managed to surround himself with a number of rude comforts. A fire was smouldering in a rough stone fireplace, and from an adjoining limb hung the 'possum that they were to have for supper. "Well," exclaimed Sumner, looking about him, "I don't see but what you are living like an African King, Quorum. Have you had plenty to eat since you came here?" "Yes, sah. Plenty such as hit is--'possum, 'coon, turtle, fish, oyster, conch, cocoanut, banana, limes, lemons, an' paw-paw; but no terbakker. I tell yo', sah, dat a berry pore place what hab no terbakker." "So you want tobacco to make you happy, and Worth wants bread and butter, and I want coffee. It seems that we all want something that we haven't got, and aren't likely to get in this world, doesn't it? But, Quorum, what on earth are you throwing all that iron into the fire for? It won't burn." "No, him won't burn," answered the negro, chuckling at the idea, "but him good to bile de wattah." As neither of the boys had the least idea what he meant, they watched him curiously. The iron that he had thrown into the fire, which he now heaped with wood, consisted of a number of old bolts that he had obtained from some wreckage on the beach. While these were heating, he filled a small hollow place in the rocks with water, and when the bolts were red-hot he dropped them into it. In about two seconds the water was boiling. Throwing a few handfuls of ashes into the boiling water, he soused the 'possum in it and held him there several minutes. After this he scraped the animal with a bit of iron hoop, and to the surprise of the boys, its hair came off almost without an effort. In a minute it was as bare as a suckling pig, which it greatly resembled. Shortly afterwards it was cleaned, washed, and ready for roasting. Just here Sumner proposed that they return to their own camp, and do the roasting there, as from where they now were they had no chance of seeing any boats that might pass the island. As Quorum no longer felt the necessity for hiding, he readily agreed to this, and carrying with them the few articles belonging to him that were worth removing, they started through the woods towards what the boys already called home. The afternoon was nearly spent when they entered the clearing and came in sight of their own little lean-to. Sumner, who was some distance in the lead, was the first to reach it. The others saw him suddenly stop, gaze at the hut as though fascinated by something inside of it, and then, without a word, start on a run towards the beach. This curious action excited Worth's wonder; but when he reached the hut he did exactly the same thing. When Quorum, who came last, reached it, he gazed in open-eyed wonder, but did not move from the spot. A smile gradually overspread his face, and, with a long-drawn sigh of happy anticipation, he uttered the single word, "Terbakker." "Do you see it?" asked Worth, breathlessly, as he joined Sumner on the beach. "No; but perhaps it is behind the point. Let's go and take a look." But when they reached the point there was no sign of the vessel that they fully expected to find there. More greatly puzzled than they had ever been before in all their lives, even at the mysterious disappearance of their canoes, the boys slowly retraced their steps towards the hut. It was completely filled with barrels, boxes, and various packages, most of which evidently contained provisions. "There is a sack of coffee," remarked Sumner. "And a box of crackers. And, yes, here is butter!" cried Worth, lifting the cover of a tin pail. "Dat ar am sholy a box ob terbakker," put in Quorum, pointing to the unmistakable box, from which his eyes had not wandered since they first lit upon it. "It certainly is," replied Sumner, in a voice expressive of the most unbounded amazement. "And there, if my eyes do not deceive me, are cases of milk, canned fruit, baked beans, and brown bread." "Hams and bacon," added Worth. "Kittles and pans," said Quorum. "In fact," concluded Sumner, "there is a bountiful supply of provisions for several months, and a complete house-keeping outfit into the bargain. There is no doubt as to what these things are. The only unanswered questions are, Whom do they belong to, and how did they get here?" [Illustration: A GREAT DISCOVERY.] "Perhaps whoever stole our canoes has left them here in part payment," suggested Worth. "You might just as well say that Elijah's ravens had brought them," laughed Sumner. "Marse Summer, sah, 'scuse me, but do hit 'pear to yo' like hit would be stealin' to bang de kiver offen dat ar box, an' let de ole man hab jes one smell ob dat terbakker?" asked Quorum, humbly. "No, Quorum, under the circumstances I don't believe it would," replied the boy, who forthwith proceeded to attack the box in question with his hatchet. CHAPTER XI. SUMNER DRIFTS AWAY ON A RAFT. The display of layer upon layer of black plug tobacco such as Quorum had been accustomed to using for longer than he could remember caused the negro's eyes to glisten as though they saw so many ingots of pure gold. For more than two weeks he had longed unavailingly for a fragment of the precious weed. Now to have an unlimited quantity of it placed before him so very mysteriously and unexpectedly seemed to him the climax of everything most desirable and best worth living for. He sniffed at it eagerly, inhaling its fragrance with long, deep breaths. Then, producing a stubby black pipe from some hidden recess of his tattered clothing, he asked, pleadingly, for "jes one lilly smoke." "After supper," said Sumner. "Get supper ready first, and then you shall smoke as much as you want to." At this Quorum's countenance fell, and seating himself on the ground, he remarked, stubbornly: "No, sah. Ole Quor'm do no cookin' wifout him hab a smoke fust. No smoke, no cookin', no cookin', no suppah. Why yo' no gib one plug ob terbakker fur dat 'possum, eh? Him monstrous fine 'possum, but I willin' to sell him fur jes one lilly plug ob terbakker. Yo' can't buy him so cheap nowhar else, specially on dis yer oncibilized Niggly Wity Key." "But it is not my tobacco," laughed Sumner, greatly amused at the old man's attitude and arguments. "Who he b'long to, den?" demanded Quorum, quickly. "I'm sure I don't know," answered the boy. "Den he yourn. You fin' him. You keep him. Hit all de same like er wrack. Yo' catch him, nobody else want him, yo' keep him. Jes one lilly smoke, Marse Summer--jes one; den de ole man go to cookin' de berry bestes yo' ebber seen. Come, Marse Summer, jes one; dat's a honey-bug." There was no resisting this pleading appeal, and cutting off enough for a single pipeful from one of the plugs, Sumner handed it to the negro, saying: "Well, then, if you must have it, take that, and hurry up with supper the very minute you have finished your smoke. I never was so hungry in my life, while Worth begins to look dangerously like a cannibal. Come, Worth, we must fly round, and build another palmetto shanty before dark. At this rate we'll have a town here before long." Two hours of hard work found a second hut, much more pretentious than the first, nicely roofed in. By this time the sun was setting, and what was of infinitely more importance to the young canoemates, Quorum announced that supper was ready. And what a feast he had prepared! Had there ever been one half so good before? In the opinion, of the boys, there certainly had not. Quorum had felt no scruples about helping himself to the provisions so liberally provided, and if the boys had noticed what he was doing, they had not possessed the moral courage to interfere. As a result, he had baked the 'possum stuffed with cracker-crumbs, bits of pork and onions cut up fine, and well seasoned with salt and pepper, in a Dutch-oven. The oven had been set on a bed of coals, and a fire of light-wood knots built on its heavy iron lid. The 'possum had been surrounded with sweet-potatoes, and both were done to a brown crisp. Then there was coffee, with sugar and condensed milk, toasted hardtack with butter, and bananas for dessert. "Talk about eating!" said Sumner. "Or Delmonico's!" added Worth. As Quorum sat and watched them, a broad grin of happiness overspread his features, while wreaths of blue smoke curled gently upward above his woolly head. His pipe was again full, and he now had possession of an entire plug of tobacco, for which he felt profoundly grateful to some unknown benefactor. Among other things in the hut, which the boys now called the storehouse, they had discovered a bale of blankets. These they did not hesitate to appropriate to their own use, and as they lay stretched on them, under their new roof, blinking sleepily at the fire, their comfort and happiness seemed almost to have attained perfection. "Except for our canoes," said Sumner. "If we only had them, I, for one, should be perfectly happy; and to-morrow I am going to make preparations for finding them." "How?" asked Worth; and for an hour or so they talked over their plans for the future. The intervals between their remarks became longer and longer, until finally, when Worth asked, "Whom do you suppose all those provisions belong to, anyway, Sumner?" the latter answered: "Give it up. I'm too sleepy to guess any more riddles to-night." The boys slept almost without moving until sunrise; but Quorum was frequently aroused to repel the invasions of certain 'coons that, but for his watchfulness, would have made free with the contents of the storehouse. He also had to protect the fire against a heavy shower that came on towards morning; and on each of these occasions he rewarded himself with a few whiffs of smoke from his black pipe. The next morning the two boys, leaving Quorum to devise traps for the capture of the 'coons and prepare dinner, started out to collect some of the planks they had seen the day before. With these Sumner proposed to build a raft on which they could drift over to Indian Key with that afternoon's ebb-tide. Once there, he anticipated no difficulty in hailing some passing craft that could be chartered to search for their canoes, and carry them back to Key West in case the search proved fruitless. [Illustration: QUORUM IS HAPPY.] As the channel from Lignum Vitæ, through which the strongest tide-currents flowed, led directly past Indian Key and close to it, this plan seemed feasible. By noon the boys had towed around to the cove in front of their camp two heavy squared timbers and a number of boards. These they lashed together in the form of a rude raft. They had no nails, and but a limited supply of line for lashing, so that the raft was by no means so strong as they could wish. Neither was it very buoyant, the material of which it was built being yellow pine, already somewhat water-soaked and floating very low. To their dismay, when it was completed, the boys found that instead of supporting three persons, as they hoped it would, it was awash and unsafe with but two of them on board. "There's only one thing to be done," said Sumner, when this state of affairs became evident, "and that is for me to go alone. When I get hold of a craft of some kind, I can bring her here after you two; and if I don't find one, it will be an easy matter for me to come back on a flood-tide." "But, Sumner, it seems awful for you to go 'way off there alone on such a crazy raft at this. Do you think it is absolutely necessary?" "Yes," answered the other, whose mind was now intent only upon recovering his beautiful canoe, "I do think it is necessary for one of us to go. We can't stay here forever, living off of some unknown person's provisions. Besides, supposing those canoes should be wrecked and discovered in that condition, and the report that we were lost should reach Key West, how do you think our mothers would feel? Yes, indeed, it is necessary that I should go, and I mean to start the minute the tide serves." Neither Worth nor Quorum could move Sumner from this determination, and it was with heavy hearts that they watched him, about four o'clock in the afternoon, step aboard the raft and shove out into the current, that had just begun to run ebb. He was provided with a long pole and a small box of provisions, the latter being placed in the middle of the raft. Its movement was at first heavy and sluggish, but as soon as it felt the influence of the current, it was borne along with comparative speed. Thus a few minutes served to take the solitary voyager beyond earshot of his companions. For some time he could see them waving their hats, but at length their forms faded from his sight, and he realized that he was beyond reach of their assistance in case his undertaking should fail. Now that he could no longer note the speed with which he had left the island, his progress seemed irritatingly slow. The channel was very crooked, and his clumsy craft frequently grounded on the projecting sand-bars at its many turns. In each case valuable time was lost in pushing it off and getting it again started. From this cause his rate of progress was so slow that Indian Key was still some distance ahead when the sun sank from sight in the western waters. Now, for the first time, Sumner experienced a feeling of uneasiness, and a doubt as to the success of his venture. He strove to add to the speed of his raft by poling, but as the depth of water was generally too great for him to touch bottom, nothing could be accomplished in that way. Now he began to notice the numbers of sea-monsters that were going out with the tide and using his channel as their pathway to deeper waters. On all sides were to be seen the triangular fins of huge sharks rising above the surface so close to him that he could have touched them with his pole. He also saw hundreds of sawfish, stingarees, devil-fish with vampire-like wings, the vast bulks of ungainly jew-fish, porpoises, and other evil-looking creatures of great size and phenomenal activity. He shuddered to think what would be his fate if a slip or a mis-step should precipitate him into the water among them. At length their forms were hidden from him by the darkness, and only their splashings and the gleaming trails of their progress through the phosphorescent water denoted their swarming presence. Suddenly, while his attention was fixed upon these, he became aware that he was abreast of Indian Key and passing it. There was a shoal on the opposite side, and plunging his pole into it, he made a mighty effort to direct his raft towards land. All at once, without the slightest warning, the brittle pole snapped, and only by a violent effort did he save himself from plunging into the cruel waters. CHAPTER XII. PICKED UP IN THE GULF STREAM. The snapping of that pole marked the bitterest moment of Sumner Rankin's life. With it went his only hope of navigating his rude craft to the friendly shore of the key, past which he now seemed to be drifting with terrible rapidity. He could make out the dim forms of its trees, and of the deserted buildings, in one of which he had proposed to spend the night. He could even hear the rustle of its palm leaves in the light evening breeze, and the gentle plash of waters on its rocky coast. It was so near that he could easily have swum to it. He thought of making the attempt, but a single glance at the phosphorescent flashes beneath him convinced him of its hopelessness. No, it was safer to remain where he was, even though he should be carried out to sea through one of the numerous channels in the outer reef. Supposing his raft should strand on the reef, what chance was there of its holding together until daylight, or even for a few minutes? He knew that if a sea should arise there was none. Now Indian Key was lost to sight behind him, and he was alone, with only his own unhappy thoughts for company. He knew that those waters were seldom traversed by vessels of any description in the night-time, most of the reef sailors preferring to come to anchor at sunset. Above him shone the stars, and far ahead gleamed the white and red flashes of Alligator Light. All else was darkness and utter desolation. The poor lad sat on the box containing his slender store of provisions, and buried his face in his hands. How thankful he was that his mother could not see him now! She was at least spared that sorrow. He wondered what she was doing. Then his thoughts turned to those whom he had left but a few hours before. Why had he not been content to stay with them, and await patiently the relief that must come to them sooner or later? Perhaps even now the mysterious owner of those goods had arrived, and Worth was sitting with a merry party beside the fire, while old Quorum was preparing supper. No, they must have already eaten supper, and now Quorum was blissfully smoking his pipe, while Worth was comfortably stretched out on his bed of blankets. Oh, what a fool he had been to let a false pride in his own strength and ability get the better of his prudence! He might have known that there were a hundred chances of being swept past the little rocky key to one of successfully landing on it. He had known it, but his obstinate pride in his own superior skill had not allowed him to acknowledge it, and now it was too late. At length, feeling faint from hunger, the poor boy roused himself, and ate a few mouthfuls of food from his provision chest. As he contrasted this meal and its surroundings with the merry supper of the evening before, the wretchedness of his situation was forced upon him more strongly than ever. By this time a breeze that caused little waves to break upon and occasionally wash completely over the raft had sprung up in the south-west, and by the changing position of Alligator Light, Sumner became aware that he was drifting up the reef. The steadily increasing roar of its breakers informed him at the same time that he was approaching closer to it with each moment. Finally he was abreast of the light, and a mile or so from it, while the sound of the breakers was all about him. He was on the line of the reef. In a few minutes more he would either have passed into the open sea beyond it, or his ill-built raft would strand and be broken to pieces on its cruel rocks. During the succeeding five minutes he almost held his breath. The strain of the suspense was awful, and the boy hardly knew which fate he dreaded the most. At the end of that time it was decided. The sound of the breakers certainly came from behind him. He had passed out through some channel, and was now on the open sea. At the same time the waves that washed over his raft were larger, so that before long he was thoroughly drenched by them, and sat shivering in the chill night wind. Now the strong current of the Gulf Stream aided the wind to bear him up the reef, and after a few hours the brightness of Alligator Light was so sensibly diminished that he knew he must be several miles from it. Once during the night he saw the light of a steamship passing at no great distance from him; but his frantic cries for help were either unheard or unheeded, for no attention was paid to them. Then he began to pray for the daylight that seemed as though it would never come. How wearily the hours dragged and how cold he was! He was wet through, and chilled to the bone. When at length the welcome dawn began to tinge the eastern sky, it found the lad half-lying on the raft, clinging to the lashings of the little provision chest, and lost to consciousness in the sleep of utter exhaustion. In this condition he was discovered by the keen-eyed lookout of a west-bound steamer that was hugging the reef to escape as much as might be the force of the Gulf Stream. With reversed engines and slackening speed, the great ship passed within a hundred yards of him, but he knew nothing of it. Nor did he awake until he heard a gruff, but pitying voice close beside him, saying, "Poor fellow, he must be dead!" The next moment two pairs of powerful arms had dragged him into the boat that had been lowered for him, and as he sat up in its bottom rubbing his eyes, he seemed to have just awakened from a hideous nightmare. A few minutes later the boat with its crew had been hoisted to the deck, the steamer was again pursuing her way towards Key West, and Sumner, wrapped in hot blankets, was occupying a berth in a vacant stateroom, surrounded by the sympathizing faces of those who were anxious to anticipate his every want. He was sound asleep when, half an hour from that time, the steamer neared Alligator Light, and a small boat was seen pulling off from it so as to intercept her. At the sight of this boat the first officer immediately began to collect such late papers and magazines as the passengers were willing to contribute, and tying them into a package. This he lashed to a bit of wood, which he intended to toss overboard for the light-keeper to pick up. In this way the reef lights are kept supplied with New York papers only three or four days old. The same papers, passing through the mails, do not reach the scattered dwellers on the keys for ten days or two weeks from the date of their publication. As the steamer neared the boat from Alligator Light its occupant was seen to hold up a small package wrapped in canvas, which was at once understood to contain despatches that he wished to send to Key West. So the end of a light line was flung to him, he skilfully made the package fast to it without delaying the ship a moment, and it was hauled aboard. Among the letters that it contained was one directed to the editor of the only daily paper in Key West, and this was delivered promptly on the steamer's arrival at that port. [Illustration: "TWO PAIRS OF POWERFUL ARMS DRAGGED HIM INTO THE BOAT."] Late that afternoon, when Mrs. Rankin was slowly regaining her composure after the shock of Sumner's sudden and unlooked-for appearance at home, and was listening with breathless interest to an account of his recent adventures, a copy of the evening paper was left at the house. Sumner was too busy assuring his mother that he was not suffering the slightest ill effect from his exposure of the night before, to look at it then. When, an hour later, he found time to do so, the leading item on the first page at once attracted his attention. It was headed, "A Mystery of the Reef," and after glancing hastily through it, the boy sprang to his feet, shouting: "Hurrah, mother! The disappearance of the canoes is explained at last, and they are safe and sound, after all." CHAPTER XIII. A MYSTERY OF THE REEF. As Mrs. Rankin came into the room, on hearing Sumner's exclamation, he read aloud the article in the daily _Equator_ that had so excited him, and which was as follows: "A MYSTERY OF THE REEF. "By the steamship _Comal_, which arrived in this port to-day, we receive a curious bit of news from Keeper Spencer, of Alligator Light. On the evening of the 15th, as he was in the lantern of the tower preparing to light the lamp, he noticed two small craft of a most unusual description rapidly approaching from the direction of the keys. One appeared to be in tow of the other, but in neither could a human being be discovered. There were no signs of oars, sails, paddles, or steam, and yet the movement of the boats through the water was at the rate of about ten knots an hour. It was also very erratic, and though their general course was towards the reef, they approached it by a series of zigzags, now taking a sharp sheer to port, and directly another to starboard. As the keeper could not leave the tower at that moment, he directed Assistant Albury to take the light-house skiff, intercept the craft, if possible, and investigate their character. "With great difficulty, and after an exciting chase, Mr. Albury succeeded in getting alongside the leading boat of the two, and in making fast to it. It proved to be a decked canoe, of exquisite workmanship and fittings, completely equipped for cruising, bearing the name _Psyche_ in silver letters on either bow. The second canoe, which was a counterpart of the first, was named _Cupid_. Both were in tow of an immense Jew-fish, which had succeeded in entangling itself in the cable with which the _Psyche_ had evidently been anchored. It is probable that one of the flukes of the anchor caught in the creature's gills, though just how it happened will never be known, as Mr. Albury, being unable to capture the monster, was obliged to cut the cable and let him go. Nothing is known as to the fate of the owners of these canoes, and they are now at the light-house awaiting a claimant. "Just as we go to press we learn that early this morning the _Comal_ picked up a young man drifting in the Gulf, not far from Alligator Light. We were unable to obtain his name in time for insertion in to-day's paper, but will give it, with full particulars concerning him, in to-morrow's issue. He may be able to throw some light on the mystery of the canoes." "I should rather think he could!" laughed Sumner, as he finished reading. "But did you ever hear of such a thing, mother? The idea of a rascally Jew-fish running off with our canoes! I never thought of such a thing as that happening. And how wonderfully it has all turned out! I should have looked everywhere for them rather than at Alligator Light. I should never have dared attempt to navigate the raft that far, either. To think, too, that I should have been picked up by the very steamer that brought the news! How dreadfully you would have felt on reading it, if I hadn't got here first! Wouldn't you, mother dear?" "Indeed I should, my boy; and I shall never be able to express my gratitude for your wonderful preservation." "But poor Worth!" exclaimed Sumner. "How I wish he knew all about it, and how awfully anxious he must be! I only hope he won't attempt to go to Indian Key to look for me before I can get back there. That's something I must see about at once, and I must take the very first boat that goes up the reef. Just think how I should feel if anything were to happen to him, when Mr. Manton placed him in my care, too! If it wasn't for the way things have turned out, I should feel guilty at having left him there. I wouldn't have done it, though, if Quorum hadn't been on hand to look after him. He surely will keep him out of harm's way until I can get back." "I hate to think of your going back there again," said Mrs. Rankin, with a sigh, "though of course it is your duty to do so. But you will be careful, and not run into any more such dreadful perils, won't you, dear?" "Yes, mother; I promise not to run into a single peril that I can help, and if I meet one, I will try my best to get out of its way," laughed the boy, whose high spirits had quickly returned with the prospect of recovering his beloved canoe. "Well," sighed Mrs. Rankin, "so long as you must go, I shouldn't be surprised if Lieutenant Carey would take you in the _Transit_. I believe he intends to leave to-morrow morning for a trip up the reef, and to make some kind of a survey in the Everglades. He has been staying here for a few days, and is up in his room now." "Oh, mother!" cried the boy, springing to his feet, "the Everglades! How I should love to go!" "Now, Sumner--" began Mrs. Rankin, in a tone of expostulation; but the boy had already left the room, and was on his way up-stairs. Lieutenant Carey was an old friend, who had served under Commander Rankin, and had known Sumner ever since the boy was twelve years old. He had heard of his unexpected return, and only waited until the first interview between the young canoeman and his mother should be ended before going down to greet him. Now he listened to Sumner's story with the deepest interest, and when it was ended, he said: "Of course I will take you up the reef as far as Alligator, my boy, and shall be glad of your company. I only wish you would go with us as far as the main-land, and act as pilot through the Keys. They are not charted, you know, and as I have never been through them, I was on the point of engaging a fellow named Rust Norris as pilot, but I'd much rather have you. What do you say? Can't I enlist you in Uncle Sam's service for a week or so?" "I should like nothing better," answered Sumner, "only, you see, I am bound just now to look after Worth Manton, and take him up the reef to Cape Florida, where we are due by the first of April." "Perhaps we can persuade him to go along too. It won't be much out of your way, and you've lots of time to finish your trip between now and the first of April. I'll risk it anyhow, for I don't like the looks of that fellow Norris, and am only too glad of an excuse for not engaging him." "Then there is Quorum, the cook," added Sumner, reflectively. "I wonder what will become of him?" "A cook, do you say? What sort of a cook? A good one?" "One of the best on the reef," replied Sumner. "Then he is just the man I want to get hold of for our trip. I am only waiting now for a cook, and should start this evening if I had found one to suit me. If you will guarantee him, we'll get away at once, and make the old _Transit_ hum up the reef in the hope of capturing him before he makes any other engagement." "There is not much chance for him to make an engagement where he is now," laughed Sumner. "And, at any rate, I'm sure he wouldn't leave Worth until I get back. I shall be only too glad to start to-night though, for poor Worth must be terribly anxious, and the sooner I get to him the better." Thus it was settled, and as soon as supper was over, after a loving, lingering farewell from his mother, who repeated over and over again her charges that he should shun all perilous adventures, the boy found himself once more afloat. Mrs. Rankin had promised to write a long letter to the Mantons that very evening, assuring them of Worth's safety up to the date of the day before, and being thus relieved from this duty, Sumner set forth, with a light heart on his second cruise up the reef. The _Transit_ was a comfortable, schooner-rigged sharpie, about sixty feet long, built by the Government for the use of the Coast Survey in shallow southern waters. She had great breadth of beam, and was a stanch sea-boat, though she drew but eighteen inches of water, and Lieutenant Carey had no hesitation in putting her outside for a night run up the Hawk Channel. The especial duty now to be undertaken was an exploration of the Everglades to ascertain their value as a permanent reservation for the Florida Seminoles. These Indians, hemmed in on all sides by white settlers, were being gradually driven from one field and hunting-ground after another. In consequence they were becoming restive, and the necessity of doing something in the way of assuring them a permanent location had for some time been apparent. Thus a survey of the 'Glades was finally ordered, and Lieutenant Carey had been detailed for the duty, with permission to make up such a party to accompany him as he saw fit. His present command on the _Transit_ consisted of Ensign Sloe, and six men forward. It was intended that three of these should be taken into the 'Glades, while Mr. Sloe, with the other three, was to take the sharpie, from the point where the exploring party left her, around to Cape Florida, and there await their arrival. On the deck of the schooner and towing behind her were three novel craft, in which Lieutenant Carey intended to conduct his explorations of the swamps and grassy waterways of the interior. One of these was an open bass-wood canoe built in Canada, shaped very much like a birch bark, and capable of carrying four men. The others were the odd-looking boats, with bottoms shaped like table-spoons, that are so popular as ducking-boats on the New Jersey coast, and are known as Barnegat cruisers. One of these was named _Terrapin_ and the other _Gopher_, while the open canoe bore the Seminole name of _Hul-la-lah_ (the wind). Before a brisk southerly breeze, in spite of the boats dragging behind her, the _Transit_ made rapid progress. Ere it was time to turn in, Key West Light was low in the water astern, while that on American Shoal shone steady and bright off the starboard bow. The wind held fresh all night, so that by morning both American Shoal and Sombrero had been passed, and the sharpie was off the western end of Lower Metacumba, with Alligator Light flashing out its last gleam in the light of the rising sun. CHAPTER XIV. WORTH AND QUORUM ARE MISSING. As Sumner was anxious to reach Lignum Vitæ by the shortest possible route, the _Transit_ was headed in through the channel between Lower Metacumba and Long keys. Both tide and wind being with her, the nimble-footed sharpie seemed to fly past the low reefs and sand-spits on either side. Now she skimmed by the feeding-grounds of flocks of gray pelicans, whose wise expressions and bald heads gave them the appearance of groups of old men, and then passed an old sponge crawl, or the worm-eaten hull of some ancient wreck, both of which were covered with countless numbers of cormorants, gannets, and gulls. Waiting, with outstretched necks and pinions half spread, until the schooner was within a stone's-throw, these would fly with discordant cries of anger, wheel in great circles, and return to the places from which they had been driven the moment the threatened danger had passed. Even after the sharpie was well inside the bay, and the island they sought was in sight, they could not lay a direct course towards it on account of a reef several miles in length that presented an effectual barrier to anything larger than a canoe. But one narrow channel cut through it, and this was away to the northward, close under a tiny mangrove key. Towards this then they steered, with Sumner at the tiller, for he was the only one on board familiar with the intricate navigation of those waters. "You are certain that you are right, Sumner?" inquired Lieutenant Carey, anxiously, as they seemed about to drive headlong on the bar, and an ominous wake of muddy water showed that they were dragging bottom. "Certain," answered the boy, quietly. "All right, then; I've nothing to say." Inch by inch the great centre-board rose in its trunk, and the slack of its pennant was taken in, as the water rapidly shoaled. Now she dragged so heavily that it seemed as though she were about to stop. Again the lieutenant looked at Sumner, and then cast a significant glance at the man stationed by the fore-sheet. But the boy never hesitated nor betrayed the least nervousness. An instant later the tiller was jammed hard over, there was a sharp order of "Trim in!" and, flying almost into the teeth of the wind, the light vessel shot through an opening so narrow that she scraped bottom on both sides, and in another moment was dashing through deep water on the opposite side of the bar. From here the run to Lignum Vitæ was a long and short leg beat, with numerous shoals to be avoided. In spite of being kept busy with these, Sumner found time to note and wonder at a great column of smoke that rose from the island. What could Worth and Quorum be about? It looked as though they had managed to set the forest on fire. Filled with an uneasy apprehension, he jumped into a boat the moment the _Transit's_ anchor was dropped in the well-remembered cove, and sculled himself ashore. To his amazement he heard the sound of many voices, and discovered a dozen or so of men hard at work apparently cutting down the forest and burning it. As he stepped ashore, and looked in vain for the familiar figures of his friends, a pleasant-faced young man advanced from where the laborers were at work to meet him. "Can you tell me, sir, what has become of a boy named Worth Manton and an old colored man whom I left here the day before yesterday?" Sumner inquired, anxiously. "If you mean the two whom I found camped here, and helping themselves to my provisions, I think I can," answered the young man, with a smile. "They went over to Indian Key last evening on the boat that brought me here yesterday. They were very anxious concerning the fate of a friend who left them the evening before, and went over there on a raft, I believe they said. Can it be that you are the person they are seeking?" "Yes, sir, I am." "Then you are Sumner Rankin, and I am very happy to meet you. My name is Haines. I have bought this key, and am clearing it, preparatory to having it planted with cocoanuts. The provisions and camp outfit that appeared here so mysteriously to you and your companions belong to me, and were left here by the mail-schooner on her way up the reef. I expected to arrive, with my men, about the same time, but was detained. I am very glad, however, that they came in time to relieve your distress. I am also much obliged to you for affording them a shelter from the rain, without which some of the things would have been injured. Now will you pardon my curiosity if I ask how you happen to arrive here in a schooner from that direction when your friends said you had gone the other way, and were confident of finding you on Indian Key?" [Illustration: AS HE STEPPED ASHORE A PLEASANT-FACED YOUNG MAN ADVANCED TO MEET HIM.] When Sumner had given a brief outline of his recent adventure, Mr. Haines said: "You certainly have had a most remarkable experience, and I am glad your friends did not know of it, for young Manton was worried enough about you as it was. However, you will soon rejoin them, and when you have recovered your canoes, if you feel so inclined, I should be pleased to have you return here as my guests for as long as you choose to stay." Sumner thanked him, and said he should be happy to stop there on his return from the main-land. Then, begging to be excused, as he was impatient to go in search of his comrades, he jumped into his boat and returned to the _Transit_. Lieutenant Carey was perfectly willing to proceed at once to Indian Key, but the tide was still running flood, and the breeze, which was each moment becoming lighter, was dead ahead for a run out through the channel. Under the circumstances, it would be useless to lift the anchor, and the impatient boy was forced to wait for the tide to turn. When it finally began to run ebb, the breeze had died out so entirely that there was not even the faintest ripple on the water, and another season of waiting was unavoidable. By the lieutenant's invitation Mr. Haines came off and dined with them. He proved a most charming companion, and laughed heartily at Sumner's description of the amazement with which he, Worth, and Quorum had discovered the mysterious godsend of provisions. Mr. Haines declared that it was one of the best jokes he had ever known; though he was in doubt as to whether it was on him or on them. He appreciated Sumner's impatience to be off, and when, late in the afternoon, a fair breeze sprang up, he made haste to take his leave that their departure might not be delayed. It was nearly sunset when the _Transit_ approached Indian Key so closely that objects the size of a man could be distinguished on it. Sumner was again at the helm, and he tried not to neglect his steering; but he could not keep his eyes from scanning anxiously every discernible foot of its surface. To his great disappointment not a soul appeared. "They may be on the other side, keeping a lookout for passing vessels," suggested Lieutenant Carey. Hoping that this might be the case, but still heavy-hearted and anxious, Sumner went ashore, accompanied by the lieutenant. For an hour they searched over every foot of the key, and through its deserted buildings, shouting as they went, but their search was in vain. Nothing was seen of the lost ones, nor had they left a trace to show that they had ever been on the island. "It's no use," said Sumner at length; "they evidently are not here, and must have gone on in the boat that brought them when they failed to find me. Now, I don't know of anything to do but to go out to the light-house after the canoes, and then come back here and wait. If Worth has gone on up the reef, he must pass here on his way back, while if he has gone the other way, he will hear of me at Key West and come back here again. I'm awfully sorry that I can't go with you to the main-land, but I don't see how I possibly can under the circumstances." Although the boy tried to speak cheerfully, and to take the brightest possible view of the disappearance of his young comrade, he was filled with anxiety, and it was with a heavy heart that he turned into his berth on board the schooner _Transit_ that night. CHAPTER XV. WORTH AND QUORUM IN SEARCH OF SUMNER. On the evening that Sumner left Worth and Quorum, and started on his adventurous voyage towards Indian Key, they watched him until distance and the approaching twilight hid him from their view. Quorum was the first to turn away and begin preparations for supper, while Worth still remained on the point straining his eyes towards the key, on which he fondly hoped that his friend was safely landed. At length it, too, disappeared in the gathering darkness, and he reluctantly turned his steps towards the camp. He was heavy-hearted, and had but little appetite for the bountiful supper that Quorum had so skilfully prepared. Noticing this, the old man tried to cheer him, saying: "Don't yo' be so down in de mouf, Marse Worf. Dey hain't no 'casion fur worriment. I know Marse Summer Rankin fur a long time, an' I nebber know him in a fix yit what he don't slip outen, de same as er eel. I see him git in er plenty scrapes, but I don't see him git stuck. Him all right, and yo' no need to go er frettin' an' er mo'nin'. He be back ter-morrer bright an' smilin'. Now eat your suppah, honey, 'kase if yo' don't, ole Quor'm t'ink he cookin' no good." In spite of the negro's consoling words, Worth's sleep that night was broken, and he started at every sound. Towards morning a crash and a smothered cry from the edge of the forest behind the camp caused him to start to his feet in alarm, and wake his companion. Although no further sound was heard, the boy was not satisfied until Quorum, taking a torch, discovered a thieving 'coon, caught and killed by the dead-fall that he had prepared for it. This was a simple figure =4= trap, set under a bit of board that was weighted with a heavy rock. As soon as breakfast was over the next morning, Worth returned to his outlook station on the point, and remained there, with his eyes fixed on Indian Key, for several hours. It was nearly noon when he was startled by a shout from Quorum, who called out: "Here him comin', honey! Here him comin' in er big schooner!" Running back to the cove, which was not visible from where he had been sitting, Worth saw the schooner at which Quorum was gazing so eagerly. She was not more than a mile from them, and was bearing rapidly down towards the island, though from a direction opposite to that in which Indian Key lay. Still that did not dispel their hope that Sumner might be on board and coming to their relief. They could see that the schooner's deck was crowded with men, most of whom, as she approached more closely, proved to be negroes. Among them Worth's keen eyes distinguished, besides the whites composing her crew, one young white man who for a few minutes he was certain must be Sumner. As the schooner dropped anchor, and this person was sculled ashore in a small boat by one of the negroes, they saw, to their great disappointment, that he was a stranger. He seemed surprised at seeing them on the key, and still more so when a glance at their camp showed the use they had been making of the stores they had so unexpectedly found there two days before. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Worth, as the stranger landed, "have you seen anything of Sumner Rankin? I mean of a boy on a raft?" "No, I have not," was the answer. "But I see that some one, and I expect it is the boy before me, has been making a free use of my stores." "Are they yours?" asked Worth, flushing. "We didn't know whose they were or who left them here, and as we were almost starving, we ventured to take what we needed; but I shall be glad to pay for whatever we have used." With this the boy produced a roll of bills, and looked inquiringly at the stranger. "That's all right," laughed the other. "If you were starving, and had need of them, of course you acted rightly in taking them. I am only too glad that they were of use to you. I see, too, that you have sheltered them from the weather." "Yes," replied Worth, "and it rained so hard night before last, that if they had not been under cover some of them would have been spoiled." "Then we are quits," said the stranger; "and you have already more than paid for what you can have used in so short a time. I have bought this key, and intended to get here as soon as those things, which I sent up on the mail-boat, but was unexpectedly delayed. My name is Haines, and yours is--" "Worth Manton," answered the boy; "and I was cruising up the reef in a canoe with my friend Sumner Rankin. When we got here, some one stole our canoes, or they got lost in some way, and so we were obliged to stay. We found this old negro Quorum here. Yesterday Sumner went over to Indian Key on a raft, to see if he could find the canoes, or get a vessel to take us off. We haven't seen anything of him since he left, and I am awfully afraid that something has happened to him." "Oh, I guess not!" said the new-comer; "but if you like you can go over there on this schooner and look for him. The captain is in a great hurry to go on up the reef, as he is already two days late; but I guess he will drop you at the key, and stop there for you on his way back to Key West, if you want him to. But what is it that smells so good?" Here the speaker sniffed at an appetizing odor that was wafted to them from the direction of the little camp. "I expect it is Quorum's 'coon that he is roasting for dinner," replied Worth. "'Coon? That is something I have never tasted; but I should be most happy to experiment with it if it is half as good as it smells. Don't you want to invite me to dine with you?" "Of course I do," laughed Worth; "especially as most of the dinner will consist of your own provisions." A few minutes later they sat down to dinner together, and Mr. Haines declared it to be the best he had eaten since coming to that part of the country. He also praised the construction of the hut in which they ate, and thanked Worth for having provided him with such comfortable quarters. While they were occupied with the meal, the black passengers of the schooner landed. Among them Quorum discovered friends who confirmed Sumner's statement that he was no longer suspected of the death of the sponging captain. After dinner several hours were spent in landing the lumber and other freight with which the schooner was loaded. During this time Mr. Haines learned all the details of Worth's experience in canoeing up the reef, to which he listened with the greatest interest. He advised the boy to remain patiently where he was until Sumner's return, or at least until some word should be received from him. He was also anxious to engage the services of such a capital cook as Quorum had proved himself by the preparation of the dinner they had just eaten. But the boy was so heart-sick with anxiety that he could not bear the thought of a further period of inaction, and Quorum declared he could not think of deserting the lad whom Sumner had left in his care. So when the schooner was again ready to sail, they went on board, taking with them their guns and a supply of provisions with which Mr. Haines kindly provided them. He also insisted upon their taking a couple of blankets, which, he said, they could return whenever they had no further use for them, and he begged them to come back to the island in case they should be disappointed in their search. Thus they parted with an interchange of good wishes, and an hour later Worth and Quorum were set ashore on Indian Key. Although they had seen no sign of Sumner as they approached it, and the captain of the schooner had advised them to keep on with him up the reef, they could not make up their minds to do so until they had made a thorough examination of the key for traces of their lost comrade. Nor were they inclined to leave those parts so long as there was the faintest hope of hearing from him. So they were hurriedly set ashore, and the schooner continued on her way, the captain promising to stop there for them on his return trip. Of course their search over the key was fruitless, and it was with heavy hearts that they made themselves comfortable for the night in one of its old buildings. The next morning they wandered aimlessly over the narrow limits of the little island, or sat in the rickety porch of their house watching the column of smoke that, rising above Lignum Vitæ, marked the beginning of the cocoanut planter's operations. Turning from this, they would gaze longingly out to sea without knowing what they hoped to discover. Several schooners, bound both up and down the reef, passed during the morning, but none of them came within hailing distance of the key. At length Worth called out excitedly that he saw a canoe approaching from the direction of Alligator Light. At that distance the sail that he was watching certainly looked small enough to belong to a canoe; but as it came closer it grew larger, until it resolved itself into that of a good-sized cat-boat. As it finally rounded to and came to anchor under the lee of the key, a man who was its sole occupant sculled ashore in a dingy containing several empty barrels. He was Assistant Keeper Albury, of Alligator Light, who had come to the key for a supply of water from its old cistern, the one belonging to the light having sprung a leak, and being nearly empty. He was surprised to find strangers on the key, and inquired at once what had become of their boat. After listening to their story and eager questions, he said: "Well, if that doesn't beat all! No, we haven't seen anything out at the light of any young fellow floating on a raft; but we have got two canoes out there that answer pretty well the description of them you say you lost. What did you say their names were?" "_Cupid_ and _Psyche_," replied Worth. "Then they are yours, for them's the very names. If you want to go out there with me after I fill my barrels, I've no doubt Mr. Spencer will give them up to you." This they decided to do. So, after helping the man fill his water-barrels, they set sail with him for the light-house, which they reached late that afternoon, after some hours of tedious drifting in a calm. CHAPTER XVI. A NIGHT IN ALLIGATOR LIGHT. While taking Worth and Quorum out to the light, Assistant Keeper Albury told them how the canoes had been towed out to sea by a Jew-fish, and described the difficulty he had had in capturing them. Although Worth listened to all this with interest, his pleasure in having the mystery cleared up, and at the prospect of recovering the canoes, was sadly dampened by his increasing anxiety concerning Sumner's fate. What can have become of him? was the question that he asked over and over again, but to which neither of the men could give an answer. They were cordially welcomed to the light by the keeper, who was always glad to have visitors to his lonely domain, and Worth easily proved his ownership of the canoes by describing their contents. The light-house was a skeleton frame-work of iron, with its lower platform about twelve feet above water that surrounded it on all sides. On this platform lay the two canoes, side by side, looking as fresh and unharmed as when Worth had last seen them at anchor off Lignum Vitæ. If Sumner had only been there, how he would have rejoiced over them! As it was, he gave them but a hurried examination to assure himself that they were all right, and then followed the keeper up the flight of iron steps leading to the house. The portion of this in which the men lived was a huge iron cylinder, surrounded by a balcony, and divided into several rooms. Above it rose a slender iron shaft, in which was a circular stairway leading to the lantern at its top. Worth ascended this with the keeper to witness the lighting of the great lamp, and the movements of the revolving machinery by which the red and white flashes were produced. From this elevation a long line of keys was visible, while the one they had so recently left seemed quite close at hand. While gazing at it, Worth saw a schooner come down the channel from the direction of Lignum Vitæ, and lower her sails, as if for the night, under its lee. "Oh, Mr. Spencer!" he cried, "there's a schooner come to anchor close to Indian Key. Perhaps her people are looking for us, and perhaps they have brought news of Sumner. Can't we take the canoes now and sail over there?" "Bless you, no, lad! I wouldn't for anything have it on my conscience that I'd let you go sailing around these waters at night in those cockle-shells. There's no doubt but what she'll stay there till morning, and if the weather is good, you can make a start as soon after daylight as ever you like; but you'll have to content yourself here till then. I couldn't think of letting you go before." To this decision Worth was forced to submit, and after the lamp was lighted he followed the keeper to the living-rooms below. Here he found Quorum hard at work at his favorite occupation of cooking. He was preparing a most savory fish chowder, and when they sat down to supper both the keepers declared that in all their experience they had never tasted its equal. The second assistant keeper was then absent on the two-weeks' vacation, to which each of them was entitled after two months of service in the light. They only regretted that Quorum could not remain until his return, that he too might learn the possibilities of a fish chowder. Worth was so charmed with his novel surroundings, and by the quaint bits of light-house experience related by the keepers, that until bed-time, he almost forgot his anxiety. When he had gone to bed in the scrupulously neat and clean guest-chamber, after charging the keepers to waken him at the earliest dawn, it returned in full force, and for a long time drove sleep from his eyes. As he lay listening to the keeper on watch making his half-hourly trips up to the lantern, and to the lapping of the waves about the iron piling of the foundation, he imagined all sorts of dreadful things as having happened to Sumner, and even after he fell asleep his dreams were of the same character. From this unhappy dreaming he was awakened while it was still quite dark, though the keeper, who was standing beside his bed, assured him that day was breaking. At this, and remembering his cause for haste, the boy sprang out of bed and quickly dressed himself. In the outer room he found Quorum already up and waiting for him, and he also found a steaming pot of coffee. Fortified by a cup of this and a biscuit, he declared himself ready for the voyage back to Indian Key. As they stepped outside, the light was sufficiently strong for them to dimly discern the distant line of keys, and preparations were at once made to place the canoes in the water. Worth's was the first swung from the platform davits and lowered, while he, descending a rope-ladder, one end of which touched the water, was ready to cast off the falls and step into her. Then Quorum was invited to do the same thing with the _Psyche_; but the old negro drew back apprehensively, exclaiming: "No, sah, gen'l'men. De ole niggah am a big fool, but him no sich fool dat him t'ink hese'f er monkey, an' go climbin' down er rope wha' don' lead nowhar, 'cep' to er tickly egg-shell wha' done copsize de berry instink he tetch foot to um. No, sah, gen'l'men; ole Quor'm too smart fo' dat." "Well, then, sit in the canoe where she is, and we'll lower you down in her." To this plan the old man was finally induced to agree, and with great trepidation seated himself in the frail craft. The moment the men began to sway away on the falls, he would have jumped out if he could. As he was already swinging in mid-air, it was too late to do aught save remain where he was. Clutching the sides of the cockpit tightly with both hands, he closed up his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. His face assumed an ashen tinge, and his lips moved as though he were praying. He gave a convulsive start as the canoe dropped into the water, but he did not open his eyes nor relax his clutch of the coamings. "Come, Quorum, get out your paddle. I'll show you how to use it," shouted Worth, after he had cast off the falls. But he might as well have addressed the light-house for all the notice the old man took of him. Finally, realizing that Quorum was utterly helpless, and incapable of action, from fright, Worth took the _Psyche_ in tow, and paddling out from the light-house, bade the friendly keepers a cheery good-bye, and started on his laborious trip to Indian Key. Although the sea was perfectly smooth, paddling two deeply laden canoes proved heavy work for one person, and Worth would have doubtless become exhausted long before reaching his destination had not a light breeze sprung up at sunrise. Aided by this, he made such good progress that in less than an hour he was rounding the point of Indian Key, behind which the _Transit_ lay at anchor. Sumner, who had just turned out, was gazing wistfully back at Lignum Vitæ, as though it still held the young comrade whose loss caused him to feel so depressed, when he started as though he had been shot, at the sound of his own name, uttered with a joyous shout but a short distance from him. [Illustration: QUORUM RESIGNS HIMSELF TO FATE.] He could hardly credit his senses, or believe that he saw, sailing merrily towards him, the long-lost canoes, bearing the very friends on whose account he had been so anxious but a moment before. At the same time Worth was equally bewildered and overcome with joyful emotions. "Hurrah! Glory hallelujah!" shouted Sumner, in the fulness of rejoicing. At this sound Quorum started as though from a trance, and opened his eyes for the first time since leaving the light. Whether he tumbled out of the canoe accidently or on purpose, no one, not even himself, ever found out; but the next instant he was in the water, puffing like a porpoise, and swimming towards the land. Fortunately the distance was short, so that in a few minutes he reached the rocks and pulled himself out on them. There, scrambling to his feet, and with the water pouring from him, he shook his fist at the craft he had so unceremoniously deserted, exclaiming: "Dat's de fustes an' de lastes time ole Quor'm ebber go sailin' in er baby cradle! Yes, sah, de fustes an' de lastes!" CHAPTER XVII. AN ENTERTAINMENT ON THE KEY. How Quorum managed to tumble out of the _Psyche_ without upsetting her is a mystery, but he did it somehow. Seeing that he was easily making his way to the land, Worth continued on his course to the _Transit_, which he reached a minute later. The moment he stepped abroad, Sumner threw his arms about the boy with what was intended for a joyful hug. Worth returned it with interest. For a few seconds the two staggered about the deck in what looked decidedly like a wrestling match to the amused spectators of the scene, who had been attracted from below by Sumner's shout. Finally they tripped and rolled with a crash into the cockpit, where they scrambled to their feet, greeted by shouts of laughter from Lieutenant Carey and Ensign Sloe, while even the men forward were chuckling with ill-suppressed mirth. Had Sumner and Worth been a few years older, they would probably have expressed their joy over this happy and unexpected meeting with a cordial hand-shake, and a few inquiries after each other's welfare during their separation. That would have been a man's way. Happily, all boys are not men, nor are their ways men's ways. Any genuine boy will understand that nothing short of a wrestling match would have served to express the joy with which these two young hearts were relieved of the load of anxiety that had weighed so heavily upon them during the past three days. "But how did you know the canoes were out at the light, Worth?" inquired Sumner, after the first boisterous greeting was over. "Excuse me! Let me introduce you to Lieutenant Carey and Ensign Sloe. And how did you get there? And how did you know that we were here?" exclaimed Sumner, in a breath, as soon as he had regained his feet. "The keeper told us," answered Worth, shaking hands with those to whom he had just been introduced. "And I didn't know you were here. How did you get here, and what became of the raft? Did you ever see anything so absurd as Quorum? I don't believe he has opened his eyes since we left the light, and I actually thought he was turning white, he was so scared. Oh, Sumner, I never was so happy in my life!" "Nor I," answered Sumner; "and if I ever leave you again, you young scamp, before delivering you safe and sound to your lawful guardians, you'll know it." "And you may be mighty sure I won't be left again," answered Worth. "No, siree! From this time on, you'll think I'm your shadow, I'll stick to you so close." By this time Quorum had been brought aboard, and Sumner, shaking hands with him, gravely congratulated him upon having formed the habit of taking a plunge bath before breakfast. With a reproachful look at the lad, and without deigning to reply to his banter, Quorum turned away and dived into the little forward galley. Here he quickly made himself at home, and all the time he was drying by the galley stove he could be heard entertaining the colored cook of the _Transit_ with a thrilling description of his recent voyage in "dat ar tickly nutshell. Mo' like er wash-basin dan er 'spectible boat; an' ef I don't hole her down wif bofe han's till dey done achin', she flop ober like er flapjack. I tell yo', chile, hit's er sperience sich as I don't want no mo' ob in all my sailin'." Around the breakfast-table in the tiny after-saloon Sumner and Worth were comparing experiences and discussing their plans for the future. "I tell you what it is, Sumner," exclaimed Worth, "I don't know about cruising any farther up this reef, where we are likely at any time to be seized and carried off to sea by some Jew-fish or other marine monster. Seems to me it's taking a big risk." "Then why not come with us through the 'Glades?" laughed Lieutenant Carey. "There aren't any Jew-fish there. It will be almost the same as cruising on dry land all the way, and we'll bring you out at Cape Florida, the very point you are aiming for." "I think that would be fine," answered Worth, who had no more idea of the nature of the Everglades than he had of the moon. "What do you say, Sumner?" "It's the very thing I should most love to do," replied Sumner. "Then you will go with us?" asked the Lieutenant. "Yes, sir, we will," answered both the boys. "Good! That settles it. Now do you suppose we can persuade your old darkey to go along as cook? I think you said he was a good one, Sumner?" "Indeed he is!" exclaimed Worth; "the very best I ever knew. Oh yes, we must have Quorum along by all means." When the plan was laid before him, Quorum shook his head doubtfully, and said: "I allus hear dem Ebberglades is a ter'ble place. Dey's full ob lions an' tigers, sayin' nuffin' ob wild Injuns an' cannon-balls" (probably Quorum meant cannibals). "But ef dem two chilluns boun' ter go, I spec' ole Quor'm hab ter go 'long ter look after um, an' see dat dey's kep' outen danger. Hit's er mighty owdacious undertaking fer de ole man; but dish yere er peart-looking wessel, an' maybe she take us troo all right." "But we are not going in this vessel," laughed Sumner. "We couldn't take her through the 'Glades." "How yo go, den?" asked the negro, looking up quickly. "Not in them tickly li'l' cooners?" "Yes, some of us will go in the canoes, but you will have a much larger boat; one that you can't possibly upset." "When I see him, den I tell yo' ef I er gwine." And this was the only promise that Quorum could be induced to give. "Very well," said Lieutenant Carey, when this was reported to him; "we will rig up the cruisers, and let Quorum sail one of them in to Lignum Vitæ. One of the men shall take the other, you two will sail your own canoes, and I will sail mine, while Mr. Sloe shall follow with the _Transit_. When Mr. Haines sees us coming he'll think he is looking at a regatta of the Reef Yacht Club." This plan suited the boys perfectly, and the next two hours were spent in getting all the boats into the water, overhauling sails, spars, etc. When Quorum saw the Barnegat cruiser that was assigned to him, he declared, "Hit done look like er punkin seed, an' I don't beliebe hit fit fer sailin' nohow." It was only with the greatest difficulty that he could be persuaded to try the strange-looking craft. When he finally did so, his eyes opened wide with astonishment at her speed and stiffness, and the ease with which she was handled. Each of the cruisers carried a large sprit-sail, and was fitted with a pair of oars. They were provided with centre-boards, were fair sailers, easy to row, practically non-capsizable, and capable of carrying heavy loads without materially increasing their draught. Quorum was a good sailor, and as soon as he became somewhat accustomed to his craft he began to handle her in a way that showed an appreciation of her qualities. When he shot ahead, after a little brush with the other cruiser, the _Melon Seed_--as he termed her--his black face fairly beamed with delight. "Your man is as tickled with that boat as a child with a new toy," remarked Lieutenant Carey to Sumner, "and I guess there is no doubt now but what he will go with us." The Lieutenant's open paddling canoe was fitted with a leg-of-mutton sail, but no centre-board. Thus the sail was only available for running before the wind, which on this occasion happened to be fair. The three canoes and the two cruisers, starting on their race to Lignum Vitæ, formed a very pretty sight. As they were followed by the _Transit_, and by the schooner that had carried Worth and Quorum to Indian Key, which came along on her return trip just then, it is no wonder that Mr. Haines regarded the approaching fleet with astonishment. The race was won by Sumner in the _Psyche_, with Quorum in his _Punkin Seed_, and wildly excited, close behind. The other three were well bunched, and the two schooners were worked under foresails only, to keep from running them down. All hands were made heartily welcome by the proprietor of Lignum Vitæ, who was made happy by the information that they proposed to stay there that night. On hearing this he immediately began to plan a grand dinner to which everybody was invited, and an entertainment for the evening. He and Lieutenant Carey spent the afternoon in arranging for the entertainment, the four cooks, with Quorum at their head, spent it in preparing a most elaborate dinner, and the others spent it fishing and sailing match races between the various small boats. As the hours flew busily and happily by, Sumner and Worth wondered how they could ever have felt wretched and forlorn in such a pleasant place. The dinner, which was served shortly before sunset, was a veritable feast. On its bill of fare appeared oysters, green-turtle soup, fish chowder, turtle steaks, baked kingfish, stewed ducks, roasted 'possum, a variety of canned vegetables, an immense plum duff, canned fruits, crackers, cheese, and coffee; while the whole was seasoned with the sauce of hearty appetites and capital digestions. It was a substantial meal, as well as a merry one, and it gave Worth Manton a new insight into the possibilities of life on the Florida Keys. By hard work Mr. Haines had succeeded in raising the frame of the little one-story house that he intended to occupy, and in getting the floor laid. This was to be the scene of the entertainment, and an hour or so after dinner all hands were collected here. Several large bonfires shed a cheerful light on the circle of expectant faces, and cast wavering shadows over the platform. The first number on the programme was an overture by the Lignum Vitæ Band, which consisted of Mr. Haines's banjo, Lieutenant Carey's guitar, Ensign Sloe's violin, and a flute played by one of the _Transit's_ men. Then Worth danced a clog, and was received with immense applause. He was followed by Sumner, who performed a number of sleight-of-hand tricks that drew forth exclamations of astonishment from the negroes. A mouth-organ quartet by four of the negro hands, was followed by Mr. Haines's banjo solo. This was of such an inspiring character that all the negroes patted time to it, and finally Quorum sprang upon the platform and, with his beloved pipe still held tightly between his teeth, began to shuffle a breakdown in such a comical manner that it was received with tumultuous applause and roars of laughter. Solo and chorus singing followed, and the entertainment wound up with the singing of "Annie Laurie" by a quartet of sailors. Both Sumner and Worth were certain that they had never passed a more enjoyable evening, and were almost sorry that they had promised to leave there and start for the Everglades on the following morning. [Illustration: QUORUM DANCES A BREAK-DOWN.] CHAPTER XVIII. OFF FOR THE EVERGLADES. Both Sumner and Worth were by this time quite used to being turned out of bed while it was still dark, and told that it was morning and time to make a start. So, when the familiar summons was heard, a few hours after their evening of fun, they obeyed them, though not without some sleepy grumblings and protests. The stars were still shining when they went on deck for a look at the weather, and they shivered with the chill of the damp night air. There were faint evidences of daylight, however, and the welcome fragrance of coffee was issuing from the galley. They felt better after drinking a cup of it, but did not consider themselves fairly awake until the sails were hoisted, the anchor lifted, and the _Transit_ began to move slowly out from under Lignum Vitæ. Just as they were getting fairly under way, a sleepy hail of "Good-bye, and good-luck to you!" came from the edge of the forest on the key where the night shadows still lingered. Then, with answering shouts of "Good-bye, Mr. Haines! Good-bye to Lignum Vitæ!" they were off. The reason for such an early start was that, with four boats in tow, even the _Transit_ could not be expected to make very good speed, and Mr. Carey was anxious to cover the sixty-mile run to Cape Sable before dark. For the first three hours Sumner was kept constantly at the helm, directing the course of the schooner through a multiplicity of tortuous channels, between coral reefs, oyster-bars, and a score of low-lying mangrove keys. All this time Lieutenant Carey stood beside him, keeping track of the courses steered and noting on his chart the position of the channels, together with the names of the keys, so far as Sumner was able to give them. The knowledge that the lad displayed of these uncharted waters, and the skill with which he handled the schooner, so excited the lieutenant's admiration that he finally said: "I declare, Sumner, I don't believe there is a better pilot in the whole Key West sponging fleet than you! How on earth do you remember it all?" "I don't know," laughed Sumner, "I expect it comes natural, as the man said when asked what made him so lazy." "Well," said the lieutenant, "I am mighty glad to have you along instead of that fellow Bust Norris, though he did intimate that your ignorance of the reef would get us into trouble. He was greatly cut up when I told him that, as you were going with me, I should not require his services, and tried to say some mean things about you; but I shut him up very quickly. He doesn't seem to be a friend of yours, though." "I don't know why he shouldn't be," replied Sumner, "I am sure I feel friendly enough towards him. I suppose it must be because I wouldn't let him try my canoe the other day, and left him on the buoy that night. I only meant that as a joke though, and was just about to start out for him, when I saw a fisherman pick him up." Here Sumner related the incident referred to, and the lieutenant said, as Mr. Manton had, that the fellow was rightly served. Then the subject was dropped, and they thought of it no more. As they were now in open water, with all traces of land rapidly fading in the distance behind them, Sumner laid a course for Sandy Key, the only one they would see before reaching Cape Sable, resigned the tiller, and invited Worth to try his hand at trolling. The _Transit_ being well provided with fishing tackle they soon had two long trolling lines towing astern. Worth said he was going in for big fish, and so attached to the end of his line a bright leaden squid terminating in a heavy, finely-tempered hook. Sumner, believing that there would be as much sport and more profit in trying for those that were smaller, but more plentiful, used a much lighter hook, baited with a bit of white rag. Worth would not believe that any fish could be so foolish as to bite at such a bait. His incredulity quickly vanished, however, as Sumner began to pull in, almost as fast as he could throw his line overboard, numbers of Crevallé, or "Jack," beautiful fellows tinted with amber, silver, and blue, and Spanish mackerel, one of the finest fish in southern waters. Seeing that Sumner was having all the fun, while he could not get a bite, Worth began to haul in his line with a view to putting on a smaller hook, and baiting it with a bit of rag. Suddenly there was a swish through the water, a bar of silver gleamed for an instant in the air, a hundred feet astern, and Worth's line began to whiz through his hands with lightning-like rapidity. With a howl of pain, he dropped it as though it had been a red-hot coal, and began dancing about the cockpit, wringing his hands and blowing his fingers. "Snub him, Worth, quick! or he'll have your line," cried Sumner, springing to his friend's assistance. "It's a barracuda, and a big one!" He got a turn around the rudder-post just in time to save the line, and then began a fight that set the young fisherman's blood to tingling with excitement. In spite of his smarting fingers, Worth insisted upon pulling in his own fish; while the barracuda seemed equally intent upon pulling his captor overboard. Such leaping and splashing, such vicious tugs and wild rushes ahead, astern, and off to one side, as that barracuda made, were far beyond anything in the way of fishing that Worth had ever experienced. For ten minutes the fight was maintained with equal vigor on both sides. Every inch of slack was carefully taken in. With the stout rudder-post to aid him, Worth was slowly but surely gaining the victory, and the great, steely-blue fish was drawn closer and closer to the schooner. At length he was within fifty feet, and Worth's flushed face was lighting with triumph, when, all at once there came a rush of some vast, white object astern. A huge pair of open jaws, lined with glistening rows of teeth, closed with a vicious snap, and a moment later Worth, whose face was a picture of bewildered amazement, pulled in the head of his fish minus its body. "Was it a whale, do you think?" he asked, soberly, turning to Sumner. "No," replied the other, laughing at his companion's crestfallen appearance, "but it was the biggest kind of a shark, and he would have snapped you in two as easily as he did that barracuda, if you had been at that end of the line." By noon they had left Sandy Key astern, and before sunset they had passed the stately cocoanut groves on Cape Sable and Palm Point, and were rounding Northwest Cape. Just at dusk they headed into a creek, not more than twenty feet wide, and directly afterwards came to anchor in the deep, roomy basin to which it was the entrance. The basin was already occupied by a small sloop, and as Sumner's knowledge of those waters did not extend beyond that point, Lieutenant Cary anticipated being able to gain some information from her crew. With this in view he anchored but a short distance from her, and after everything was made snug for the night, he hailed her with: "Hello on board the sloop!" "Hello yourself! What schooner is that?" "The Government schooner _Transit_, and I should be very glad to see any of you on board." "Where are you bound?" "Into the 'Glades. Will you come over after a while, or shall I go aboard the sloop? I want to have a talk with you." "I reckon we'll come over." "Those fellows don't seem inclined to be very sociable," remarked the Lieutenant to Ensign Sloe, as they went down into the cabin to supper. At the same time Sumner was saying to Worth, "I wonder who that fellow is? His voice sounded very familiar." When they again came on deck after supper, the night was so dark that they could not see the sloop, though they supposed her to be lying close to them. "Hello aboard the sloop!" again hailed Lieutenant Carey. There was no answer, nor did several hails serve to bring a reply of any kind. "Let's take my canoe and go for a look at those fellows, Sumner," said the Lieutenant. "They have quite excited my curiosity." In a few minutes the canoe was afloat, and its occupants were paddling in the direction of where the sloop was thought to lie. For half an hour they paddled back and forth, and in circles, being guided in their movements by the bright riding light of the _Transit_. Once they struck a floating oar that seemed to be attached to a cable; but they could discover no trace of the sloop, nor did their repeated hailings bring forth a single answer. At length, greatly perplexed by such unaccountable behavior on the part of the sloop's crew, and nearly devoured by the clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed above the lagoon, they returned to the schooner, and thankfully sought the shelter of her wire-screened cabin. CHAPTER XIX. THE CANOES ARE AGAIN LOST, AND AGAIN FOUND. In that snug harbor there was so little chance of danger that no watch was kept, and all hands turning in, after a pleasant evening spent in smoking and discussing plans, slept soundly until morning. Although the sun had gone down in a blaze of ominous glory the evening before, and the breeze had died out in an absolute calm, no one was fully prepared for the wonderful change of scene disclosed by the morning. While their land-locked harbor was still as placid as a mill-pond where they were anchored, it was blackened and roughened by the gusts of fierce squalls but a short distance from them. The continuous roar of breakers outside denoted a furious sea, the cause of which was shown by the lashing tree-tops and the howlings of a gale overhead. The sky was hidden behind masses of whirling clouds, while after the tropical weather to which they had become accustomed, the air seemed very cold, though the mercury had not fallen below 50°. The gale was a typical Norther, that, sweeping down from Texas prairies, had gathered strength in its unchecked progress across the Gulf, and was now hurling itself with furious energy against the low Florida coast. "Whew! What a day!" cried Sumner, as he emerged from the warm cabin and stood shivering in the cockpit. "I tell you what, old man, I'm glad we are in this snug haven, instead of outside." "So am I," said Worth, who had followed Sumner, and to whom these remarks were addressed. "I'm afraid canoes would stand a pretty sorry chance out there just now." "Canoes! Well, I should say so! They'd be--Great Scott! Where _are_ the canoes and the cruisers?" Sumner had just taken his first glance astern, and as he uttered this exclamation he sprang to the little after-deck, and stared about him. The three canoes and the two cruisers had been left for the night attached to a single stout line which was made fast to the _Transit's_ rudder-post. Now they were gone, and not a sign of them was to be seen as far as the eye could reach. "If that doesn't beat anything I ever heard of!" exclaimed Sumner, in bewilderment. "I should think a jew-fish big enough to take them all might just as well have taken the schooner, too," said Worth. "Yes, I expect she will be stolen from under us the next thing we know," replied Sumner, "and I expect if we ever get our canoes again we'd better put them into a burglar-proof safe and hire a man with a dog to watch them nights. I never heard of anybody losing canoes as easily as we do. Where do you suppose they can have gone to, sir?" This question was addressed to Lieutenant Carey, who, together with Ensign Sloe, had been attracted to the deck by Sumner's first dismayed exclamation. "I've no more idea than you have," replied the Lieutenant, gravely. "The jew-fish is not to blame this time, at any rate, for there was no anchor down that he could get hold of, and this rope has evidently been cut." Here the speaker displayed the end of the rope that had hung over the stern, and pointed to the clean cut by which it had been severed. "It is evident that some human agency has been at work," he continued, "and I am inclined to connect it with the strange behavior of the fellows on that sloop; though what their object in stealing our boats was, I can't imagine. It is a very serious matter to us, however, and one that calls for prompt investigation. As this wind must have sprung up early in the night, it is hardly probable that the boats can have been taken out to sea, and if they were not they must be somewhere in this lagoon, perhaps concealed in the mangroves, or in one of the sloughs that empty into it. It is lucky that we have the canvas boat left, for I should hate to try and navigate the _Transit_ in these unknown waters with such a gale blowing." The canvas boat, of which the Lieutenant spoke, was a folding affair that was stowed under the cockpit floor, and was a part of the schooner's regular outfit. Although it was very light, it could easily accommodate three persons, and was a capital thing to fall back on in an emergency like the present. Mr. Carey ordered it to be got out and put in shape at once. After breakfast he and Sumner, with one of the crew to row, stepped into it and started on their search. They skirted the shore as closely as possible, both to escape the force of the wind, and that they might the more carefully examine the dense mangrove thickets that, with occasional stretches of white beach, formed the coast-line. The mangrove, which here attains the size of oaks, is one of the most curious of trees, and in one particular closely resembles the banyan. Its small yellow blossom, which is eagerly sought by honey-bees, forms a long brown seed about the size and shape of a cigar. This, falling off, readily takes root in mud-flats, beneath shallow salt or brackish water, and shoots up a straight slender stem having numerous branches. Some of these branches bend downward to the water, sending their tips into the mud, where they in turn take root. At length the tree is thus surrounded by a circle of woody arches that soon become strong enough to support the weight of a man. As the tree increases in height, the upper branches send down long straight shoots that also take root and form independent trunks. Mangroves grow with marvellous rapidity, and quickly cover large areas, where their thickly interlaced, arching roots hold all manner of drift and sea-weed, until finally a soil is formed in which the seeds of coarse grasses and other vegetation sprout and flourish. Thus, in the course of time, an island of dry land appears and is lifted above the water. In this way the coral reefs of the Florida coast are gradually transformed into verdant keys, the mangrove taking up and continuing the work of island building just below the surface of the water, where the coral insect leaves off. The mangrove is covered with a thick foliage of small glossy leaves, that is such a favorite haunt for mosquitoes, that wherever mangroves grow, mosquitoes are found in countless millions. Skirting this wonderful mangrove forest, and occasionally penetrating shallow bayous in which herons, cranes, ibises, pelicans, and curlews swam and waded, the occupants of the canvas boat searched for several hours in vain. Finally, as they were on the opposite side of the broad lagoon from their starting-point, and exposed to the full force of the wind, Sumner called out that he saw something that looked like masts on the edge of a distant clump of mangroves. It was no easy task to navigate successfully through the heavy sea running at this point; but when they had accomplished it, they were rewarded by seeing the entire missing fleet piled up in the greatest confusion among the mangroves, which at this place extended far out into the water. Before they reached them both the Lieutenant and Sumner were obliged to jump overboard in water above their waists, to prevent the canvas boat from swamping in the breakers. The picture presented by their stranded fleet looked like one of utter ruin. Sumner trembled for the fate of his precious canoe, and the Lieutenant wondered if his expedition had thus been brought to an untimely end. There was a small beach but a short distance away, to which the sailor took the canvas boat, and then returned to help them clear the wrecks. One by one the several craft, all of them full of water, were extricated from the tangled mass, and dragged to the beach for examination. The three canoes were found to be badly scratched, and damaged so far as looks went; but still sound and seaworthy. This was undoubtedly owing to their lightness, and the exceeding care with which canoes are built. In their construction the question of expense is not considered; consequently, being built of the best material, by the most skilful workmen, they are stronger than ordinary craft many times their size. Their sails were muddied and torn, and some of their slender spars were broken; but as most of their cargoes had been transferred to the _Transit_ before leaving Lignum Vitæ, this was the extent of their injury. Sumner was jubilant when a careful examination of every part of them revealed this fact; but Mr. Carey, who was devoting his attention to the cruisers, looked very grave. Both of them were badly stove, and it was evident that only extensive repairs could render them again fit for service. "Who could have done this thing, and why was it done?" he repeated over and over again in deep perplexity; while Sumner, equally at fault, tried to recall whose voice it was that had seemed so familiar when they had exchanged hails with the sloop. After emptying the canoes, and hauling the cruisers high up on the beach, where they were to be left for the present, the party set forth on their return trip. The Lieutenant went in his own canoe, Sumner in his, while the sailor in the canvas boat towed the _Cupid_. As they neared the schooner they saw her people pointing eagerly towards a bit of beach near the head of the creek through which they had entered the lagoon the evening before. Looking in that direction, they saw a white man beckoning to them and shouting, though they could not distinguish his words. Readily understanding that he was in distress of some kind, the Lieutenant and Sumner headed their canoes in his direction. As they neared him, they saw that he was hatless, and clad only in a shirt and trousers that were torn and water-soaked. The first words they could distinguish were: "Our boat is going to pieces outside, and Rust Norris is in her with a broken arm." "Rust Norris!" That was the name Sumner had been racking his memory for, and his was the voice that had come to them from the sloop on the preceding evening. CHAPTER XX. THE _PSYCHE_ AS A LIFE-BOAT. "Just where does the sloop lie?" asked Sumner, as the bow of his canoe ran on to the beach where the man stood. The latter explained the position of the stranded vessel so clearly that the boy, who was familiar with the locality, comprehended it in a moment. "She's about a mile from the mouth of the creek, and a quarter off shore," said the man. "When the tide went down I partly swum and partly waded to the beach. I don't know how I ever got ashore alive, but the thought of poor Rust out there kinder nerved me on, and so I made it at last. I wouldn't do it again, though, for all the money in Key West. Now I've been here so long waiting for help, and the tide's rising again so fast, that I'm afraid it's all day with poor Rust. If he ain't swept off the wrack by this time he soon will be, and I don't know as there is anything can be done for him. It wouldn't be possible for the schooner to get anywhere near the wrack, she's dragged in so fur over the reefs, and the small boat isn't built that could live in them seas." "Yes, she is," said Sumner, quietly, but with a very pale face; "this boat that I am sitting in can live out there, and she's got to do it, too." So saying, he set his double-bladed paddle into the sand, and with a vigorous shove sent the light craft gliding backward into deep water. The man stared at him in speechless amazement, while the Lieutenant called out: "Don't try it, Sumner! You must be crazy to think of such a thing! You'll only be throwing away your own life for nothing! Come back, and we'll think of some other plan." "There isn't time to think of another plan," Sumner called back over his shoulder. "I must go, and I know I can do it. If you will have some of the men out there on the beach, ready to help us land, we'll make it easy enough. Good-bye!" Impelled by vigorous strokes of Sumner's paddle, the _Psyche_ was already gliding down the smooth waters of the sheltered creek, and it was too late to restrain the impetuous young canoeman from carrying out his project. Realizing this, and also that Sumner's plan, hazardous as it seemed, was the only feasible one, Lieutenant Carey, with a heavy heart, set about doing his own share of the work in hand. He took the stranger off to the schooner, and after swallowing a cup of hot coffee, of which he stood greatly in need, the man declared himself ready to guide a party to the beach opposite the place where the sloop lay. Dinner was ready and waiting on board the _Transit_, but nobody thought of stopping to eat a mouthful after learning the news of what was taking place. The sole anxiety was to reach the beach as quickly as possible. The instant the stranger said he was ready, all hands, except those ordered to remain by the schooner, began to tumble into the available canoes, eager to be set ashore. Poor Worth was sadly distressed when he heard of the terrible task undertaken by his friend, but he tried to cheer himself and the others by declaring that if any boat could live outside it was the canoe _Psyche_, and if any living sailor could carry her through the seas, whose angry roar filled the air, it was Sumner Rankin. In the mean time the brave young fellow who was the object of all this anxiety had reached the mouth of the creek. There, in a sheltered spot, he paused for a few minutes to take breath and make his final preparations for a plunge into the roaring breakers outside. He set taut the foot steering gear, took double reefs in both his sails, saw that the halyards were clear and ready for instant service, adjusted the rubber apron so that the least possible water should enter the cockpit, and then, with a firm grasp of his paddle, he shoved off. In another minute he was breasting the huge, combing breakers of the outer bar, and working with desperate energy to force his frail craft through or over them. The roar of waters was deafening, while the fierce gusts rendered breathing difficult. At one moment the sharp bow of the canoe would point vaguely towards the sky, while the next would see it directed into a watery abyss, and plunging downward as though never to rise again. At such moments the rudder would be lifted from the water, and only the most skilful use of the paddle prevented the canoe from broaching to and being rolled over and over, to be finally dashed in fragments on the beach. Again and again the wave crests broke on her deck, sweeping her fore and aft with a blinding mass of hissing water. Still the boy's strength held out, still his paddle was wielded with regular strokes, and finally he came off victorious in this first bout of his fierce, single-handed struggle. The line of breakers was passed, and riding over the comparatively regular seas beyond, he began working dead to windward for an offing. Not until he was a good half-mile off shore, and very nearly exhausted by his tremendous efforts, did he push back the rubber apron, drop his centre-board, and then, steadying the canoe with his paddle, seize a favorable opportunity for hoisting the tiny after-sail that should keep her momentarily headed into the wind. Then, quickly unjointing his paddle and thrusting its parts into the cockpit, he grasped the halyard, and with a single pull set the double-reefed main-sail. Now was a most critical moment, for as he pulled in on the main-sheet, and the sail began to feel the full force of the wind, the little craft heeled over gunwale under. Only by promptly scrambling to the weather-deck, and sitting with his feet braced under the lee coaming, while his whole body was thrown out far over the side, did he prevent her from capsizing. Then she gathered headway and dashed forward. With one hand on the deck tiller, and holding the main-sheet in the other, the boy peered anxiously ahead. Yes, there was the wreck! Oh, so far away! with clouds of white spray dashing high above it. Could he ever reach it through those tumultuous seas? Lifting him high in the air, where he was exposed to the full force of the wind at one moment, they towered above the deep trough into which he sank at the next, and left his bits of sails shaking as if in a calm. With full confidence in himself and his boat, he believed he could reach it--and he did. He had no time to look at the anxious watchers on the beach, but they noted his every movement with painful eagerness. They almost held their breath as some huge wave tossed him high aloft, and again as he was completely hidden from them behind its foam-capped crest. At length they saw him reach a point abreast the wreck, round sharply to under its lee, and seize his paddle. In another minute he was on board, with the first half of his task accomplished. He found Rust Norris crouching in the lee of the little deck-house, nearly exhausted with pain, hours of cold drenching, and the terror of his position. The wreck was trembling so violently with each shock of the seas that it seemed as though she must break up beneath their feet. Rust's left arm was supported in a rude sling made from a strip of his shirt knotted about his neck. He did not speak as the boy bent over him, but an expression of glad surprise and renewed hope lighted his haggard face. [Illustration: "HE FOUND RUST NORRIS CROUCHING IN THE LEE OF THE LITTLE DECK-HOUSE."] "Come, Rust," shouted Sumner; "with one big effort you'll be all right. They are waiting for you on the beach, and the canoe will carry you that far easy enough, if you can only manage to get into her. You will have to sit low down and steer with your feet while you hold the sheet in your hand. All you'll have to do is to run her in dead before the wind, head on for the beach." With infinite difficulty the wounded man was finally seated in the narrow cockpit of the frail craft. A moment later it was shoved off from the trembling wreck, and was racing with fearful speed towards the beach. It seemed to leap from the top of one huge wave to the next without sinking into the intervening hollow. Not until it was dragged safely ashore by those who rushed into the breakers to meet the flying craft did Rust Norris realize that he was her sole occupant. CHAPTER XXI. SUMNER'S SELF-SACRIFICE. If Rust Norris had not been rendered so nearly helpless by his broken arm, Sumner would have endeavored to make the _Psyche_ bear them both safely to land, if not by carrying them, at least by supporting them while they swam alongside. On his way to the wrecked sloop he had thought that perhaps this might be done, but as soon as he discovered Rust's real condition he knew that he might as well leave him there to drown as to attempt to burden the light craft with their double weight. At that moment the lad made up his mind that Rust should have the canoe to himself, and that he would take whatever chance of escape still remained. Thus he had resolutely shoved the canoe off, with its single occupant, while he stayed behind, clinging to the leeward mast-stay, and watching with eager eyes the perilous passage to the beach of the man for whom he had risked so much. The act was a bit of that coolly-planned self-sacrificing heroism that stamps true bravery, and distinguishes it from recklessness. In his exhausted and partially dazed condition, Rust did not realize the sacrifice made by his young deliverer until the canoe had been snatched from the breakers by a dozen willing hands, and drawn high on the beach beyond their cruel grasp. Then, on looking for the boy and seeing that he had remained behind, he uttered a great cry, and sank down limp and helpless on the wet sand. Those on shore had seen from the first that only one was coming in the canoe, while one was left behind, but they had not known which was approaching them until the _Psyche_ was dragged from the breakers. Worth was in an agony of despair at his friend's peril. "Let me go to him!" he cried. "I would rather drown than stand here without trying to save him!" "No; let me go! Let me go!" cried the others; and they made frantic attempts to again launch the canoe through the breakers; but they might as well have tried to launch it through a stone wall. Again and again was it hurled back, while those who strove to launch it were torn from their footing and flung upon the beach. Then there was a shout of "Here he comes! He is in the water!" and then they strained their eyes in vain for another glimpse of their well-loved young comrade. Sumner had indeed taken the plunge, but not voluntarily. He had determined to remain by the sloop until she broke up and he was compelled to swim, or until the falling tide should render the passage of that seething maelstrom less terrible. Thus thinking, he was about to seek the poor shelter in which he had found Rust, when a great wave, rushing over the wreck, swept him from it, and buried him beneath tons of its mighty volume. As he came gasping to the surface he was again almost immediately overwhelmed and borne under. Still, he had drawn a breath of air, and had noted the direction of the beach. He knew that, sooner or later, alive or dead, the waves would cast him ashore. So, without trying to swim forward, he devoted all his energies to reaching the surface, and breathing as often as possible. It seemed as though he were merely rising and sinking, without moving forward an inch, and it required all his self-control to keep from exhausting himself by violent struggles to make a perceptible headway. He retained his presence of mind, however, and after a half-hour of battle the very waves seemed to acknowledge his victory, and tossed him up within sight of the watchers, who had given up all hope except that of finding his lifeless body. They uttered a glad shout; but it was checked as he was again buried from their sight. Again he appeared, and this time much nearer. Then Lieutenant Carey rushed into the water. Behind him Worth, Quorum, and the others formed a line, tightly grasping each other's hands, and at length the swimmer was within their reach. With cries of exultant joy, they bore him up the beach and laid him on the sand; but their rejoicing was quickly succeeded by consternation. He lay with closed eyes, cold, and apparently lifeless. "Hurry to the schooner, Worth, and tell them to have hot water, hot blankets, and a roaring fire ready by the time we get there," demanded the Lieutenant. "We will bring him as quickly as possible." For hours they worked over the senseless form of the brave lad. So nearly had the sea accomplished its cruel purpose that, but for the lessons learned by the workers years before at Annapolis, Sumner Rankin's life would have been given in exchange for that of Rust Norris. At length a faint color tinged his cheeks, a faint breath came from between his lips, and they knew that their efforts had not been in vain. An hour later he was sleeping quietly, and it was certain that Nature would complete the work of restoration. Then the same skill that had snatched life from apparent death was directed to the setting and proper bandaging of Rust's broken arm. The Norther continued to blow all that night and the following day, and during this period of enforced idleness Sumner was not allowed to leave his berth. His every want was anticipated, and those who surrounded him vied with each other in their tender care of the lad who had so well won their regard and admiration. As for Rust Norris, his whole nature seemed to have undergone such a change that his former intimates would hardly have recognized him. He sat and watched constantly beside the boy to whom he owed so much, and could hardly be persuaded to leave him for the briefest intervals. During that second day of storm he made a full confession of how and why he had attempted to thwart the objects of Lieutenant Carey's expedition. His enmity had been particularly directed towards Sumner, and when the latter instead of himself had been chosen to pilot the _Transit_ up the reef, he had formed a plan of revenge that he immediately proceeded to carry out. This was to visit the Everglade Indians, and inform them that the expedition was for the purpose of spying out their lands and preparing for their removal to a far-away country of cold and snow, where they would certainly die. To accomplish this he had joined a Bahama smuggler, and with a cask of rum as a cargo, they had sailed in the small sloop owned by the latter for Cape Sable. Here they met a party of Indians who had come down from the 'Glades on a deer-hunt, and after plying them with rum, roused them to anger by their lying tale concerning the coming expedition. The Indians had departed to spread the report to the rest of their band, and to devise plans for frustrating the supposed purpose of the expedition. Their departure had taken place on the day of the _Transit's_ arrival on the coast, and but for the signs of the approaching Norther, Rust Norris and his companion would have left the lagoon in which they were so snugly anchored that afternoon. Noting these signs they decided to remain where they were until it should blow over. They had no idea when the _Transit_ would reach the cape, nor did they suppose that Sumner was aware of the passage into the lagoon. It was therefore with surprise and consternation that they found those whom they had attempted to injure anchored close beside them. They at once determined to take advantage of the darkness to run out of the lagoon before the storm broke, and seek another shelter among the mangrove keys a short distance farther inland. They slipped their cable, not daring to lift the anchor for fear the sound might be heard on board the schooner, and drifted down to the mouth of the creek with the last of the ebb-tide. Here, while waiting for a breeze, Rust conceived the idea of effectually crippling the expedition by stealing their boats, and went back up the creek for that purpose. He cut them loose from the schooner and attempted to tow them silently down to where the sloop lay, but as the tide had turned and was flooding strongly up the creek, he found it impossible to do so. So he turned them adrift in the belief that they would be driven to the farther side of the lagoon, and dashed to pieces by the storm that was about to break. At any rate, the expedition would be so long delayed in recovering their boats that the news of their coming would be spread over the length and breadth of the Everglades before they could enter them. So much time had thus been wasted that before the sloop could be taken to the proposed place of safety the storm burst in all its fury. They were forced to seek refuge in another place that was partially exposed, but where with two anchors they could probably have ridden out the gale. With but one, they were dragged from their moorings soon after daylight, and driven on the reef where the sloop now lay. Rust's arm had been broken by the gybing of the main boom, and, left alone, exposed to the fury of those raging seas, he had given up all hope long before Sumner came to his rescue. "And to think," said Rust, in conclusion, "that the fellow to whom I was doing all this meanness should have come after me and offered to throw away his own life to save mine! I tell you, gentlemen, it makes me feel meaner 'n a toad-fish!" CHAPTER XXII. GOOD-BYE TO THE _TRANSIT_ That night the Norther broke, and by the following morning the weather was of that absolutely perfect character that makes the winter the most delightful season of the year in southern Florida. The sun shone with unclouded splendor, fish leaped from the clear waters, gay-plumaged birds flitted among the mangroves, and made the air vocal with their happy songs. All nature was full of life and rejoicing. [Illustration: REPAIRING THE "PUNKIN SEED".] Although Lieutenant Carey was much disturbed by learning that false reports had been spread among the Indians concerning the nature of his expedition, and realized that its difficulties would be greatly increased thereby, he had no thought of abandoning it. Therefore, by the earliest daylight, preparations were made for repairing the damaged cruisers, and putting them in condition for a new start. The stanch little _Psyche_ had been brought down the beach the day before. There was a good supply of tools aboard the schooner, and Sumner, who had fully recovered his strength, was found to be so expert a shipwright that he was intrusted with planning and directing the repairs to the cruisers, while the Lieutenant, with several men, went to examine into the condition of the wrecked sloop, and see what could be done with her. They found her injuries so much less than was expected, that within three days she had been hauled off the reef and rendered sufficiently seaworthy for the voyage back to Key West. In this time also Sumner finished his job on the cruisers, and they were again in thorough order for the work required of them. Rust Norris was able to render them one service, by guiding them to some cisterns from which they obtained the supply of fresh-water, without which they would not have dared proceed on their cruise. His companion, who was a good hunter and well acquainted with the game resorts of that vicinity, provided them with plenty of fresh venison. He also won Worth's regard by giving him a turkey call, or whistle, made from one of the wing-bones of a wild turkey, and taking him off before daylight one morning on a turkey hunt. From this the boy returned fully as proud as the fine gobbler he had shot had been a short time before. So elated was he by this success that he declared himself to be the hunter of the expedition from that time forth, and promised to provide it with all necessary meat. By the close of the third day after the storm everything was in readiness for a new start. That evening was spent in writing letters to be sent back by the sloop, and daylight of the following morning saw both vessels standing out of the lagoon. Once outside, the sloop bore away to the westward, its occupants waving their hats and shouting good wishes to those whom but a few days before they had tried their best to injure. "I declare!" said Sumner to Worth, "I don't know of anything that makes a fellow feel better than to succeed in turning an enemy into a friend. Now I shall always like Rust Norris, and he will always like me, while if no difficulty had arisen between us we might have been on speaking terms all our lives without caring particularly for each other." "But, Sumner!" exclaimed Worth, in a grieved tone, "aren't you ever going to care particularly for me, because we have never been enemies?" "Care for you, old man! After all we have gone through with together, and after all the anxiety we have had on account of each other? Why, Worth, if I cared any more for you than I do, I'd pack you up in cotton and send you home by express, for fear you might get hurt." "Then please don't," laughed the boy, "for I want to see the Everglades, and do some more hunting before I am sent home." Although Worth was so impatient to see the 'Glades, and though the _Transit_ was headed directly for them, he was obliged to content himself with seeing other things for some days to come. For a whole week the little schooner threaded her way through the most bewildering maze of islands, reefs, and channels known to this continent. There were thousands of keys of all sizes and shapes, and all covered with the mangroves that had built them. As for the oyster-bars, sand-bars, and reefs, they were so numerous that, in finding her way through them, the _Transit_ was headed to every point, half-point, and quarter-point of the compass during each hour of her sailing time. The number of times that she ran aground were innumerable, as were those that she was compelled to turn back from some blind channel and seek a new one. Through all this bewildering maze of keys and channels great tide rivers of crystal water continually ebbed and flowed. In them uncounted millions of fish, from huge silvery tarpon, vampire-like devil-fish, and ravenous sharks, down to tiny fellows, striped, spotted, or mottled with every hue of the rainbow, rushed and sported, chased and being chased, devouring and being devoured, but always affording a fascinating kaleidoscope of darting forms and flashing colors. Nor was the bird-life of these Ten Thousand Islands less interesting. It seemed as though the numbers of the great Wader and Soarer families collected here were almost as many as the fish on which they feasted. Whole regiments of stately flamingoes, clad in their pink hunting-coats, stood solemnly on the mud-flats. Squadrons of snow-white pelicans sailed in company with fleets of their more soberly plumaged comrades. Great snowy herons, little white herons, great blue herons, little blue herons, green herons, and yellow-legged herons mingled with cranes and curlews on the oyster-bars. Ducks of infinite variety, together with multitudes of coots and cormorants, floated serenely on the placid waters. Overhead, clouds of snowy ibises, outlined in pink by edgings of roseate spoon-bills, rose and fell and glinted in the bright sunlight. Gannets, gulls, and ospreys hovered above the fishing-grounds. Bald-headed eagles watched them from the tops of tall mangroves, ready at a moment's notice to pounce down and rob them of their prey. Far overhead, black specks against the brilliant blue of the sky, sailed, on motionless pinions, stately men-of-war hawks or frigate-birds--most graceful of all the soarers. All these, and many more, the mere naming of which would fill a chapter, flocked to these teeming fishing-grounds, and afforded a never-ending source of wonder and amusement to our young canoemates and their companions. Still, with all these, besides the unending difficulties of the navigation to occupy their minds, the end of a week found the boys heartily tired of mangrove keys and blind channels, and anxious for a change of scene. It was, therefore, with a feeling of decided relief that a dark, unbroken line, stretching north and south as far as the eye could reach, was finally sighted and pronounced to be the pine woods of the main-land. Approaching it with infinite difficulty on account of the rapidly shoaling water, they at length discovered a large stream, the water of which was brackish. It was evidently one of the numerous waterways draining the vast reservoirs of the 'Glades into the sea. Here the exploring party was to leave the _Transit_ and take to the smaller craft, in which they proposed to penetrate the interior. Again an evening was devoted to writing letters to be sent back by the schooner, and again all hands were ordered to turn out by daylight. Lieutenant Carey had decided to send one of the cruisers back, and to take but one besides the three canoes into the 'Glades. The recent difficulties of navigation had shown him that a full crew would be needed to carry the schooner back to deep water, and he also imagined that the fewer boats the explorers had to force through the 'Glades the easier they would get along. The Indians, too, would be less suspicious of a small party than of a large one. Thus he decided to limit the party to himself and the two boys in the canoes, with Quorum and one other man in the cruiser, or five in all. With a breakfast by lamplight, and the final preparations hurried as much as possible, the sun was just rising when the little fleet shoved off from the _Transit_, and with flashing paddles entered the mouth of the dark-looking river, the waters of which, in all probability, the keels of white men's boats were now to furrow for the first time. "Good-bye, Mr. Sloe! You want to hurry round to Cape Florida, or we'll be there first!" "Good-bye, Quorum! Look out for that woolly scalp of yours!" came from the schooner. "Good-bye! Good-luck! Good-bye!" and then the canoes rounded a wooded point, and were lost to sight of those who watched their first plunge into the trackless wilderness. CHAPTER XXIII. WORTH MEETS A PANTHER. To find themselves once more in their canoes, and to be gliding over unknown waters, with new scenes unfolding at every turn, was so exhilarating to the boys that they started up the river at racing speed, shouting and laughing as they went. They were about to disappear from the sight of the others around a bend of the stream when they were checked by a shout from Lieutenant Carey. As he joined them he said: "We must keep together, boys, and regulate our speed by that of the cruiser, for, in case of unforeseen difficulties or dangers, it won't do for us to be separated. I wouldn't make any more noise than is necessary either. There is no knowing what the Indians, whose country we are entering, may take it into their heads to do. While I do not anticipate any serious trouble from them, I would rather avoid them as much as possible, and by proceeding quietly we may escape their notice--at least for the present." For the first mile or two the river-banks were hidden beneath a dense growth of mangroves, though above these they could catch occasional glimpses of the tops of pines and tall palmettoes. The mangroves grew smaller and thinner, until finally they disappeared entirely, and on tasting the water over which they floated our voyagers found it to be fresh and sweet. "There is no danger of our suffering from thirst on this trip whatever may happen," said Sumner. They were close to one of the banks as he spoke, and from it there suddenly came a rushing sound, followed by the floundering splash of some huge body in the water, so close at hand that their canoes were violently rocked by the waves that immediately followed. The suddenness of the whole proceeding drew a startled cry from Worth. "What could it have been?" he asked in a low tone, and with a very white face. "Was it a hippopotamus, do you think?" He had seen the "hippos" splash into their tank in Central Park. "Not exactly," laughed Sumner, who, after a slight start, had quickly regained his composure. "It was a big alligator, and he went so close under my canoe that I could have touched him with the paddle." "Suppose he had upset us?" "There wasn't any danger of that; he was more scared than we were, but he knew enough to dive clear of us." "But if he should take it into his head to attack us?" "He won't, though. Mr. Alligator is a great coward. If he is disturbed while taking a sun-bath on shore, he makes a blind rush for the water in spite of all obstacles, but it is only because he is too frightened to do anything else. Once safely in the water, he is glad enough to sink quietly to the bottom without seeking the further acquaintance of his enemies. That has always been my experience with them, but then I have only known them where they were hunted a good deal. The fellows where we are going may be bolder, but I have never heard of alligators being anything but awful cowards." Partly reassured by this, Worth regarded the next alligator that he saw with greater composure, and before the day was over he hardly minded them at all. He certainly had an opportunity of becoming familiar with them, for they fairly swarmed in the river. Nearly every sand-spit showed from one to a dozen of them, of all sizes, lying motionless in the warm sunlight. Worth declared that some of them were twenty feet long; but Sumner laughed at him, and said that twelve or thirteen feet at most would be nearer the mark. In this statement he was supported by Lieutenant Carey, who said that even a fifteen-foot alligator would be a monster, and he doubted if one of that length had ever been seen. Most of the scaly brutes, after finding themselves safely in the water, would rise to the surface for one more look at the cause of their fright. In thus rising, they only displayed the tops of their heads, and as the canoes approached these would imperceptibly sink until only four black spots, indicating the eyes and nostrils, were visible. Then these, too, would disappear without leaving the faintest ripple to mark the place where they had been. Often a quick spurt would take the canoes to the spot in time for the boys to look down through the clear water and see the great black body lying motionless on the bottom, or darting swiftly away towards some safer hiding-place. Sometimes they saw tiny fellows, brightly marked with yellow, and but recently hatched, sunning themselves on broad lily-pads. These were never found in company with their elders, which, Lieutenant Carey said, was because their papas were too fond of eating them. When Sumner spoke of alligators' eggs and nests, Worth asked, innocently, if the mother alligators sat on their eggs like hens. At the mental picture thus presented Sumner laughed so heartily that he could hardly wield his paddle, but Lieutenant Carey explained that an alligator's nest is built of sticks, leaves, and grass, very like a musk-rat's house. "In the middle of this," he said, "are laid from twenty to forty thick-shelled, pure white eggs, about the size of the largest goose-eggs. These are left to be hatched by the heat of the sun and of the decomposing mass surrounding them. When they break their shells, the little fellows immediately scramble for the nearest water, where they are left to care for themselves without a suggestion of parental guidance or advice. In fact, they are wise enough from the very first to keep out of the way of their elders, whose only love for them seems to be that of an epicure for a dainty dish." "Aren't there crocodiles, too, in Florida?" asked Sumner. "Yes. Professor Hornaday mentions genuine crocodiles as being found in Biscayne Bay, on the east coast, where I hope we shall get a look at them. They are described as differing from alligators in the head, that of the crocodile being narrower and longer. The snout is sharper than that of an alligator, and at the end of the lower jaw are two long canine teeth or tusks that project through holes in the upper lip." "Him big fighter, too," remarked Quorum from the cruiser. "Him heap mo' wicked dan de 'gator. De Injun call him 'Allapatta hajo,' an' say hit mean mad 'gator." As the party advanced up the stream the current became so much stronger that the boys began to feel the effects of their steady paddling against it, and were no longer inclined to shoot ahead of the others. The foliage of the banks changed with each mile, and by noon the pines had given place to clumps of palmetto, bay, water-oak, wild fig, mastic, and other timber. Here and there were grassy glades, in more than one of which they caught tantalizing glimpses of vanishing white-tailed deer. The water began to assume an amber tint, and was so brilliantly clear that in looking down through it they could see great masses of coral rocks that often overshadowed the yawning mouths of dark chasms. Above these, whole meadows of the most beautiful grasses--red, green, purple, and yellow--streamed and waved with the ceaseless motion of the current. Schools of bright-hued fish darted through and over these, and turtles, plumping into the water from stranded logs or sunny sand-spits, could be seen scuttling away to their hiding-places among them. The noontide heat of the sun was intense as the signal for a halt was given. The boats were turned in towards a bank where a grass-plot, shaded by a clump of rustling palmettoes, offered a tempting resting-place. As they landed, Worth was certain that he saw a flock of turkeys disappear in a small hammock back of the clearing. With his new-born hunting instinct strong within him, he seized his gun and crossed the glade, in the hope of getting a shot. He had practised constantly on the call given him by his instructor, and now felt competent to deceive even the most experienced gobbler. Advancing cautiously within cover of the hammock, and seating himself on a log that was completely concealed by a screen of bushes, he began to call, "Keouk, keouk, keouk." For ten minutes or so he repeated the sounds at short intervals without getting a reply. Suddenly, a slight rustle in the bushes behind him caused Worth to turn his head. Within a yard of him glared a pair of cruel green eyes. With a yell of terror the boy dropped his gun, sprang to his feet, burst from the bushes, and fled wildly towards camp. Reaching it in safety, but hatless and breathless, he declared that a tiger had been crouched, and just about to spring at him. "Perhaps it was a 'coon," suggested Sumner. "'Coon, indeed?" cried Worth, hotly. "If you had seen the size of its eyes, you would have thought it was an elephant!" "What has become of your gun?" inquired the Lieutenant. "I haven't the slightest idea," replied the boy; "and I don't care. I wouldn't face those eyes again for a thousand guns." Finally, however, he was persuaded to return with Lieutenant Carey and Sumner, both well armed, and point out the scene of his fright. They found his hat, the gun, and the log on which he had been sitting. Then in the soft earth close behind it they also found a double set of huge panther tracks--one made while cautiously approaching the supposed turkey, and the other while bounding away in affright at Worth's yell. "I don't wonder that you were both frightened," said the Lieutenant, with a smile; "but now that your skill as a turkey-caller is established, I wouldn't go out on a hunting expedition alone again if I were you." "Indeed I won't, sir. I'd rather never see another turkey than risk being stared at by such a pair of eyes as that panther carries round with him." CHAPTER XXIV. RATTLESNAKES AND RIFLE-SHOTS. While they were returning through the grassy glade, the Lieutenant, who was a few steps in advance, suddenly stopped and sprang back. The boys barely caught a glimpse of a flat, wicked-looking head, from which a forked tongue was viciously thrusting, and heard a sound like the whir-r-r-r of an immense locust, when Lieutenant Carey fired, and the head disappeared in the tall grass. "It was a snake, wasn't it?" asked Worth. "Worse than that," replied the Lieutenant. "It was a diamond-back rattler, the most venomous snake known to this country, and with another step I should have been on him. I'd rather face your panther unarmed than to have stepped on that fellow." "What would you have done if you had met it without a gun in your hand?" asked Sumner, curiously. "Run," answered the Lieutenant, laconically, as he grasped the lifeless body of the snake by the tail, with a view to dragging it into camp. "But if he had caught and bitten you?" "He wouldn't have caught me, because, in the first place, he would have been content to be let alone, and wouldn't have chased me. In the second place, the rattlesnake is such a sluggish reptile that I could run faster than he, and could easily have kept out of his way." "Well, then, what would you do if you were bitten?" "If it were on an arm or a leg, I should tie my handkerchief above the wound, and twist it with a bit of stick as tightly as possible, so as to impede the circulation. Then I should enlarge the wound with my knife, and, if I could reach it with my mouth, I should suck it for five minutes, frequently spitting out the blood. After that I should get to camp as quickly as possible, put a freshly-chewed tobacco plaster on the wound every ten minutes for the next hour, and at the same time drink a tumblerful of whiskey or other alcoholic liquor. If I could do all that, and the fangs had not struck an artery, I should feel reasonably sure of recovery." "Suppose they had struck an artery, what would you do?" "Reconcile myself to death as quickly as possible, for I should probably be dead inside of three minutes," was the grim reply. Worth shuddered as he gazed at the scaly body that, marked with black and yellow diamonds, trailed for more than five feet behind the Lieutenant, and remarked that the sooner they got away from the haunts of panthers and rattlesnakes, and back among the good-natured alligators, the better he should like it. "I shouldn't think Indians would care to live in such a rattlesnaky country," he added. "They don't mind them," laughed the Lieutenant. "Their keen eyesight generally enables them to discover a snake as soon as he sees them. Then, too, they have an infallible antidote for snake bite, the secret of which they refuse to divulge to white men." "How many rattles has this fellow?" asked Sumner. "Only seven," answered Lieutenant Carey, counting them. "Then he was a young fellow. I thought from his size that he must be pretty old, and would have twelve or thirteen rattles and a button at least." "The number of rattles does not indicate a snake's age," said the Lieutenant, smiling. "They get broken off, as do long finger-nails. I have seen very large snakes with fewer rattles than others that were smaller and evidently younger." While they were eating lunch Quorum skinned the snake, rubbed the beautiful skin thoroughly with fine salt, and rolled it into a compact bundle, in which condition it would keep for a long time. After lunch and the hour's rest that followed it the little fleet was again got under way, and proceeded up the swift river. About the middle of the afternoon they entered the broad belt of cypress timber that borders the Everglades on the west. Here the serried ranks of tall trees, stretching away as far as the eye could reach, held out their long moss-draped arms until they met overhead, and formed a dim archway for the passage of the rushing current. The water flowed with strange gurglings against the gray trunks, and the whole scene was one of such weird solitude, that on entering it the explorers shivered as with a chill. Through the semi-twilight fluffy night herons flitted like gray shadows, and the harsh scream of an occasional water-fowl, startled by the dip of paddles, echoed through the gloomy forest like a cry of human distress. The atmosphere of the place was so depressing that no one spoke, but each bent to his paddle or oars with redoubled energy, the quicker to escape into the sunshine that they knew must lie somewhere beyond it. Quorum, who had been sitting in the stern of the cruiser while the sailor rowed, was finally made so nervous by his uncanny surroundings that he begged his companion to change places with him. He wished to row that his thoughts might be occupied with the hard work. The sailor complied, though laughing at the negro's fears as he did so. While Quorum was working with desperate energy to catch up with the other boats, there came an incident of so startling a nature that in relating it afterwards he said: "I tell yo, sah, de ole niggah so skeer dat him come de neares' in he life to tu'nin' plumb white!" It was a volley of rifle-shots that flashed and roared from the forest on the right bank of the river like thunder from a clear sky. A second volley followed almost immediately, and then succeeded such a din of yells, whoops, and howlings as would have dismayed the stoutest heart. For an instant each one of the explorers imagined himself to be the sole survivor of a wholesale massacre, and the surprise of the volleys was fully equalled by that of seeing his companions still alive. [Illustration: "A VOLLEY OF RIFLE-SHOTS FLASHED AND ROARED FROM THE FOREST."] While the echoes of the first volley were still reverberating through the dim arches of the forest, Quorum whirled the cruiser around as on a pivot, and despite his companion's remonstrances, started her down the river with a rush. The canoemen sat for a couple of seconds with uplifted paddles as though paralyzed, and in that space of time the powerful current did for them what Quorum had done for the cruiser. There seemed nothing to do but to fly from those crashing rifles and demoniac yells. So fly they did, paddling furiously, and casting fearful glances over their shoulders to note if they were pursued. It must be stated, however, that the Lieutenant tried repeatedly to rally the fugitives, and when he found this to be impossible, he held his own canoe in check until certain that no immediate pursuit was being undertaken. It was nearly sunset when he overtook the others at a place beyond the lower edge of the cypress belt, where they had halted to wait for him. He found them still badly demoralized, and ready to continue their flight at the first intimation of further danger. "Well, boys," he cried, cheerily, as his canoe swept down beside them, "I suppose we might as well call this the end of our day's work, and go into camp." "Camp?" almost gasped Worth. "You don't mean, sir, that you propose to go into camp while the whole country is simply swarming with savage Indians?" "I certainly do," replied the Lieutenant. "We shall be safer in camp, where we can work together, than on the river, where we must necessarily be separated, especially in the dark. Moreover, I don't believe we shall be molested here. The mere fact that they have not pursued us so far is, to my mind, an indication that they don't intend to. Indeed, boys, in thinking over this matter, I am inclined to believe that the Indians, or whoever fired those shots, for I didn't see a human being, only intended to frighten us, in the hope that we would give up our undertaking. I believe that the cartridges they fired were blanks. Certainly some of us would have been hit if they had been loaded. I cannot remember seeing a bullet strike the water or anywhere else; can you?" No; none of them had noticed anything of the kind. "That they have not pursued us is another indication that they do not desire our lives," continued the Lieutenant. "Besides all this, the Seminoles are fully aware of the consequences to themselves in case they should kill a white man, and I have no idea that they desire a war or anything like it. Thus I say that they only meant to frighten us, and I must acknowledge that they succeeded. I, for one, was never more startled and scared in my life. Now I propose that we camp here, without lighting a fire to betray our presence, or let them know that we have stopped running, until towards morning. Then I intend to try the passage of that cypress swamp again." CHAPTER XXV. WORTH'S LONELY NIGHT-WATCH. Lieutenant Carey's remarks were received by his companions with considerable incredulity. None of them had ever been under fire before, and it was hard to realize that the deafening volleys that had roared at them from the cypress forest had not been fired with deadly intent. To be sure, neither they, nor even their boats, had been hit; but that might as easily be attributed to poor marksmanship as to good intention on the part of the Indians. Of course, they did not doubt for an instant that those who had fired from that well-concealed ambush were Indians. Who else occupied that country, or who else would have done such a thing? Had not Rust Norris given the Indians false information concerning the objects of the expedition, and roused them to anger against it? Even if this first attack had only been intended for a scare, would a second prove equally harmless? What possible chance had their little band of making its way through the trackless leagues between there and the eastern coast, if the four hundred or so of Seminoles occupying the country had determined to prevent them? None at all, of course. On the other hand, as Lieutenant Carey very justly urged, the Indians could not afford to go to war with the whites. Besides, did the way ahead of them present any greater difficulties than that they had so recently traversed? What could they do with their frail boats, even if they should return to the open waters of the Gulf? Could they hope to reach Key West in them? Then, too, how humiliating it would be to give up their undertaking merely because they had been frightened, and without having caught a glimpse of their enemies! Lieutenant Carey declared his purpose of going on alone if the others refused to accompany him, and Sumner said that, as the son of a naval officer, he was bound to follow the Lieutenant. Worth said: "Of course, if you go, Sumner, I must go with you; but I'm awfully frightened all the same." The sailor said that he had no thought of disobeying the Lieutenant's orders, and only deserted him as he did in the cypress swamp because Quorum was at the oars, and carried him off against his will. Quorum said: "Ef Marse Summer an' Marse Worf gwine fight dem Injuns, ob co'se de ole man gwine erlong to pertec' 'em. Dem chillun can't be 'lowed ter go prospeckin' in de wilderness wifout Quor'm ter look affer 'em, an' holp do de fightin' as well as de cookin'." All this discussion took place after the canoes had been hauled from the water and concealed in a clump of bushes, and while coffee was being prepared over the alcohol lamps, which gave out great heat with little light. They gathered closely about their little stoves and talked in low tones, while the night shadows settled down and shut out the surrounding landscape. After eating a hearty meal, which showed their appetites to be in nowise impaired by their recent fright, and providing a supply of coffee for the morning, they rolled up in their blankets and lay down for a few hours' sleep on the bare ground. That is, all but Worth lay down. He, wrapping his blanket about him, and sitting with his gun across his knees, prepared to keep the first hour's watch. He was given this first hour because he was the youngest, and he was to wake Sumner when it had expired. Sumner was to rouse Quorum, he the sailor, and he the Lieutenant, who was to stand the last watch and decide upon the time for starting. To be sitting there alone, surrounded by the unseen terrors of a Southern wilderness, was a novel and weird experience for Worth. He could hear the eddying and gurgling of the river, with frequent splashes that marked the nocturnal activity of its animal life. Innumerable insects filled the air about him with shrill sounds, and deep-voiced frogs kept up a ceaseless din from the adjacent swamps. Frequent vibratory bellowings, exactly like those of an enraged bull, and certain flounderings in the water, attested the wakefulness of his newly-made alligator acquaintances. The forest rang with the tiresomely irritating notes of the chuck-wills-widows and the solemn warnings of the great hoot owls. Every now and then he was startled by the agonized cries of some unfortunate bird seized and dragged from its resting-place by a 'coon or other predatory animal. These, loud and shrill at first, gradually became weaker, until hushed into a lifeless silence. His blood chilled at the distant howl of wolves, or the human-like cry of a panther, and it required all the boy's strength of mind to refrain from arousing his comrades long before the expiration of that interminable hour. Only a frequent reaching out of the hand and touching Sumner, who lay close beside him, gave him courage to maintain his solitary vigil. His mind was so actively occupied by what he heard, and by listening for what he dreaded still more to hear--the dip of paddles or other sounds indicating the approach of human enemies, that he had not the slightest inclination to sleep. He never was more wide awake in his life, with all his senses more keenly alert, than during that hour. He wondered if, with all those uncanny sounds ringing in his ears, he should dare even to close his eyes when his turn for sleeping came. He kept track of the time by occasionally striking a match, and looking at his watch beneath the sheltering folds of his blanket. When the time came to waken Sumner, he hated to do so; but realizing that his own strength for the ensuing day depended upon his sleeping that night, he finally laid his hand gently on his comrade's forehead. From long training in being aroused at unseemly hours, Sumner sat up, wide awake, in an instant. The boys exchanged a few whispered words, and then Worth lay down. He closed his eyes, determined to try and sleep, though without the least idea of being able to do so. When he next opened them Lieutenant Carey was bending over him, and saying that it was three o'clock in the morning. It seemed impossible that he could have been asleep for hours, and as the boy sat up rubbing his eyes, he was certain that the Lieutenant must have made some mistake. In spite of the darkness, which was still as intense as ever, the boats had been almost noiselessly got into the water, and Quorum had heated the coffee made the night before. A cup of this, hot and strong, roused the boy into a full wakefulness, and fifteen minutes later he was seated in his canoe, prepared once more to undertake the passage of the dreaded cypress belt. The Lieutenant led the way, Sumner and Worth, keeping as close together as possible, followed, and the cruiser, with muffled oars, brought up the rear. If the cypress forest into which they almost immediately plunged had seemed weird and gloomy by daylight, how infinitely more so was it in the pitchy darkness by which it was now enshrouded! Still, the black walls of tree-trunks rising on each side could be distinguished from the surface of the river, and thus the voyagers were enabled to keep in the channel. The air was motionless, and heavy with dampness and the rank odors of decaying vegetation. The rush of waters, the plash of their paddles, and the unaccountable night sounds of the drenched forest, rang out with startling distinctness. They proceeded with the utmost caution, and uttered no word; but it seemed as though their progress must be apparent to any ear within a mile of them. For two hours they worked steadily and without a pause. They felt that they must have passed the scene of their previous evening's adventure. They were certain of this when at length the cypresses began to grow smaller; and their branches no longer meeting overhead, a faint light began to show itself in the lane of sky thus disclosed. Now they knew that they must be approaching the confines of the belt, and that the open 'Glades must be close at hand. They breathed more freely than they had for hours, and with each foot of progress their spirits became lightened. The stream which they were following began to branch off in various directions, and the strength of its current was sensibly diminished. By the time the light was sufficient for them to discern clearly surrounding objects, the cypress belt was behind them, and the limitless expanse of the open 'Glades stretched away in their front. On the very edge of the cypress forest was a tiny hammock surmounting a slight elevation of solid ground. As the little fleet was passing this, its several crews were beginning to exchange a few words of conversation for the first time since leaving their camp. Suddenly their voices were hushed by something almost as startling as the rifle-shots of the previous evening. This time it was the sound of a loud voice, evidently that of a white man, not more than a few rods from them, calling: "Come, you fellows, wake up! Here it is daylight, and no fire started yet." The startled canoemen looked at each other wonderingly, and Sumner was about to utter a shout that would betray their presence when a warning sign from Lieutenant Carey restrained him. Beckoning them to follow him quietly, the Lieutenant led the way past the hammock from which the voice had issued, and into a thick clump of tall sawgrass, by which they were effectually concealed. Bidding them remain there until his return, and on no account betray their presence by sound or movement, he left them, and cautiously guided his canoe back to the hammock. Stepping lightly from it as it touched the land, he made his way quietly through the trees and bushes composing the hammock until, without being seen or heard, he could command a view of an open space in its centre. About the smouldering ashes of a camp-fire ten rough-looking characters, whom he at once recognized as South Florida cowboys, were sitting up, yawning and rubbing their eyes into wakefulness, or lay still stretched on the ground enveloped in the blankets that formed their beds. As there was but little danger of their discovering him, the Lieutenant waited where he was, to learn something of their character from their conversation, before either showing himself or retiring without disclosing his presence. [Illustration: "ROUGH-LOOKING CHARACTERS, WHOM HE AT ONCE RECOGNIZED AS SOUTH FLORIDA COWBOYS."] CHAPTER XXVI. THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES. Presently a man who was rebuilding the fire straightened up, and addressing one of the others, said: "We're going to get out o' here to-day, ain't we, Bill?" "Yes, you bet we are," was the answer. "We hain't got nothing more to stay yere in the swamps for, onless you think they might make another try for it, which I don't they will." "Not much they won't, after the way they skedaddled when we-uns began to yell. Hi! how they did cut down-stream! I'll bet they hain't stopped yit. They must ha' reckoned the hull Seminole nation was layin' fur 'em. Ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Hit was the slickest job I ever did see!" "You don't reckin they'll hanker arter wisitin' the 'Glades agin in a hurry, then?" asked another voice. "Hanker fur the 'Glades? Not muchy, they won't. Why, they won't tetch foot to the main-land of the State of Fluridy again, not if they can holp it. Leastways, not so long as they's a Injun left in hit. Hit's been a hard trip and a mean job for us fellers, but hit'll pay. The report thet ar Leftenant'll make when he gits home'll do mo' to'd gittin' the Seminoles moved outen the kentry than ennything that's happened sence the Fluridy wah. Now mosey round lively, boys. Let's have a b'ilin' o' coffee, an' light outen hyar." Lieutenant Carey had heard all that he cared to, and, without betraying his presence to the cowboys, he softly retraced his steps to where the canoe lay, and a minute later rejoined his party. Only telling them that the sooner they put a respectable distance between themselves and that place the better, he led the way into the main stream, that still flowed with considerable force through the grass beds, and turned in the direction of its source. Not until they had gone a good two miles did he pause, and then there were several reasons for calling a halt. One reason was that they were far enough beyond the reach of the cowboys to defy discovery, and he wished to tell his companions what he had overheard. Another was that the sun was rising, and it was time for breakfast; and a third was that their watery highway having come to an end, it was necessary to decide upon their future course. A small stove was carried in the cruiser, and as there was now nothing but water, with grass growing in it, about them, it was brought into service. The canoes gathered closely around the larger craft, and while Quorum prepared breakfast, the Lieutenant related his recent adventure. In conclusion he said: "So you see, boys, our Indians turned out to be white men, and the shooting was only intended to scare us, after all." "But I don't understand how they knew we were coming, or what they wanted to frighten us for, anyway," said Sumner, wearing a very puzzled expression. "Neither did I at first," replied Lieutenant Carey; "but I remember now that a gentleman in Key West said the Florida cattlemen would be greatly put out on learning of my proposed expedition. He said that they were using every means, foul and fair, to have the Indians removed from the State, and that they would be bitterly opposed to having the Everglades set apart as a permanent reservation. He advised me to look out for them, and I laughed at him. Now I realize that some one must have sent the news to them, and they got up this party to head us off in such a way that the blame would be placed upon the Indians. Yes, it is clear enough now; but it was a bit of a puzzle at first." "Well," said Worth, "it is a great relief to know that they were not Indians, and that we are safely past them, with no danger of their following us." "It certainly is," replied the Lieutenant. "Though it will be a greater one to me really to meet Indians, as we must sooner or later, and have them treat us decently, or rather leave us alone." Here Quorum interrupted the conversation with the announcement of, "Breakfus, sah." The amount of cooking that he had managed to accomplish with that one-lidded stove was wonderful. Besides coffee, he had prepared a great smoking pot of oatmeal, and a dish of crisply fried bacon to be eaten with their hardtack; while these things were disappearing, he prepared and fried a panful of flapjacks that were as light and delicate as though cooked by a ten-thousand-dollar _chef_ on the most modern of ranges. Out-of-door camp cookery deserves to rank as one of the exact sciences, and Quorum as one of its masters. The old negro found perfect happiness in watching the relish with which his deftly prepared food was eaten, and his whole body expressed a smiling satisfaction at the words of praise lavished upon his skill. While Quorum was eating his own breakfast and the sailor was washing and stowing the dishes, the others stood up to take observations. The main stream came to an end where they were, and from it a dozen narrow channels, filled with flags and lily-pads, or "bonnets," as they are called in Florida, radiated in as many directions. As far as the eye could reach, and infinitely farther, in front of them and on both sides, stretched a vast plain of coarse brown grass, rising to a height of several feet, and growing in a foot or two of limpid water. Innumerable channels of deeper water, marked by the vivid green of their peculiar vegetation, crossed and recrossed each other in every direction, and formed a bewildering net-work. The limitless brown level was dotted here and there with heavily timbered islands of all sizes, from a few rods to many acres in extent. Near at hand these were of a bright green, in the middle distance they were of a rich purple hue, and on the far horizon a misty blue. The highest of these islands, as well as the largest one visible, rose on the very limit of their vision, in the north-east, and as it formed a conspicuous landmark, they decided to lay a course for it. Accordingly, in single file, with the _Hu-la-lah_ leading and "de _Punkin Seed_" bringing up the rear, the little fleet entered the narrow path that seemed to lead in that direction, and the journey was resumed. The clearness of the water in the Everglades is accounted for by the fact that it flows above a bottom of coralline rock, and is always in motion. In it stagnation is unknown; and though it is everywhere crowded with plant life, it is as sweet and pure as that of a spring. Another curious fact about the Everglades which is generally unknown is that within their limits but few mosquitoes are found. During the summer months, when all residents on the coast of southern Florida, even the light-keepers away out on the reef, miles from land, are driven nearly crazy by these pests, the Seminoles, who retire to the Everglades to escape them, are rarely annoyed. The chief insect pests of the 'Glades are the midges, or stinging gnats, that swarm for an hour or so at sunset and sunrise. Against these the Indians protect themselves by smudges and by nettings of cheese-cloth. From the difficulties of navigation experienced during this their first day in the 'Glades, our explorers realized that in striving to journey across their width they had undertaken a most arduous task. The channels that they attempted to follow seemed to lead in every direction but the right one. They were generally so narrow and choked with bonnets that paddling or rowing was impossible, and the boats must be forced ahead by poling. Every now and then, too, the shallow waters sank to an unknown depth that no pole could fathom. In such a case, if one attempted to pull his canoe along by grasping the tough grass stalks on either side of him, he was rewarded by a painful cut that often penetrated to the bone. It did not require many sad experiences of this kind to teach the boys that sawgrass is not to be handled with impunity. It has a triangular blade, provided with minutely serrated edges that, green or dry, cut like razors. While it ordinarily attains a height of but four or five feet, the great Everglade lake, Okeechobee, is surrounded by a barrier of "big sawgrass" that is wellnigh impenetrable to man or beast. Even the scaly-hided alligators shun it. This big sawgrass attains the thickness of a cornstalk, with a height of ten or twelve feet, is closely matted, and its cutting edges are possessed of the keenness of Oriental scimitars. Sometimes the narrow channels along which our canoemates poled with such difficulty opened into broad clear spaces, where sailing was possible for a mile or so. Full as often the channels ended abruptly in the grass, when the only thing to do was to get overboard in water waist-deep, and push the boats through it. The sun poured down with an intolerable glare, but its heat was tempered by the strong, fresh breeze that blows every day and all day over the 'Glades with the utmost regularity. As they slowly drew near the island for which they were steering, it gradually assumed a conical shape and the symmetrical proportions of a pyramid. Late in the afternoon, while they were still about a mile from it, a dense volume of smoke suddenly arose from its extreme summit. This as suddenly disappeared, and then reappeared again at intervals of a second. "I wonder if it can be a volcano?" queried Worth, as they gazed curiously at this phenomenon. CHAPTER XXVII. A PREHISTORIC EVERGLADE MOUND. The whole party had come to a halt on first seeing the mysterious smoke, and now, with their boats grouped close together, they watched it curiously. Its several puffs did not last more than a minute, and then it was seen no more. Nobody but Worth mentioned volcanoes, and his suggestion caused a general smile. Quorum uttered the single word, "Injuns," and Lieutenant Carey agreed with him. He said: "Such a smoke as that must result from human agency, and as I do not believe there is a white man besides ourselves within the limits of the 'Glades, it is probably the work of Indians, and is doubtless a signal of some kind, referring to our presence. I hope it is, for one of the objects of my mission being to reassure the Everglade Indians of the kindly intentions of the Government towards them, I shall be glad to meet them as quickly as possible. Let us go on, then, and have our first interview with them by daylight." Half an hour later the canoes reached the island, close to which was a wide channel of open water that apparently extended wholly around it. So dense was its encircling growth of custard-apple and cocoa-plum bushes, that not until they had cut a passage through these could they reach the dry land behind them. Anxious to discover the occupants of the island before darkness should set in, the Lieutenant, taking Sumner and the sailor with him, and leaving Worth and Quorum to guard the boats, set out for the mound, which, rising to a height of fifty or sixty feet, seemed to occupy the centre of the island. Besides being desirous of meeting with Indians, Lieutenant Carey was most curious concerning the formation of this strange mound. Until he had seen the smoke rising from its summit, he had believed it to be merely a growth of tall forest trees surrounded by lesser trees and bushes that grew smaller as they neared the water. This is a common feature of that level Southern country, where the outer lines of vegetation are stunted by the constant high winds. Behind their protection, the inner circles of trees rise higher and higher until they attain a maximum size, and present an appearance of hills and mounds that proves most deceptive to strangers. The character of the smoke rising from the summit of this one had proved it to be something more than one of these ordinary tree mounds. Consequently the explorers were not surprised, after making their toilsome way through a forest of trees bound together with luxuriant vines, and brilliant with the blossoms of flowering air-plants, to find a veritable hill of earth rising before them. The forest encircled it, but ended at its base, and its sides were clothed only with a low growth of shrubs. They had hardly begun the ascent when they ran across a narrow but well-worn path leading to the summit. On reaching the top they were disappointed to find it as lonely and unoccupied as the forest through which they had just passed. What they did find was a small cleared space from which even the grass had been worn away, and in the centre of which stood a sort of an altar of rough stones. It was about six feet square by four high, and was built of the ordinary coralline rock of the 'Glades. From this, or near it, the smoke must have ascended; but they looked in vain for ashes or other traces of a recent fire. The appearance of the altar showed that fires had been built on it; but there was nothing to indicate that one had burned there within an hour, and the mystery of the smoke became greater than ever. If they had only been familiar with the Seminole method of making signal smokes, they would not have been so puzzled. A bright blaze of dry grass is smothered for an instant by a thick branch of green leaves. This is lifted and dropped again as often as the operator wishes to make a puff of smoke. Then the grass is allowed to burn out, and the wind, quickly dispersing the light ashes, removes every trace of the fire. While disappointed and puzzled at finding no remnants of the fire that they were certain had recently burned there, nor of those who had lighted it, the explorers were enchanted with the beauty of the scene outspread on all sides of them. To the west the sun was sinking in wonderful glory behind the distant belt of cypress forest. Everywhere else the brown 'Glades, dotted with blue islands, seamed with the green threads of interlacing channels, and flashing with bits of open water, stretched beyond the limits of their vision. Over them hung a tremulous golden haze in which all objects were magnified and glorified. The all-pervading silence was only broken by the occasional rush on heavy pinions of flocks of snow-white ibises home-returning from their distant fishing-grounds. "No wonder the Seminoles love this country, and dread the very thought of leaving it," said Sumner, at length breaking the silence in which they had gazed on the exquisite scene. "Yes, no wonder," replied the Lieutenant; "for in all my travels I don't know that I have ever seen anything more beautiful. But the most interesting of it all to me," he continued, "is this mound. It is evidently a structure of human erection, and must be contemporaneous with the famous earth pyramids of Mexico. Perhaps it was raised by the same wonderful prehistoric race. I have examined many of the well-known shell mounds of Florida, including those of Cedar Keys, and from there at various places down the west coast. I have also seen the great Turtle Mound on the Atlantic side, and those on the St. John's River; but all of them were evidently feast mounds, and showed in themselves the reason for their existence. I have heard of the earth mounds and ancient canals of the upper Caloosahatchie and Fish-eating Creek, but I have never heard it even intimated that similar structures might be looked for in the Everglades. Consequently I regard this one in the light of an important discovery. It is certainly sufficiently so to warrant us in spending to-morrow on this island investigating the mound as thoroughly as our means will allow." "Doesn't that altar look as though the mound had been used as a place for offering sacrifices?" asked Sumner. "No; that altar, as you call it, is evidently of recent construction, and was probably built by the Indians now inhabiting this country as a place from which to make signal smokes, or possibly as a sepulchre. We will try to find out which to-morrow. These mounds were undoubtedly erected as places easy of defence, and perhaps this one may yield us some ancient weapons, as the 'kitchen middens,' or feast mounds, of Cedar Keys have so abundantly. I have seen quantities of celts and other stone implements taken from them, while the most exquisite quartz spear-head I ever saw was taken from a Caloosahatchie mound, which from descriptions must be very similar to this one. Oh yes, we certainly must spend another day on this island. Now we'd better be going, for it will soon be dark, and--" Here the Lieutenant was interrupted by two shots fired in quick succession from the direction in which they had left Worth and Quorum. "I am afraid that means trouble of some kind," said Lieutenant Carey, anxiously, after he had fired two answering shots. Hurrying down the pathway, which they found led to the water on the opposite side of the island from that on which they had landed, they plunged into the forest, and were surprised to notice how dark it had already grown. Its intricacies were so bewildering and its difficulties so numerous that it was nearly an hour after they heard the shots before they came within sound of a voice answering their repeated calls. At length they reached the place where they had left the boats, and here they found Worth alone, and so panic-stricken that it was with difficulty he could answer their eager questions. "Why had he fired those shots?" "Where was Quorum?" "Where were the boats?" "I fired them to call you back," answered the boy, "and I don't know where Quorum is nor where the boats are. They were here when I left, and when I came back they were gone. This was all I found here." With this Worth pointed to a bag of hardtack that lay on the ground at his feet. "And I'm afraid poor Quorum has been killed, for I know he never would have left us. I thought perhaps you were killed too, and that I was left here all alone, and I've been getting more and more frightened, until I think I should have gone crazy if you had not come when you did." "You poor boy!" said the Lieutenant, soothingly, "I don't wonder that you were frightened. I should have been myself. But how did you happen to leave Quorum? and what was he doing when you left him?" "He was sitting in the cruiser, and I only left him for a minute, because I heard such a big turkey gobbler right here in the woods close to us. I thought it would be such a pleasant surprise for you to have me get him for supper, and I was sure there weren't any panthers or rattlesnakes here. So I just crept into the bushes to get a shot at him, and he kept going farther and farther off, and I kept following him. I didn't see him at all, and after a while I didn't hear him any more either, so I thought I'd better come back. When I got here, I couldn't find Quorum or the boats, so I fired my gun as a signal." "And you haven't seen nor heard anything of Quorum since?" inquired Lieutenant Carey, looking puzzled and anxious. "No, I haven't heard a sound nor seen a sign of a living thing," answered Worth. "There can't be any doubt of this being the right place," said the Lieutenant, reflectively, "for there is where we cut our way through the bushes." "And here is the bag of biscuit," added Worth. "I am not a bit surprised at the disappearance of the canoes," said Sumner. "I am getting used to that. But to have Quorum and the cruiser go too is certainly very strange." "And leaves us in a most awkward predicament," added the Lieutenant. "If Quorum had only gone with one boat, we might expect to see him back at any moment; but to have them all go looks very suspicious. I greatly fear the poor fellow has been the victim of some foul play. However, it is too dark now to do anything but light a fire and prepare to pass the night where we are as well as we can under the circumstances." CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT BECAME OF QUORUM AND THE CANOES. When Worth and Quorum were left alone they sat for some time discussing the mystery of the smoke, and whether or not they had better begin unloading the boats and preparing camp. Worth advised against this. He hoped the others would discover a better camping-place than that. He also thought that perhaps they might return with news that would necessitate their leaving the island and in a hurry. As he complained of being very hungry, Quorum got out the biscuit-bag, and they each took a hardtack from it. It was while they were eating these that the sound of a loud "gobble, gobble, gobble," came from the bushes, apparently but a few rods from where they sat. Worth's hunting instinct was at once aroused, and slipping a couple of shells into his gun, he whispered: "You sit still, Quorum, and I'll have that fellow in a minute. My! but he must be a big one!" Then he stepped noiselessly to the shore, and silently disappeared among the trees. Quorum sat with his back to the water, watching the spot where his young companion had entered the forest, and listening eagerly for the expected shot. All at once a slight jar of the boat caused him to start; but before he could turn his head it was enveloped in a thick fold of cloth that effectually prevented his seeing or calling out. In a few seconds two active forms had bound his hands and feet, and slid him into the bottom of the boat, where he lay blinded, helpless, and nearly smothered. One of his captors picked up the biscuit-bag from which the prisoner had just been eating, and tossed it ashore with a low laugh. In the mean time two others had been unfastening the canoes, and dragging them cautiously backward through the opening cut in the bushes to the channel, where lay the craft in which they had come. It was a large and well-shaped cypress dugout, capable of holding a dozen men. In less than three minutes from the time of Quorum's capture it was being poled rapidly but silently along through the twilight shadows, with the stolen boats in tow. At a point about half a mile from the island these were skilfully concealed in a clump of tall grasses, and Quorum was bundled into the dugout. A choking sound from beneath the cloth that enveloped his head caused one of the strange canoemen to loosen it somewhat, so as to facilitate the prisoner's breathing. Then, propelled by four pairs of lusty young arms, the dugout shot away up one of the watery lanes leading directly into the heart of the 'Glades. An hour later it was run ashore on one of the numerous islands whose purple outlines had so charmed the observers from the top of the mound. Here it was greeted by the barking of dogs and the sound of many voices. The thongs that bound Quorum's legs were cut, he was lifted to his feet, and, led by two of his captors, he was made to walk for some distance. At length he was halted, his wrists were unbound, and the cloth that enveloped his head was snatched from it. The bewildered negro was instantly confronted by such a glare of firelight that for a minute his eyes refused to perform their duty. As he stood clumsily rubbing them, he heard a titter of laughter and the subdued sound of talking. As his eyes gradually became accustomed to the light, he saw, first, a fire directly in front of him, then, several palmetto huts, and at length a dozen or more Indian men, besides women and children, grouped in front of the huts, and all staring at him. [Illustration: "HIS WRISTS WERE UNBOUND, AND THE CLOTH THAT ENVELOPED HIS HEAD WAS SNATCHED FROM IT."] Until that moment he had not known who had made him prisoner, nor why he had been carried off; and even now the second part of the question remained as great a mystery as ever. There was no doubt, however, that, for some purpose or other, he had been captured by a scouting party of Seminoles, and though Quorum had met individuals of this tribe while cruising on the reef, he had never visited one of their camps nor been in their power. He therefore gazed about him with considerable trepidation, and wondered what was going to be done with him. As he did not recognize any of the dusky faces gathered in the firelight, he was amazed when one of the men, addressing him in broken English, said: "How, Quor'm! How! Injun heap glad you come. You hongry? Eat sofkee. Good, plenty." At the same time the speaker pointed to a smoking kettle of something that a squaw had just lifted from the fire and set close to the negro. A great wooden spoon was thrust into it, and its odor was most appetizing. Having fasted since early morning, Quorum was very hungry. Not only this, but under the circumstances he would have eaten almost anything his entertainers chose to set before him rather than run the risk of offending them. Therefore, without waiting for a second invitation, he squatted beside the kettle of sofkee, and began sampling its contents with the huge spoon. To his surprise, he had never in his life tasted a more delicious stew. After the first mouthful, he had no hesitation in eating such a meal as made even the Indians, among whom a large eater is considered worthy of respect, regard him with envious admiration. It is no wonder that Quorum found this Indian food palatable, for the Seminole squaws are notable cooks, and sofkee is the tribal dish. It is a stew of venison, turtle, or some other meat, potatoes, corn, beans, peppers, and almost anything else that is at hand. It is thickened with coontie starch, and a kettleful of it is always to be found over one of the village fires, at the disposal of every hungry comer. The one drawback to its perfect enjoyment, according to a white man's fastidious taste, is that, besides the sofkee, the wooden spoon with which it is eaten is equally at the disposal of all comers, and is in almost constant use. This fact was not known to Quorum at the time of his introduction to sofkee. If it had been, it would hardly have lessened his relish of the meal, for Quorum was too wise to be fastidious. He was so refreshed by his supper, as well as emboldened by the fact that no one seemed inclined to harm him, that something of his natural aggressiveness returned. After laying the sofkee spoon down, he turned to the Indian who had already spoken to him, and said: "Why fo' yo' call me Quor'm? I 'ain't hab no 'quaintance wif you." For answer the Indian only said, "Tobac, you got um, Quor'm?" "Yes, sah. Tobac? I got er plenty ob him back yonder in de boat wha' yo' tuk me frum. Why fo' yo' treat a 'spectable colored gen'l'man dish yer way, anyhow? Wha' yo' mean by playin' sich tricks on him, an' on de white mans wha' trabblin' in he comp'ny?" While speaking the negro had mechanically produced his black pipe, and instead of answering his questions, the Indian said: "Tobac. You no got um. Me got um, plenty. You take um, smoke um, bimeby talk heap." With this he handed a plug of tobacco to the negro, who understood the action, if he had not fully comprehended the words that accompanied it. As he cut off a pipeful and carefully crumbled it in his fingers, he began to think that his position was not such a very unpleasant one, after all. He only wished he could imagine his fellow explorers as being half so comfortable as he was at that moment. Realizing from the Indian's last remark that there would be no talk until after the smoke, he assumed as comfortable a position as possible, and gazed curiously about him. The little village, or camp, of half a dozen huts, was nearly hidden in the black shadows of the forest trees that surrounded it on all sides. Its huts were built of poles, supporting roofs of palmetto thatch, and were open at the sides. Each was provided with a raised floor of split poles, thickly covered with skins, and every hut contained one or more cheese-cloth sleeping canopies. Each hut had also several rifles and other hunting gear hanging in it, while canoe-masts, sails, paddles, and push poles leaned against its walls. The men, who lay smoking on the furs inside the huts, or stretched in comfortable attitudes on the ground outside, were tall, clean-limbed, athletic-looking fellows clad in turbans of bright colors, gay calico shirts, and moccasins of deerskin; the women wore immense necklaces of beads, calico jackets, and long skirts, but were barefooted and bareheaded; and the children were clad precisely like their elders, with the exception of the turbans, which are denied to the boys and young men until they reach the age of warriors. Besides the Indians, Quorum saw that the camp was occupied by numbers of fowls, dogs, and small black pigs, that roamed through it at will. Everybody and everything in it, animals as well as humans, looked contented and well fed. At length Quorum's smoke was finished, and he knocked the ashes from his pipe. As if this were a signal, the Indian men laid aside their pipes, and it was evident that the time for talking had arrived. CHAPTER XXIX. A VERY SERIOUS PREDICAMENT. The four explorers left on the mound island were very far from spending so pleasant an evening as that enjoyed by Quorum in the Seminole village. They were full of anxiety both as to his fate and their own. In some respects their position was not so bad as if they had been cast away on a desert island in the ocean, while in others it was worse. In the latter case they might hope to sight and signal some passing vessel, but here there was no chance for anything of that kind. At the best, they would not see anything except Indian canoes, and, under the circumstances, they could have little hope of obtaining aid from these. Their revolvers were still loaded, and they had between them half a dozen cartridges for their guns, but thus far they had discovered no traces of game on the island. They would not lack for fresh-water, but with only a single bag of biscuit, the food question was likely to become a serious one within a short time. They had no knowledge of any white settlements within less than a hundred miles of where they were. These could only be reached by wading and swimming through the trackless 'Glades and bewildering cypress swamps. Undoubtedly some of the 'Glade islands were occupied by Indians, but they might explore as many of these as their strength would permit them to reach without finding one thus inhabited. Their situation was certainly a most perplexing one, and as they sat around a fire, eating a scanty supper of hardtack and discussing their prospects, these appeared gloomy in the extreme. Still, the Lieutenant well knew that he must, if possible, keep up the spirits of his little party, and that the worst thing they could do was to take a hopeless view of the situation. So he said: "Well, boys, though we seem to be in a nasty predicament, it might be a great deal worse, and we have still many things to be thankful for. I once drifted for a week in an open boat in the middle of the South Pacific. There were seven of us, and only one man of the party had the faith and courage to continue cheerful and hopeful through it all. On the very day that we swallowed our last drop of water, and while the rest of us were lying despairingly in the bottom of the boat, he sat up on watch, and finally discovered the trading schooner that picked us up." "I," said Sumner, "do not feel nearly so badly now as I did when drifting out to sea in the dark on that wretched raft a couple of weeks ago. I expected every minute to be washed off and be snapped up by sharks; but, after all, the loneliness was the worst part of it." "Right you are, Mr. Sumner," said the sailor. "A man can stand a heap of suffering along with others, that would throw him on his beam ends in no time if he was compelled to navigate by himself. I mind one time that I was lost in a fog, in a dory, on the Grand Banks. As we had grub and water in the boat, I didn't worry much, till my dorymate fell overboard and got drownded. The weight of his 'ilers and rubber boots sunk him like a shot. After that I wellnigh went crazy with the loneliness. I couldn't seem to eat or drink; and though I was picked up the very next day, that one night of loneliness seemed like a year of torment. Oh yes, sir, men can save themselves in company, when they won't lift a hand if left alone." "I don't think I was ever in a worse fix than this one," remarked Worth, dolefully. "Probably not, my boy," said the Lieutenant, cheerily. "You are young yet, and have just made a start on your career of adventure. All things must have a beginning, you know. The next time you find yourself in an unpleasant situation, you will take great satisfaction in looking back and describing this one as having been much worse. No adventure worth the telling can be had without a certain degree of mental or physical suffering, and the more of this that is endured the greater the satisfaction in looking back on it. Now that we can do nothing before daylight, I propose that we make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and sleep as soundly as possible. By so doing we shall be able to face our situation with renewed strength and courage in the morning. To-morrow we will explore the island, discover its resources, and perhaps find traces of Quorum and the boats. Failing in this, I propose that we construct as good a raft as we can with the means at hand. With it to carry our guns, besides affording us some support, we will make our way back to the place where those cowboys were camped this morning. From there we can follow their trail until we overtake them, or reach some settlement." Cheered by having a definite plan of operations thus outlined, all hands set to work to gather such materials for bedding as they could find in the darkness, and an hour later the little camp was buried in profound slumber. To their breakfast of hardtack the following morning Sumner added a hatful of cocoa-plums that he had gathered while the others still slept. Soon after sunrise they divided into two parties--the Lieutenant and Worth forming one, and Sumner and the sailor the other--and set out in opposite directions to make their way around the island. "I don't want any one to fire a gun except in case of absolute necessity," said Lieutenant Carey. "And if a shot is heard from either party, the others will at once hasten in that direction." "Can't we even shoot my gobbler if we meet him?" queried Worth. "No, I think not," replied the Lieutenant, with a smile; "that is, unless he shows fight, for I expect your gobbler would turn out to be a turkey without feathers, and standing about six feet high. I mean," he added, as Worth's puzzled face showed that he did not understand, "that the call by which you were led away from Quorum was, in all likelihood, uttered by an Indian for that very purpose." So difficult was their progress through the luxuriant and densely-matted undergrowth of that Everglade isle that, though it was not more than a couple of miles in circumference, it was nearly noon before the two parties again met. They had discovered nothing except that the island was uninhabited, and they were its sole occupants. Nor had they seen anything that would give a clew to the fate that had overtaken poor Quorum. "While I don't for a moment suppose that the fellow has deserted," said the Lieutenant, "I wish, with all my heart, that we knew what had become of him." "Indeed, he has not deserted," replied Sumner, warmly. "I'll answer for Quorum as I would for myself. Wherever he is, he will come back to us if he gets half a chance." "Yes, I believe he will; and I only hope he may get the chance. Now let us go to the top of the mound for one more comprehensive look at our surroundings, and then we will begin our preparations for leaving the island." From the summit of the mound the same tranquil scene on which Lieutenant Carey and Sumner had gazed with such pleasure the evening before, only more widely extended, greeted their eyes. It was as devoid of human life now as then, and its present beauties failed to interest them. "I said that we would probably spend to-day here," remarked the Lieutenant. "But I must confess that my present interest in this mound lies in getting away from it as quickly as possible. I have no longer the least desire to investigate its mysteries, and so let us descend to our more important work." Returning to their landing-place, and eating a most unsatisfactory lunch of hardtack, they began to search for materials from which to build their raft. These were hard to find, and still harder to prepare for the required purpose. There was plenty of timber, but it was green, and they had no weapons with which to attack it except their sheath-knives. Neither had they any nails nor ropes, and their lashings must be made of vines. After a whole afternoon of diligent labor, a nondescript affair of different lengths and jagged ends lay on the ground at the water's edge ready for launching. With infinite difficulty and pains they got it into the water, only to have the mortification of seeing it immediately sink. "Well, boys," said the Lieutenant, in a voice that trembled in spite of his effort to make it sound cheerful, "that raft is a decided failure. Unless we can find some wood better suited to our purpose, I am afraid we must give up the idea altogether, and try to reach the cypress belt without any such aid." "If we only had a few sticks of the timber that is so plenty along the reef!" said Sumner, thinking of his own previous efforts in the raft line. "We might as well wish for our canoes, and done with it," said Worth, despondently. Just then they thought they heard a far-away shout in the forest behind them. Instinctively grasping their guns, they stood in listening attitudes. It was repeated, this time more distinctly, and they looked at each other wonderingly. At the third shout Sumner exclaimed, joyously: "It's Quorum! I know it is!" He would have plunged into the forest to meet the new-comer, but the Lieutenant restrained him, saying: "Wait a minute. Let us be sure that this is not another trap." A few moments later there was no longer any mistaking the voice, and their answering shouts guided Quorum, his honest face beaming with joy and excitement, to the place where they were awaiting him. CHAPTER XXX. QUORUM AS AN AMBASSADOR. It was Quorum, sure enough, not only alive and well, but seemingly in the best of spirits. Where had he been? Where were the boats? How did he get back? and where had he come from? These are only samples of the dozens of questions with which he was plied while shaking hands with his friends, including the Lieutenant, who was as heartily rejoiced as the boys at again seeing the faithful fellow. At one of the questions thus asked him, Quorum's face fell, and he answered: "Whar de boats is, honey, I don't know, fer I hain't seen no likeness ob dem sence las' night 'bout dis time. Whar I is bin, an' what I is 'sperienced, is er long story; but hit's got ter be tole right now, kase dat's what I hyar fer. What we do nex' depen' on de way you all take hit when I is done tellin'." Then they sat down, and forgetful of their hunger, their recent disappointment with the raft, and even of their unhappy predicament, the others listened with absorbed interest to Quorum's story. He described the way in which he had been carried off, and his reception in the Indian camp. "They were Indians, then?" interrupted the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah, shuah 'nough Injuns, an' a powerful sight ob dem--man, squaw, an' pickaninny, an' dey gib ole Quor'm one ob de fines' suppahs he ebber eat." "I wish we had one like it here at this minute!" said Sumner, thus reminded of his hunger. "Den we all smoke de peace-pipe, so dey don't hab no fear ob me declarin' er war on 'em," continued Quorum. "Them Injuns has got tobacco, then?" queried the sailor, whose smoking outfit had disappeared with the boats. "Ob co'se dey is, er plenty," answered Quorum. "An' den me an' de big chiefs sot down fer what yo' might call a considerashun ob de fac's. Dey say as what dey can't noways 'low dis hyer experdishun to pass troo de 'Glades, 'cep' on condishuns." Told in more intelligible language than that used by Quorum, the substance of his talk with the Indians was as follows: They had learned from a white man that the objects of Lieutenant Carey's expedition were to spy out their land, discover their numbers and the value of their property, and make preparations for their removal from that part of the country. "I hope you told them differently, and explained our real objects," said the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah; I done tell 'em to de full ob my knowingness ob yo' plans. But seein' as I hain't know nuffin' tall 'bout 'em, maybe I don't make hit berry cl'ar ter dem igerant sabages; but I done hit as well as I know how." The Indians had declared that they should resist any such attempt at an investigation of their resources and mode of life, and that the party must turn back from where it now was. If it would do so, its boats should be restored, and it would be allowed to depart in peace. The difficulties in the way of accepting this proposition had at once been seen by Quorum. He had explained that as their small boats were not fitted to cruise in the open waters of the Gulf, and as their big boat was already on its way to the east coast, where they were to meet it, to turn back would be a great hardship. The Indians had listened gravely to their interpreter's translation of all that he had to say on the subject, and assented to the force of his arguments. Then they proposed another plan. It was that if the whites would give up their arms and trust entirely to them, they would convey the party and their boats safely across the 'Glades to within a short distance of the east coast. There they should again receive their guns, and should be allowed to depart in peace, provided they would promise not to return. "Seems to me that is quite a liberal proposition," said the Lieutenant, after Quorum had succeeded in making it clearly understood. "All we want is to cross the 'Glades and see the Indians. I would willingly have paid them to guide us, and now they offer to do so of their own accord. I can't conceive how you persuaded them to make such an offer, Quorum. You must be a born diplomat." "Yes, sah," replied the negro, grinning from ear to ear, "I 'specs I is." At the same time he had no more idea of what the Lieutenant meant than if he had talked in Greek. "How does that plan strike you, boys?" asked Lieutenant Carey, turning to Sumner and Worth. "It strikes me as almost too good to be true," answered the former. "And I'm afraid there's some trick behind it all; but then I don't see what we can do except say yes to almost any offer they may choose to make." "That is so," said the Lieutenant. "Without our boats, and with no means for making a raft, we are about as helpless as we well can be." "It seems to me a splendid plan," said Worth, who saw visions of peaceful nights, and days pleasantly spent in hunting and in visiting Indian camps. Although the sailor's opinion had not been asked, he could not help remarking: "I'm agin trusting an' Injin, sir. Injins and Malays and all them sort of niggers are notoriously deceitful." "Hi! Wha' yo' say dere 'bout niggahs, yo' sailorman?" exclaimed Quorum, in high dudgeon. "Yo' call 'em notorious, eh?" "Not black ones," answered the sailor, apologetically--"not black ones, Quorum; but them as is red and yellow." "Dat's all right, sah, an' I 'cept yo' 'pology. At de same time I is bankin' on de squar'ness ob dem Injuns who I bin councillin' wif." "You believe it will be safe to trust them, then?" asked the Lieutenant. "Yes, sah; yo' kin trus' 'em same like a black man." "Very well," said Lieutenant Carey; "as I don't see how, in the present state of affairs, we can do anything else, I will take your word for their honesty, and accept their conditions; only I will not promise never to come into the 'Glades again. I will only promise not to turn directly back from the east coast after they have left us." "Dat's wha' dey mean, sah. I is berry 'tic'lar on dat pint ob de controbersy." "Then we will consider it as settled, and would like to leave here for a place where there is something to eat as quickly as possible. Where are your Indian friends?" "Out dere, sah, in de cooners. Dey say when yo' ready, den I holler like er squinch-owl, an' brung down all yo' uns' guns an' resolvers de fustes' t'ing." "Very well, squinch away then, and here are my pistols. It is certainly humiliating to be disarmed to please a lot of Indians; but hunger and necessity are such powerful persuaders that it is best to submit to them with as good grace as possible." So Quorum "squinched" in a manner that no self-respecting owl would have recognized; but which answered the purpose so well that an answer was immediately heard from the water, over which the evening shadows were now fast falling. Directly afterwards a canoe, containing the Indian who had acted as interpreter during Quorum's council with the chiefs, appeared at the opening in the bushes. Without stepping ashore, this Indian, whose name was Ul-we (the tall one), exchanged a few words with Quorum, whereby he learned that the Seminole conditions were accepted by the white men. He then bade the negro place the guns and pistols in the canoe and enter it himself. Then he shoved off, and another canoe, containing two Indians, made its appearance. The Lieutenant bade Sumner and Worth step into it first; but the moment they had done so, it too was shoved off, and another canoe, also containing two Indians, appeared in its place. This received the Lieutenant and the sailor. By the time it was poled into the channel the foremost canoe had disappeared in the darkness, nor was it again seen. During their journey both the Lieutenant and Sumner tried to enter into conversation with the Indians in their respective canoes, but after a few futile attempts they gave it up. To all their questions they received the same answer, which was "Un-cah" (Yes), and not another word could the Indians be persuaded to utter. [Illustration: "DIRECTLY AFTERWARDS A CANOE APPEARED AT THE OPENING IN THE BUSHES."] The Lieutenant consoled himself with the thought that he would be able to talk to the chiefs through the interpreter; while the boys looked forward with eager anticipations to seeing the Indian village that Quorum had described. As for the sailor, Indians and their villages were matters of indifference to him. What he looked forward to was a good supper and a pipe of tobacco. Thus, all of them awaited with impatience their journey's end, and wished it were light enough for them to see whither they were being taken. CHAPTER XXXI. A CLOSELY GUARDED CAMP. The darkness, which comes so quickly after sunset in that far Southern country, with almost no intervening twilight, effectually prevented our explorers from seeing where they were going. They only knew from the stars that their general direction was east, or directly into the heart of the Everglades. They were even unable to study the countenances, dress, or general appearance of the young Indians who, standing in the bow and stern of each canoe, drove it forward with unerring judgment and at a considerable speed by means of long push poles. These poles were quite slender; but each terminated at its lower end in an enlargement, formed by fastening a short bit of wood to either side that prevented it from sinking deeply into the sand or grass roots against which it was set. The canoes in which our voyagers were now travelling were as different from their own dainty craft as one boat can be from another. Nor did they bear the least resemblance to the bark canoes of Northern Indians, there being no Southern bark similar to that of the Northern birch, or suitable for canoe-building. They were simply dugouts, from twenty to twenty-five feet long by about three feet broad, hollowed with great skill from huge cypress logs. Their lines were fine, and, as our friends afterwards discovered, they are capital sailing craft in any wind, except dead ahead. When a Seminole decides to build one of these canoes, he first selects and fells his tree, cutting off a section of the required length, and free from knots or cracks. The upper surface of this is hewn smooth, with a slight sheer rise fore and aft. On this smooth surface a plan of the canoe is carefully outlined with charcoal, and then the outside is laboriously worked into shape with hatchets. The hollowing out of the inside is accomplished by fire and hatchets, and, considering the limited supply of tools at the builders' disposal, the result is a triumph of marine architecture. Hatchets and knives are the only tools used in the making of the masts, spars, paddles, push poles, and spear handles that are needed for the equipment of each canoe. The ingenious builders also cut and sew their own sails, which they make of unbleached muslin bought from the trader on Biscayne Bay. Although they use no keels, centre-boards, nor lee-boards, they manage by holding their paddles firmly against the side of the canoe and deep in the water to sail close-hauled, and to keep her up to the wind in a manner that is truly surprising. The Indians take great pride in their canoes and value them highly, for, as they are without horses, roads, or any considerable area of dry land, these are their sole means of transportation and communication between the different parts of the vast territory over which they roam. After travelling several miles, this first voyage of our explorers in Indian canoes ended at a heavily wooded islet, between the trees of which they could see the welcome glow of a camp-fire. To their great delight, as they reached the shore, they found their own canoes and the cruiser safely moored to it. In spite of their joy at again seeing these, they were too hungry and too impatient to visit the Indian village to do more just then than assure themselves that their own boats were all right. Then they hurried towards the fire. There was a roomy palmetto hut standing near it; but to their surprise the firelight disclosed only a single human figure, which, as they drew near, proved to be that of Quorum. He was hard at work cooking supper, and only acknowledged their presence with a grin, and the announcement that it would be ready in a few minutes. Turning to the hut, they saw that it had been recently erected, and that it contained their own rolls of bedding, besides the little bags of toilet articles belonging to Lieutenant Carey and the boys, which Quorum had thoughtfully taken from the canoes and placed ready for their use. "I never realized the luxury of brushes and combs before!" exclaimed Worth, as he occupied the time before supper with making what was probably the most elaborate toilet ever seen in the Everglades. Meanwhile the Lieutenant was questioning Quorum as to the location of the Indian village, and was disappointed to find the negro as ignorant on the subject as himself. Quorum thought it must be on some other island, as this certainly was not the place to which he had been taken the night before. He said that on arriving there he had found the canoes and cruiser, the hut built, and the fire lighted. The young Indian who had brought him had helped carry the things up to the hut, and also given him some venison and vegetables in exchange for a small quantity of coffee and sugar. He had remained there until shortly before the arrival of the others, and Quorum had not noticed when he disappeared. Before leaving, he had told Quorum that, by the chief's orders, the white men would remain on that island until the following evening. "Oh, we will, will we?" said Lieutenant Carey, whose pride chafed against receiving orders from an Indian, even if he was a chief. "With our own boats at hand, I don't see what is to hinder us from leaving when we please. I wish that chief would hurry up and put in an appearance. I want to have a few words with him." He now for the first time realized that the young Indians who had brought them there had not followed them to the camp, and he stepped down to the water's edge to see what they were doing. To his dismay he found that they had not only disappeared, but had taken the canoes and cruiser with them. Greatly provoked at this, he returned to the camp in a very unpleasant frame of mind, mentally abusing the Indians, and regretting that, by accepting their conditions, he had so completely placed himself in their power. His good-nature was somewhat restored by the supper, which was most bountiful and well cooked, and by the soothing pipe smoke that followed it; for among other things, Quorum had not neglected to bring up a plentiful supply of tobacco. After supper, as he and the boys lay outstretched on their blankets within the hut, the open side of which faced the fire, the Lieutenant acknowledged that their present position was a vast improvement on that of the night before. The boys agreed with him, though at the same time they were even more disappointed than he at not finding themselves in an Indian village. That was one of the things they had most counted on seeing in the Everglades. Having finally decided to make the best of their situation, and to obtain the greatest possible amount of comfort and pleasure from it, they turned in, and slept soundly until morning. They were so thoroughly tired with their various hardships and labors of the two preceding days and nights that they slept late, and the sun had already been up for several hours before they answered the negro's call to breakfast. He said that though he had been down to the shore several times after water, he had seen no signs of either canoes or Indians. Thus to all appearances they were not only the sole occupants of the island, but of the 'Glades as well. As they had nothing else to do, the Lieutenant proposed to the boys that they should explore this new island, and make such discoveries of other islands and the intervening 'Glades as could be seen from its shores. They readily agreed to this, and the three set forth. They had not gone more than a hundred yards from camp when they were suddenly confronted by a young Indian, armed with a rifle, which he pointed at them, at the same time making other signs to them to go back. At first they were greatly startled by his unexpected appearance. Then the Lieutenant undertook to remonstrate with him, and to explain that they only wanted to walk harmlessly about and view the landscape, but all in vain. The stolid-faced young savage either could not or would not understand. He only shook his head without uttering a word, but continued to make signs for them to go back. "This is one of the strangest and most irritating things that I ever heard of!" exclaimed Lieutenant Carey, after finding his efforts to communicate with the Indian unavailing. "If we only had our guns, I'd make that fellow let us pass or know the reason why. As we haven't any, and he has one, the argument is too one-sided, and we might as well retire from it as gracefully as possible. Let us try another direction, and find out if that is also guarded." They tried in two other places, only to be repulsed by other determined young guards who, mute as statues, were equally stolid and impervious to argument. [Illustration: "THEY WERE SUDDENLY CONFRONTED BY AN INDIAN ARMED WITH A RIFLE."] There was nothing to do but to return to the hut and make the best of the situation. From there no signs of an Indian was to be seen; but let one of the inmates of the camp stroll beyond its limits in any direction, and the woods seemed to swarm with them, though the guards probably did not number more than half a dozen in all. The day was passed in eating, sleeping, and in discussing their peculiar situation. They were evidently prisoners, though to all appearances as free as air; but, as Lieutenant Carey said, there was no chance of their escaping from the island anyhow, so why they should be denied the privilege of walking about it he could not understand. Quorum was equally in the dark with the rest, and said that nothing of the kind had been intimated by the chiefs during their talk with him. It was finally decided that instead of being on a small island as they had supposed, they must be at one end of a large one that contained a village at the other, which, for some unknown reason, the Indians did not choose they should visit. With this solution of the problem they were forced to content themselves, and they waited with impatience the coming of night, when, according to what Ul-we had told Quorum, their journey was to be resumed. CHAPTER XXXII. CROSSING THE 'GLADES WITHOUT SEEING THEM. They had an early supper, so as to be all ready for a start whenever their jailers should see fit to make one. By sunset their blankets were rolled up, and they were impatiently awaiting some signal; but none came until darkness had fully set in. Then once more from the direction of the water came the now familiar cry of a screech-owl. It was answered from several points about the camp, which showed their Indian guards to be still on duty. As Quorum had been allowed to go freely to the shore for water during the day, the Lieutenant now told him to go down again and discover the meaning of the signal. He returned a minute later with the news that Ul-we was waiting for him and the cooking utensils, and that the canoes for the other passengers would arrive with the setting of the new moon, which hung low in the western sky. So Quorum left them, as on the previous night. As the silver crescent of Halissee, the night timepiece of the Everglades, sank from sight, the others went to the shore, carrying their blankets with them. There they found two canoes, apparently manned by the same silent crews of the evening before, awaiting them. As they shoved off and plunged once more into the trackless 'Glades, the Lieutenant turned for a look at the island. He could distinguish its black outlines from end to end, and it was a very small one. This overthrew the only theory they had formed concerning their close imprisonment, and left him more than ever puzzled as to its object. Hour after hour the long poles were steadily wielded by the silent Indians, who seemed not to know fatigue nor to require rest. All through the night the heavy dugouts pursued their steady way, crashing through the crisp bonnets, and bending down the long grasses, that flew up with a "swish" behind them. It was a marvel to the passengers that the channels, followed as unerringly by the dusky canoemen as though it had been daylight, always led into one another. Their own experience had been that, even with sunlight to guide them, half the channels they had attempted to follow proved blind leads. But with the Indians it was never so. Through the night Lieutenant Carey pondered his situation, and studied their course by the stars. These told him that it was a little to the north of east, the very one he would have chosen, and in this respect the situation was satisfactory. But what information was he gaining concerning the Everglades, their resources, and present population? About as little as was possible for one who was actually passing through them. Could he obtain any more? Evidently not, under the circumstances. Long and deeply as he pondered the subject, he could not think of a single feasible plan for altering the existing state of affairs. He was compelled to acknowledge himself completely outwitted by the simple-minded sons of the forest into whose power he had so curiously fallen. "If I could only get at them, and talk to them, and explain matters to them!" he said aloud; and the sailor answered: "It wouldn't do no good, sir. There's none in the world so obstinate as Injins and Malays. Once they gets an idea inside their skulls, all the white talk you could give 'em wouldn't drive it out. Fighting is the only argument they can understand; and, if you say the word, I'll have these two heathen pitched overboard in no time." "No," said the Lieutenant, "it wouldn't do any good, and my orders are to treat such Indians as I may meet with all possible friendliness. I only wish I could meet with some besides these two young automatons, but there does not seem to be any prospect of it." At the same time Sumner and Worth, crouched snugly among their blankets in the bottom of the other canoe, were also talking of their strange situation. "Do you suppose any other two fellows ever had such queer times on a canoe trip as we are having?" asked Worth. "Indeed I do not," replied Sumner. "And this is the very queerest part of it. Here we are still on a canoe cruise, without our own canoes, without knowing where we are going, and without having anything to do with the management of the craft we are cruising in. It will be a queer experience to tell about when you get back to New York, won't it?" "Yes, indeed, it will, though New York seems so very far away that it is hard to realize that I shall ever get there again. If we could only see an Indian village, though! It seems too bad to be going right through an Indian country and yet see nothing of its people." "Oh, well, we are not through with the 'Glades yet, and you may still have a chance to see plenty of Indians." In spite of Sumner's hopefulness, Worth's wish did not seem any nearer being gratified four days from that time than it did then. Each night's journey was a repetition of the first, except that they grew shorter with the growing moon. The Indians refused to travel except in darkness, and never came for their passengers until after the moon had set. Each day was spent in a comfortable camp, to which they were so closely confined that they could learn nothing of their surroundings. These camps were always located on small islands, and were always reached before daylight. Quorum always arrived at the camping-place some time in advance of the others, and he always found the canoes and the cruiser awaiting him. From them he was allowed to take whatever he thought the party would need, but after that first night the boats invariably disappeared before the others reached them. Sumner said this was a trick the canoes had learned early on the cruise, and they had probably taught it to the other boat. Who caused their disappearance or where they went to, none of them knew; and but for Quorum the owners of the several craft would have heard nothing of their whereabouts or welfare. During this strange journey, as they were unable to do any hunting or foraging for themselves, Quorum was obliged to exchange so many of their stores for fresh meat, fruit, and vegetables, that he finally announced them to be nearly exhausted. At length, one very dark night, the passengers, who were half dozing in the bottoms of the canoes, became conscious of a change. The darkness all at once grew more intense, until they could barely distinguish the forms of the Indians in the bow and stern of their respective boats. A rank odor of decaying vegetation filled the air, while the swish of grass and bonnets was no longer heard. They seemed to be moving more swiftly and easily than usual. Finally, when they landed, it did not seem as though they were on an island; and as they made their way towards the light of the camp-fire, about which Quorum was already busy, they suddenly realized that it was reflected from a background of pine-trees. "Hurrah, boys!" shouted Lieutenant Carey; "there is a sign that our trip is nearly ended. Pine-trees don't grow in the 'Glades, and therefore we must be somewhere near the coast. I can't say that I am sorry, for the trip has been a most disappointing one to me. It has been a decidedly unique and remarkable one, though--has it not? I wonder how many people will believe us when we say that we have crossed the entire width of the Everglades without learning anything about them, and almost without seeing them? When we add that we have passed dozens of Indian villages, and yet have not seen an Indian village; have been surrounded by Indians, but cannot describe their appearance; have come all the way by water, and brought our own boats with us, and yet have not set eyes on our own boats since the day we entered the 'Glades--I am afraid that we shall be regarded much as the old woman regarded her sailor son when he told her that he had seen fish with wings and able to fly. In fact, I am afraid they will doubt our veracity. How I am going to get up any kind of a report to send to Washington, I am sure I don't know. By-the-way, Quorum, were our canoes here when you landed?" "No, sah, dey wasn't; an' I is troubled in my min' frum worryin' about dem. I is ask dat feller Ul-we, but he don't say nuffin.' 'Pears like he done los' he tongue, like de res' ob de Injuns. De wust ob hit is, sah, dat de grub jes about gin out, an' I is got er mighty pore 'pology fer a breakfus." So excited were our explorers over their new surroundings, and over this report that their boats were again missing, that instead of turning in for a nap, as usual, they sat round the fire and waited impatiently for daylight. Sumner was the most uneasy of the party, and every few minutes he would get up and walk away from the firelight, the better to see if the day were not breaking. On one of these occasions he was gone so much longer than usual that the others were beginning to wonder what had become of him. All at once they heard him shouting from the direction of the place at which they had landed: "Hello! in the camp! Come down here, quick! I've got something to show you." CHAPTER XXXIII. AN ADVENTUROUS DEER-HUNT. In answer to Sumner's call, the others sprang up and hurried in the direction of his voice. As they got beyond the circle of firelight they saw that the day was breaking, though in the forest its light was dim and uncertain. It was much stronger ahead of them, and within a minute they stood at the water's edge, where objects near at hand were plainly discernible. Although they more than suspected that the 'Glades had been left behind, they were hardly prepared for the sight that greeted their eyes. Instead of a limitless expanse of grass and water dotted with islands, they saw a broad river flowing dark and silently towards the coming dawn through a dense growth of tall forest trees. But for the direction of its current, it was a counterpart of the one, now so far behind, by which they had entered the 'Glades from the Gulf. Of more immediate importance even than the river were the objects to which Sumner triumphantly directed their attention. These were the long-unseen canoes and the cruiser, with masts, sails, and paddles in their places, and looking but little the worse for their journey than when their owners had stepped from them nearly a week before. Sumner had discovered them, snugly moored to the bank, a short distance below the landing-place, and had towed them up to where the others now saw them. In the bottom of the _Hu-la-lah_ lay their guns and pistols, carefully oiled and in perfect order. Everything was in place, and they could not find that a single article of their outfit was missing. "I declare!" said the Lieutenant, "those Indians are decent fellows, after all, and though I am provoked with them for their obstinacy in not granting us a single interview, as well as for the way they compelled us to journey through their country, I can't help admiring the manner in which they have fulfilled their share of our contract. They have shown the utmost fairness and honesty in all their dealings with us, and I don't know that I blame them for the way in which they have acted. They have been treated so abominably by the Government ever since Florida came into our possession that they certainly have ample cause to be suspicious of all white men." Quorum was sent down to watch the canoes and see that they did not again disappear, while the others ate the scanty breakfast that he had prepared. At it they drank the last of their coffee, and Quorum reported that there was nothing left of their provisions save some corn-meal and a few biscuit. As they talked of this state of affairs, Sumner said that he had started up a deer when he went after the canoes, and Worth was confident that this must be a good place in which to find his favorite game--wild turkeys. "It looks as though we would have to stop here long enough to do a little hunting before proceeding any farther," said the Lieutenant. To this proposition the boys, eager to use their recovered guns, readily agreed. So, after making sure that their camp was no longer guarded, and that they were at liberty to go where they pleased, it was decided to devote the morning to hunting, with the hope of replenishing their larder. Quorum and the sailor were left to guard camp and the boats, while the others entered the piny woods, going directly back from the river. The Lieutenant carried a rifle and the boys their shot-guns, while each had his pockets well filled with loaded shells. The pine forest was filled with a dense undergrowth of saw-palmetto, and the ground beneath these was covered with rough masses of broken coralline rock. It was also slippery with a thick coating of brown pine-needles. Under these circumstances, therefore, it was almost impossible to proceed silently, and whatever game they might have seen received ample warning of their approach in time to make good its escape. When they at length came to a grassy savanna, on the opposite side of which was a small hammock of green, shrubby trees, the Lieutenant proposed that the boys remain concealed where they were while he made a long circuit around it. He would thus approach from its leeward side, and any game that he might scare up would be almost certain to come in their direction. After stationing them a few hundred feet apart, so that they could cover a greater territory, and warning them to keep perfectly quiet, he left them. The sky was clouded, and a high wind soughed mournfully through the tops of the pines. Every now and then the boys were startled by the crash of a falling branch, while the grating of the interlocking limbs above them sounded like distressed moanings. It was all so dismal and lonesome that finally Worth could stand it no longer, and made his way to where Sumner was sitting. "Have you noticed how full the air is of smoke?" he said, as he approached his companion. "My eyes are smarting from it." "Yes," replied Sumner, "it has given me a choking sensation for some time. I expect the woods are on fire somewhere." "Really!" said Worth, looking about him, apprehensively. "Then don't you think we ought to be getting back towards the river?" "No, not yet. The fire must be a long way off still, and it would never do for us to leave without Lieutenant Carey. He would think we were lost, and be terribly anxious. There he is now! Did you hear that?" Yes, Worth heard the distant rifle-shot that announced the Lieutenant's whereabouts. Instantly his freshly aroused hunting instinct banished all thoughts of the fire, and he hurried back to his post. He had not more than reached it before there came a crashing among the palmettoes, and ere the startled boy realized its cause, two deer, bounding over the undergrowth with superb leaps, dashed past him and disappeared. "Why didn't you fire?" cried Sumner, hurrying up a moment later. "It was a splendid shot! I would give anything for such a chance!" "I never thought of it," answered Worth, ruefully. "Besides, they went so quickly that I didn't have time." "They ought to have stood still for a minute or two, that's a fact," said Sumner, who was rather inclined to laugh at his less experienced companion. Just then there came another crashing of the palmettoes, and a third deer bounded into sight for an instant, only to disappear immediately as the others had done. "Why didn't you fire?" laughed Worth. "It was a splendid shot!" "Because this is your station," replied Sumner, anxious to conceal beneath this weak excuse the fact that he had been fully as startled and unnerved as his companion. "I do believe, though," he added, "that this last fellow was wounded, and perhaps we may get him yet." The discovery of fresh blood on the palmetto leaves through which the flying animal had passed confirmed this belief, and without a thought of the possible consequences the boys set off in hot pursuit of the wounded deer. They easily followed the trail of the blood-smeared leaves, and in the ardor of their pursuit they might have gone a mile, or they might have gone ten for all they knew, when suddenly, without warning, they came face to face with the deer. He was a full-grown buck, with branching antlers still in the velvet, and by his swaying from side to side he was evidently exhausted. The sight of his enemies seemed to infuse him with renewed strength, and the next instant he charged fiercely towards them. Worth, attempting to run, tripped and fell in his path. Sumner, with better luck, sprang aside, and sent a charge of buckshot into the furious animal at such short range that the muzzle of his gun nearly touched it. It fell in a heap on top of Worth, gave one or two convulsive kicks, and was dead. Its warm life-blood spurted over the prostrate boy, and when Sumner dragged him from beneath the quivering carcass he was smeared with it from head to foot. "Are you hurt, old man?" inquired Sumner, anxiously, as his companion leaned heavily on him, trembling from exhaustion and his recent fright. "I don't know that I am," replied Worth, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "I expect I am only bruised and scratched. But, oh, Sumner, what an awfully ferocious thing a deer is! Seems to me they are as bad as panthers. What wouldn't I give for a drink of water! I can hardly speak, I am so choked with smoke." With this, Sumner suddenly became aware that the smoke, which they had not noticed in the excitement of their chase, had so increased in density that breathing was becoming difficult. Thoroughly alarmed, he looked about him. In all directions the woods were full of it, and even at a short distance the trees showed indistinctly through its blue haze. Now, for the first time, the boys were conscious of a dull roar with which the air was filled. Their long chase must have led them directly towards the fire. "We must get back to camp as quickly as possible!" exclaimed Sumner, realizing at once the danger of their situation. "Come on, Worth, we haven't a moment to lose!" "But what shall we do with our deer?" asked the blood-covered boy, who could not bear the thought of relinquishing their hard-won prize. "Never mind the deer, but come along!" replied Sumner. "If I am not mistaken, we shall have our hands full taking care of ourselves. That fire is coming down on us faster than we can run, and we haven't any too much start of it as it is." CHAPTER XXXIV. HEMMED IN BY A FOREST FIRE. Which way were they to fly? The terrible roar of the burning forest seemed to come from all directions, and the smoke seemed hardly less dense on one side than on another. But there had been no fire where they came from, and they must retrace their steps along the blood-marked trail that they had followed, of course. Although the body of the deer lay near the spot where it had ended, they were at first too bewildered to discover it, and lost several precious minutes in searching among the palmetto leaves for its crimson signs. At length they found them, and started back on a run. It was exhausting work trying to run through the thick scrub, over its loglike roots, and among the rough rock masses strewn in the wildest confusion between them, and their speed was quickly reduced to a walk. Sumner went ahead, and, with arms uplifted to protect his face from the sawlike edges of the stout leaf stems, forced a way through them, with Worth close behind him. They had not gone far when Sumner suddenly stopped and, with a despairing gesture, pointed ahead. The flames were in front of them, and could be distinctly seen licking the brown tree-trunks, and stretching their writhing arms high aloft towards the green tops. "We are going right into the fire!" the boy exclaimed, hoarsely. "The deer must have seen it, and been curving away from it when we overtook him!" So they turned back, and rushed blindly, without trying to follow the trail, in the opposite direction. Before they had gone half a mile Worth's strength became exhausted, and he sank down on a palmetto root gasping for breath. "I can't go any farther, Sumner! Oh, I can't!" he cried, piteously. "But you must! You can't stay here to be burned to death! We are almost certain to find a slough with water in it, or a stream!" and grasping his comrade by the arm, Sumner pulled him again to his feet. As he did so, the hammers of Worth's gun became caught in something, and the next instant both barrels were discharged with a startling explosion. "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Sumner. "Let's fire all our cartridges as fast as we can. Perhaps they are out looking for us, and will hear the shots." So saying, he fired both barrels of his own gun into the air, and quickly reloading, fired again. Worth followed suit; but just as Sumner was ready to fire for the third time he was startled by a sharp crackling sound close beside him. He turned quickly. There was a bright blaze within ten feet of him. The first accidental discharge of Worth's gun, as it lay pointed directly into a mass of dry grass and dead palmetto leaves, had set this on fire. Worth instinctively sprang towards it with the intention of trying to stamp it out, but, with a joyful cry, Sumner restrained him. "It's the very thing!" he shouted. "A back fire! Why didn't I think of it before? We must set a line of it as quick as we can!" Worth did not understand, and hesitated; but seeing Sumner, with a bunch of lighted leaves in his hand, rush from one clump of palmetto to another, touching his blazing torch to their dry, tinderlike stalks, he realized that his companion knew what he was about, and began to follow his example. Within five minutes a wall of flame a hundred yards in length was roaring and leaping in front of them, fanned into such fury by the high wind that they were obliged to retreat from its blistering breath. They could not retreat far, however, for during their delay the main fire had gained fearfully upon them, and its awful roar seemed one of rage that they should have attempted to escape from it. Mingled with this was the crash of falling trees and the screams of wild animals that now began to rush frantically past the boys. A herd of flying deer nearly trampled them underfoot; and directly afterwards they were confronted with the gleaming eyes of a panther. With an angry snarl he too dashed forward. Great snakes writhed and hissed along the ground, and Worth clutched Sumner's arm in terror. Seizing his gun, the latter began shooting at the snakes; nor did he stop until his last cartridge was expended. It was horrible to stand there helplessly awaiting the result of that life-and-death race between those mighty columns of flame; but they knew not what else to do. Now they could no longer see in which direction to fly. The swirling smoke-clouds were closing in on them from all sides, and only by holding their faces close to the earth could they catch occasional breaths of fresh air. Sumner's plan was to remain where they were until the last moment, and then rush out over the smouldering embers of the fire they had set. The main body of this was now rapidly retreating from them. At the same time a fringe of flame from it was working backward towards them. Though they made feeble efforts to beat this out, their strength was too nearly exhausted for them to make much headway against it. The heat was now so intense that their skin was blistering, and their brains seemed almost ready to burst. Worth had flung away his gun, just after loading it, when he began to set the back fires, and now the sound of a double report from that direction showed that the flames had found it. The noise of these reports was followed by a loud cry, and out of the smoke-clouds a strange, wild figure came leaping. It was a human figure. As the boys recognized it, they echoed its cry. Then by their frantic shouts they guided it to where they were crouching and making ready for their desperate rush into the hot ashes and still blazing remains of the back fire. The figure that sprang to their side, and, seizing Worth's arm, uttered the single word "Come!" was that of Ul-we, the young Seminole, though the boys, having never seen him, did not, of course, recognize him. With thankful hearts and implicit faith they followed him as he dashed back into the thickest of the smoke-clouds that still hung low over the newly burnt space before them. They choked and gasped, and their feet became blistered with the heat that penetrated through the soles of their boots. Worth would have fallen but for the strong hand that upheld him, and dragged him resistlessly forward. The ordeal of fire lasted but a minute, when they emerged in a grassy glade at one end of the burnt space, and ran to a clump of water-loving shrubs that marked a slough beyond it. The vanguard of the main fire raced close after them, flashing through the brittle grass as though it were gunpowder; and as they dashed into the bushes, and their feet sank into the mud and water of the slough, its hot breath was mingled with theirs. In the very centre of the thicket Ul-we threw himself down in water that just covered his body, and held his head a little above its surface. The boys followed his example, and experienced an instant relief from the cool water. In this position they could breathe easily, for the smoke-clouds seemed unable to touch the surface of the water, but rolled two or three inches above it. Here they lay for what seemed an eternity while the fire-fiends raged and roared on all sides of them, and in the air above. The heat waves scorched and withered the green thicket, the water of the little slough grew warm and almost hot, the air that they breathed was stifling, and for a time it almost seemed as though they had escaped a roasting only to be boiled alive like lobsters. After a while, that appeared to the poor boys a long, weary time, the fiercest of the flames swept by, and their roar no longer filled the surrounding space. There were rifts in the smoke-clouds, and perceptible intervals of fresh air between them. Finally the boys could sit up, and at length stand, but not until then were they certain that the danger had passed. Then Sumner grasped the young Indian's right hand in both of his, and tears stood in the boy's eyes as he said: "I don't know as you can understand me; I don't know who you are, and I don't care. I only know that you have saved us from a horrible death, and that from this moment I am your friend for life." As for poor Worth, the tears fairly streamed down his smoke-begrimed, blood-stained cheeks, as, in faltering words, he also tried to express his gratitude. [Illustration: "THE ORDEAL OF FIRE LASTED BUT A MINUTE."] The Indian seemed to understand, for he smiled and said: "Me Ul-we. Quor'm know um. You Summer. You Worf. Me heap glad find um. 'Fraid not. Hunt um; hunt um long time, no find um. Bimeby hear gun, plenty. Hunt um, no find um. Bimeby hear one gun, bang! bang! quick. Then come, find um. _Hindleste._ If me no find um, fire catch um pretty quick, burn up, go big sleep _Holewagus_! Ul-we feel bad, Quor'm feel bad, all body feel bad. Now all body heap hap, dance, sing, eat heap, feel plenty glad." All of which may be translated thus: "I am very glad to have found you, for I was afraid I shouldn't. I hunted and hunted a long time, but couldn't find you. At last I heard guns fired many times, and hunted in that direction, still without finding you. Finally I heard both barrels of a gun fired at once, not far from where I was, and then I found you. It is good. If I had not found you just when I did, the fire would have caught you and burned you to death, which would have been terrible. I should have felt very badly. So would Quorum and all your friends. Now everybody will rejoice." Ul-we had been ordered to watch the camp of the white men by the river until they left it, but to remain unseen by them. He had noted the departure of the hunting party, and had also been aware of the approach of the forest fire while it was still at a great distance. When, some hours later, the Lieutenant came back full of anxiety concerning the boys, and immediately started off again to hunt for them, Ul-we also started in another direction, with the happy result already described. They remained in the slough two hours longer, before the surrounding country was sufficiently cooled off for them to travel over it. Then they set out under Ul-we's guidance, though where he would take them to the boys had not the faintest idea. CHAPTER XXXV. THE BOYS IN A SEMINOLE CAMP. Although Ul-we started out from the slough that had proved such a haven of safety in one direction, he quickly found cause to change it for another. This cause was the lameness of the boys, for their blistered feet felt as though parboiled, and each step was so painful that it seemed as if they could not take another. They were also faint for want of food, and exhausted by their recent terrible experience. The young Indian was also suffering greatly. The moccasins had been burned from his feet, and the act of walking caused him the keenest pain; but no trace of limp or hesitation betrayed it, nor did he utter a murmur of complaint. He had intended leading them directly to their own camp; but that was miles away, and seeing that they would be unable to reach it in their present condition, he changed his course towards a much nearer place of refuge. He soon found that to get Worth even that far he must support and almost carry him. As for Sumner, he clinched his teeth, and mentally vowing that he would hold out as long as the barefooted Indian, he strode manfully along behind the others with his gun, which he had retained through all their struggles, on his shoulder. In this way, after an hour of weary marching, they entered a live-oak hammock, into which even the fierce forest fire had not been able to penetrate. Here they were soon greeted by a barking of dogs that announced the presence of some sort of a camp. It was that of the Seminole party which had been detailed to conduct our explorers across the Everglades, and act as guards about their halting-places. There were about twenty men in this party, and as they had brought their women and children with them, and had erected at this place a number of palmetto huts, the camp presented the aspect of a regular village. Poor Worth had just strength enough to turn to Sumner, with a feeble smile, and say, "At last we are going to see one," when he sank down, unable to walk another step. A shout from Ul-we brought the inmates of the camp flocking to the spot. Both the boys were tenderly lifted in strong arms and borne to one of the huts, where they were laid on couches of skins and blankets. They were indeed spectacles calculated to move even an Indian's heart to pity. Their clothing was in rags, while their faces, necks, and hands were torn by the saw-palmettoes through which they had forced their way. Worth was found to have received several cuts from the sharp hoofs of the wounded deer, and he was blood-stained from head to foot. Besides this, they were begrimed with smoke and soot until their original color had entirely disappeared. They were water-soaked and plastered with mud and ashes. Certainly two more forlorn and thoroughly wretched-looking objects had never been seen there, or elsewhere, than were our canoemates at that moment. But no people know better how to deal with just such cases than the Indians into whose hands the boys had so fortunately fallen, and within an hour their condition was materially changed for the better. Their soaked and ragged clothing had been removed, they had been bathed in hot water and briskly rubbed from head to foot. A salve of bear's grease had been applied to their cuts and to their blistered feet, which latter were also bound with strips of cotton-cloth. Each was clad in a clean calico shirt of gaudy colors and fanciful ornamentation. Each had a gay handkerchief bound about his head, and a pair of loose moccasins drawn over his bandaged feet. Each was also provided with a red blanket which, belted about the waist and hanging to the ground, took the place of trousers. Thus arrayed, and sitting on bear-skin couches, with a steaming sofkee kettle and its great wooden spoon between them, it is doubtful if their own parents would have recognized them. For all that they were very comfortable, and by the way that sofkee was disappearing, it was evident that their appetites at least had suffered no injury. They at once recognized sofkee from Quorum's description. They also knew the history of the wooden spoon; but just now they were too hungry to remember it, or to care if they did. At length, when they had almost reached the limit of their capacity in the eating line, and began to find time for conversation, Worth remarked, meditatively: "I believe, after all, that I like fishing better than hunting. There isn't so much excitement about it, but, on the whole, I think it is more satisfactory." "Fishing for what?" laughed Sumner. "For bits of meat, with a wooden spoon, in a Seminole sofkee kettle, and looking so much like an Indian that your own father would refuse to recognize you?" "If I thought I looked as much like an Indian as you do I would never claim to be a white boy again," retorted Worth. "I only wish that I could hold a mirror up in front of you," replied Sumner; and then each was so struck by the comical appearance of the other that they laughed until out of breath; while the stolid-faced Seminole boys, stealthily staring at them from outside the hut, exchanged looks of pitying amazement. After this, Sumner still further excited the wonder of the young Indians by performing several clever sleight-of-hand tricks, while Worth regretted his inability to dance a clog for their benefit. Then calling Ul-we into the hut, Sumner presented him with his shot-gun, greatly to the "Tall One's" satisfaction. Worth was distressed that he had nothing to give the brave young fellow; but brightened at Sumner's suggestion that perhaps Ul-we would go with them to Cape Florida, where Mr. Manton would be certain to present him with some suitable reward for his recent service. When Ul-we was made to comprehend what was wanted of him, he explained that it would be impossible to go with them then, but that he would meet them at Cape Florida on any date that they might fix. So Sumner fixed the date as the first night of the next new moon, and Worth added a request that he should bring with him all the occupants of the present camp, which he promised to do, if possible. Although the boys had no idea of where they were, they felt confident that somehow or other they would be able to keep the appointment thus made, and also that the Mantons' yacht would be on hand about the same time. They tried to find out from Ul-we how far they were from Cape Florida at the present moment; but he, having received orders not to afford any member of Lieutenant Carey's party the slightest information regarding the country through which they were passing, pretended not to understand the boys' questions, and only answered, vaguely, "Un-cah" to all of them. By this time the day was nearly spent, and it was sunset when the boys' own clothes were returned to them, dried, cleaned, and with their rents neatly mended by the skilful needles of the Seminole squaws. Then Ul-we said he was ready to take them to their own camp, and though they would gladly have stayed longer in this interesting village, the boys realized that they ought to relieve Lieutenant Carey's anxiety as soon as possible. So they expressed their willingness to accompany Ul-we, but hoped that the walk would not be a long one. "No walk," replied Ul-we, smiling. "Go Injun boat. Heap quick." Accompanied by half the camp, and shouting back, "Heep-a-non-est-cha," which they had learned meant good-bye, to the rest, they followed their guide a short distance to the head of a narrow ditch that had evidently been dug by the Indians. Here they entered Ul-we's canoe, and after a few minutes of poling they realized, in spite of the darkness, that they were once more on the edge of the Everglades. After skirting the forest line for some time, they turned sharply into a stream that entered it, and again the boys found themselves borne rapidly along on a swift current through a cypress belt. An hour later they saw the glow of a camp-fire through the trees, and their canoe was directed towards it. Stepping out as the canoe slid silently up to the bank, the boys, wishing to surprise their friends, stole softly in the direction of the circle of firelight. On its edge they paused. At one side of the fire sat Lieutenant Carey, looking worn and haggard; Quorum stood near him, gazing into the flames with an expression of the deepest dejection, while the sailor, looking very solemn, was toasting a bit of fresh meat on the end of a stick. "No," they heard the Lieutenant say, "I can't conceive any hope that they have escaped, for the only traces that I found of them led directly towards the fire. How I can ever muster up courage to face Mrs. Rankin or meet the Mantons with the news of this tragedy, I don't know." "Hit's a ter'ble t'ing, sah. Ole Quor'm know him couldn' do hit." "Then it's lucky you won't have to try!" exclaimed Sumner, joyously, stepping into sight, closely followed by Worth. "Oh, you precious young rascals! You villains, you!" cried the Lieutenant, springing to his feet, and seizing the boys by the shoulders, as though about to shake them. "How dared you give us such a fright? Where have you been?" "Out deer-hunting, sir," answered Sumner, demurely. Quorum was dancing about them, uttering uncouth and inarticulate expressions of joy; while the sailor, having dropped his meat into the fire, where it burned unheeded, gazed at them in speechless amazement. They told their story in disjointed sentences, from which their hearers only gathered a vague idea that they had killed a deer in the burning forest, been rescued from the flames by an Indian, and borne in his arms to a Seminole village in the Everglades, from which, by some unseen means, they had just come. [Illustration: SUMNER AND WORTH IN THE SEMINOLE CAMP.] "I'll bring him up, and he can tell you all about it himself," concluded Sumner, turning towards the landing-place, to which the Lieutenant insisted on accompanying him, apparently not willing to trust him again out of sight. But neither Ul-we nor his canoe was there. He had taken advantage of the momentary confusion to disappear, and the Lieutenant said he was thankful their canoes had not disappeared at the same time. When they returned to the fire, they found Quorum hard at work cooking venison steaks. "Then you did get a deer, sir, after all?" queried Sumner. "No, I only wounded one, and he escaped. This fellow was one of a herd that, terrified by the fire, came crashing right into camp, and was shot by the sailor." "That's the way I shall hunt hereafter," exclaimed Worth--"stay quietly and safely in camp, and let the game come to me!" CHAPTER XXXVI. ONE OF THE RAREST ANIMALS IN THE WORLD. After their day of excitement, terror, and anxiety the explorers passed a happy evening around their camp-fire, and Lieutenant Carey gained a clearer idea of the boys' adventures and escapes. He admitted that the kindness shown them in the Seminole camp gave him a new insight into the Indian character, and wished that he might have had a chance to thank and reward Ul-we for his brave rescue of the young canoemates. He also regretted that he, too, could not have visited that Indian camp, and hoped that the appointment made by the boys with Ul-we might be kept. In spite of their recent hearty meal of sofkee, a preparation of which they spoke in the highest terms, the boys were able to do ample justice to Quorum's venison steaks, greatly to the satisfaction of the old negro. He would have felt deeply grieved if they had allowed any amount of feasting in an Indian camp to interfere with their enjoyment of a meal that he had cooked, no matter how short an interval might have elapsed between the two. Although the boys felt rather stiff and lame the next morning, it did not prevent their being ready bright and early to continue their journey. It was a great pleasure to be once more afloat in their own canoes, and this was increased by the fact that they now had a swift current with them. It was a glorious March day, and all nature seemed to share their high spirits as they glided smoothly down the beautiful river. The water swarmed with fish and alligators, and the adjacent forest was alive with birds. Among the innumerable fish that darted beneath them, they soon recognized several salt-water varieties, which assured them that the ocean could not be far off. As the three canoes were moving quietly along abreast of each other and close together, the _Psyche_ suddenly glided over a huge black object that for an instant seemed inclined to rise and lift it bodily into the air. As it was dropped back, there was a tremendous floundering, and all three of the light craft were rocked so violently that only the skill of their navigators saved them from capsizing. "Was it a waterquake?" inquired Worth, with a very pale face, as soon as his fright would allow him to speak. "Yes; and there it goes," laughed the Lieutenant, pointing to a great dim form that could just be seen moving swiftly off through the clear water. "It must have been a whale," said Sumner. "No," answered Lieutenant Carey; "but it was the next thing to it. It was a manatee or sea-cow. I have seen them in the lower Indian River, but did not know they were found down here. I wish you boys might have a good look at him, though, for the manatee is one of the rarest animals in the world. It is warm-blooded and amphibious, lives on water-grasses and other aquatic plants, grows to be twelve or fifteen feet long, weighs nearly a ton, and is one of the most timid and harmless of creatures. It is the only living representative of its family on this continent, all the other members being extinct. The Indians hunt it for its meat, which is said to be very good eating, and for its bones, which are as fine-grained and as hard as ivory. In general appearance it is not unlike a seal. It can strike a powerful blow with its great flat tail, but is otherwise unarmed and incapable of injuring an enemy. Several have been caught in nets and shipped North for exhibition, but none of them has lived more than a few weeks in captivity." "What made that fellow go for us if he isn't a fighter?" asked Worth. "He didn't," laughed the Lieutenant. "He was probably asleep, and is wondering why we went for him. I can assure you that he was vastly more scared than we were." "He must have been frightened almost to death, then," said Sumner. Soon after this they saw a landing-place on the left bank. Stopping to examine it, they discovered a trail leading through a fringe of bushes, behind which was an Indian field covering an old shell mound, and in a high state of cultivation. In it were growing sweet-potatoes, melons, squashes, sugar-cane, and beans--a supply of which they would gladly have purchased had the proprietors been present. As they were not, and necessity knows no law, our canoemen helped themselves to what they needed, and when they left, the load of the cruiser was materially increased. At length they heard the dull boom of surf, and realized that only a narrow strip of land separated them from the ocean. Late in the afternoon they reached the mouth of the river, and the boys uttered joyous shouts as they looked out over its bar and saw a limitless expanse of blue waters, unbroken by islands, glistening in the light of the setting sun. With light hearts they went into camp on the inner side of the sandy point separating the quiet waters on which they had been floating from the long swells of the open sea. They intended running out of the river and down the coast in the morning, for from their surroundings, as well as from the general course they had taken through the 'Glades, the Lieutenant was satisfied that they must be considerably to the north of Cape Florida. The boys determined to sleep in their canoes that night, and rigged up the little-used striped canoe tents for that purpose. While they were doing this, and the Lieutenant was pitching his own tent on shore, and the others were collecting drift-wood on the beach, there came a hail from across the river. "Hello there! Bring a boat over here, can't ye?" It was the first white man they had seen since leaving the _Transit_, and going over in the cruiser, Sumner brought him back. He proved to be a barefooted boy, a year younger than Worth, and yet he was the mail-carrier over the most southerly land route, and one of the most lonesome, in the United States. It is the seventy-mile stretch between Lake Worth and Biscayne Bay, and every week this boy or his younger brother walked the whole distance and back along the beach, with a mail-sack on his back. He had to cross the mouths of two rivers, for which purpose he kept an old skiff at each one. It sometimes happened, as in the present case, that some other beach traveller would appropriate his boat, and leave it on the wrong side. Then, unless fortunate enough to find some one to set him across, he would be obliged to brave the sharks and other sea-monsters, with which these rivers swarm, and swim over after his own boat. Along his route were three houses of refuge, situated twenty miles apart, and belonging to the Life-saving Service. Each of them contained a single keeper, and these were the only persons seen by the lonely mail-boy while on his toilsome tramps. The boy was greatly interested in the canoes, which he declared were the neatest little tricks he ever did see, but he scouted the idea of sleeping in them. "Why," said he, "some of them sharks or porpusses what uses round here nights will run inter ye an' upsot ye quicker'n wink." He was amazed that they should cruise in such tiny craft, and begged them not to think of attempting to run down the coast in them. On the whole he regarded our young canoemates as being particularly daring and reckless fellows, and they regarded him in much the same way, though he made light of his lonely beach tramps, on which he often met bears, panthers, or other wild animals. He told them that they were about twenty-five miles north of Cape Florida; that there was a "station" on the beach six miles north of them; that turtle were beginning to lay eggs, and bears to frequent the beach in search of them; that sharks grew larger in those very waters than anywhere else on the coast; and that an easterly wind would blow in the morning, which would prevent their crossing the bar. Having delivered himself of this information, and saying that he must make the station that night, the boy slung his mail-sack over his shoulders, and started off at a brisk pace up the soft shelving beach. After what he had told them about sharks, Sumner and Worth concluded not to sleep in their canoes that night. They might have done so with perfect safety, however, for no shark was ever known to overturn a boat for the sake of getting at a human being inside of it. The next morning the mail-boy's prediction in regard to the east wind was verified. It was blowing briskly at sunrise, and already a big sea was rolling in, combing and booming on the bar. Their boats would not live in it a moment, and consequently they must stay where they were until the wind changed. After breakfast the Lieutenant sat in his tent writing, the sailor was repairing a torn sail, Quorum was taking a nap, and the boys were left to their own devices for amusement. An hour or so later Lieutenant Carey, the sailor, and Quorum were startled by loud calls for help from the beach, and hurried in that direction to see what new scrape the "young rascals," as the Lieutenant called them, had got into now. CHAPTER XXXVII. FISHING FOR SHARKS. In strolling along the outer beach, picking up curious sponges and bits of coral, the attention of the boys was also attracted to the shadowy forms of great fish that they could distinguish every now and then darting along the green base of the combers just before they broke. "Do you think they can be sharks?" asked Worth. "Yes," replied Sumner; "I am almost sure they are." "My! but I wish we could catch one! I have never seen a shark out of water." "I shouldn't wonder if we could. I've got a shark-hook in the _Psyche_, and our Manila cables, knotted together, will make just the kind of line we want." Fifteen minutes later the hook and line had been prepared. For bait, they took one of a number of fish that Quorum had caught that morning. The shark-hook was a huge affair, over a foot long and made of steel a quarter of an inch thick. To it was attached by a swivel several feet of chain terminating in a ring to which the line was made fast. Sumner had caught many sharks off Key West wharves, but they had been comparatively small, and with the monsters of the reef he had hitherto had no dealings. Consequently, he was almost as ignorant of their strength as was Worth. Therefore, without reflecting on the folly of the act, and fearing that the line might be jerked from his hands, he made its inner end fast about his waist. Then whirling the heavy hook above his head, he cast it far out in the breakers. Within a minute it was tossed back to the beach, and had to be thrown again. This operation was repeated so many times without any result that the boys were beginning to tire of it, when all at once there came a jerk on the line that nearly threw Sumner off his feet. "Hurrah!" he cried. "We've got him at last! Catch hold, Worth, and help me haul him in." But it was soon evident that instead of their catching the shark, he had caught them. In spite of all their efforts, and no matter how deeply they dug their feet into the sand, the boys found themselves being dragged slowly but surely towards the water. At first they did not realize their danger; but when they were within a few yards of the creamy froth churned up by the breakers, it flashed over them, and they began to utter those shouts for help that attracted the attention of their companions in the camp. Although Worth could have let go of the line at any minute, the thought of doing such a thing never entered his head. Even when the water was about his feet and the wet sand was slipping rapidly from beneath them, the plucky little chap held on and struggled with all his might to avert the fate that threatened his friend. They were nearly hopeless before the three men reached them, and, rushing into the water, seized the line with such a powerful grasp that its seaward motion was instantly arrested. Not only that, but they walked away with it so easily that a minute later the shark was landed high and dry on the beach, where the sailor despatched it with an axe. It was a white shark of moderate size, being not more than seven or eight feet long. For all that, it was a monster as compared with those Sumner had been in the habit of catching, and he gazed with a curious sensation at its wicked eyes, and the row upon row of curved gleaming teeth with which the gaping mouth was provided. "It was a close call for you, my boy," said the Lieutenant, gravely, "and has taught you a lesson that I am sure you will never forget. You may thank your lucky stars that the hook was taken by this little fellow instead of by one of his grandfathers or uncles. Now that we have started in this business, I am going to try and show you what might have happened." Under his direction a hole some five feet deep was dug, a heavy timber, selected from those with which the beach was strewn, was thrust into it, and the sand was repacked solidly about it. To this, instead of to Sumner's body, the end of the line was attached, and the fishing for sharks was resumed. While the post was being set, Lieutenant Carey brought his rifle from the camp. Several sharks, some smaller and some larger than the first, were caught; but not until the hook was seized by one that dragged the entire party clinging to it slowly down the beach did the Lieutenant express himself as satisfied. "Hold on to it!" he cried. "Brace yourselves! Snub him all you can!" The strain on the line was tremendous, and it hummed like a harpstring. But for the post to aid them, they must have let go. At length, even the enormous strength at the other end of the line began to be exhausted. Foot by foot the slack was gathered in and held at the post. Then a great ugly-looking head could be seen in the edge of the breakers, and the next minute a rifle-ball crashed into it. In the flurry that followed the line snapped, and the boys uttered a cry of dismay. But the bullet had done its work, and a few minutes later the huge carcass was rolling like a log in the surf. The sailor managed to get a bight of the line over its tail, and by their united efforts the great fish was drawn partly from the water; but beyond there they could not move it. It was nearly fifteen feet long, and Sumner shuddered as he realized how easily and quickly such a monster as that could have dragged him out to sea. "It seems to me," said Worth, "that some kinds of fishing are as dangerous as deer-hunting, and just as exciting." While they were still looking at the big shark their attention was attracted to a loud barking in the beach scrub behind them, and by a man's voice shouting: "Wus-le! Wus-le! You, sir! Come here!" It was evident that Wus-le was a dog, and that he was engaged in some absorbing occupation that forbade him to pay any attention to the calls of his unseen master. Going to the place from which the barking came, the shark-fishers were in time to witness a most interesting performance. A small brindled bull-terrier was tearing in a circle round and round a coiled rattlesnake. The former was barking furiously, and the sound so enraged the snake that the angry whir-r-r-r of its rattles was almost continuous. At the same time it was dazed by the rapidity of the dog's motions. At length it sprang forward, struck viciously, and missed its mark. At the same moment the dog dashed in, seized the snake by the back, gave one furious shake, and jumped away. The snake was evidently injured, for it re-coiled slowly. Once more, enraged beyond endurance, it struck at its agile adversary, and then the dog had him. In an instant the snake's back was broken, and a minute later it lay motionless and dead. As soon as he was certain of his victory, the dog paid no more attention to his late enemy, but with panting breath and lolling tongue that betrayed the energy of his recent exertions, he ran to meet his master, who appeared at that moment from the direction of the river. He was a powerfully built man, dressed partly as a hunter and partly as a sailor. He carried a rifle, and introduced himself as the keeper of the house of refuge a few miles up the coast. He upbraided the dog as though it were a human being for tackling a rattlesnake, and then remarked apologetically to the spectators of the recent fight: "I have to scold him on general principles, but it don't do any good. He is bound to fight and kill snakes till they kill him, which I am always expecting they will. They haven't done it yet, though, and he has killed more than twenty rattlers, besides more of other kinds than I can count. He's a good dog, Wus-le is, and he's a terror to snakes." The man said he had learned of the Lieutenant and his companions being in the river from the mail-carrier, and, feeling lonely, had come to invite them to go to the station and stay with him until the wind changed. As he assured them that this was not likely to happen for several days, and as they were ahead of the time set for their arrival at Cape Florida, Lieutenant Carey accepted the invitation. On their way up the river their guide pointed out a grove of cocoanut palms, marking the site of a fort erected during the Seminole War, the name of which was at one time familiar to all Americans. It was the scene of the treacherous seizure of the famous chief Osceola, who was lured into it under the pretence of considering a treaty. From there he was hurried to Fort Moultrie, in Charleston Harbor, where he soon afterwards died of a broken heart. They found the station to be a low, roomy structure, surrounded by broad piazzas, built in the most solid manner so as to withstand hurricanes. It stood on top of the beach ridge, and commanded a glorious view of the ocean, as well as of the low-lying back country. At one end was a small separate house containing a great cistern, in which a supply of water was collected during the rainy season of summer, to last through the long winter drought. At the opposite end stood a building in which was kept a metallic life-boat and a quantity of canned provisions for the use of sailors who might be wrecked on that lonely coast. Here the exploring party remained for nearly a week, while the wind still held steadily to the east, and they all declared it to be the happiest and most interesting week of their cruise. They hunted, fished, and sailed on the inland waters behind the beach ridge to their hearts' content. Quorum was kept constantly busy cooking on the station kitchen stove the venison, fish, turtle, ducks, quail, 'possum, and other food supplies with which the surrounding country abounded. Worth felt that his reputation as a hunter was fully restored when he shot a wild-cat that Wus-le had treed, and Sumner was more than proud over the killing of a black bear, which the same enterprising dog discovered one night digging for turtle eggs on the beach but a short distance from the station. The Lieutenant worked at the report of his expedition, while the sailor and the keeper labored at the frame of a light-draught, sea-going boat, which the latter wished to build for his own use, and for which Sumner furnished the plans and model. At length the wind, which in that country always boxes the compass, worked around to the westward, and as it was the end of March, the canoes were again loaded, and the pleasant life at the station came to an end. CHAPTER XXXVIII. LITTLE KO-WIK-A SAILS OUT TO SEA. There was a long swell heaving in over the bar at the mouth of the river, but no breakers; and the little fleet, crossing it easily, laid a course down the coast. A stretch of twenty miles lay before them ere they would find another opening into which they could run for shelter, and they were therefore desirous of making the run before night. On most waters this would not have been difficult; but just here was a strong head current, that of the Gulf Stream, running fully three miles an hour, and they knew that to overcome this, and also to make twenty miles during the day, would tax the sailing powers of their small craft to the utmost. Nor could they all sail. The _Hu-la-lah_ had no centre-board, and with the wind somewhat forward of abeam, the use of her sail would only have driven her off shore. The Lieutenant was therefore obliged to rely upon his paddle and keep close to the coast. The cruiser, being a slow sailer close-hauled, kept him company, but the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ drew gradually ahead, and were soon out of hailing distance. It was so delightful to find themselves again sailing, and their canoes were doing so splendidly, that the boys hated to stop. And why should they? There was nothing to fear. They knew where they were going, the others were in company, and a halting-place for the night had been agreed upon. They would stop when they reached it, and that would be soon enough. Until noon the breeze was very light, but after that it freshened and soon came off the land in angry little gusts that suggested the propriety of reefing. With a single reef in each of their sails, they ran until late in the afternoon, when they sighted a cut leading into the great land-locked sheet of Biscayne Bay. They were to enter this bay and cruise down behind its outer keys to Cape Florida, but it had been decided that they should camp on the upper side of the cut for that night. The wind had increased in strength until now even double-reefed sails could hardly be carried on the canoes. The whole sky was covered with dark clouds, while a bank of inky blackness was rising in the west. It was evident that a wind-squall of unusual violence would shortly burst upon them, and almost at the same moment both the canoemates lowered their sails, jointed their paddles, and headed straight in for land. As he lowered his sail and cast a glance astern in search of the other boats, Sumner noticed a large steamer coming down the coast. He wondered if she were not too close in for safety, but the immediate demands of his situation quickly drove all thoughts of her from his mind. In the teeth of the spiteful gusts, and facing the ominous blackness, they worked their way in until they could see the very place that the station-keeper had described to them as being a suitable camping-ground. Five minutes more would take them to its shelter. Just then Sumner shouted to Worth, and drew his attention to a strange craft that he had been watching for several minutes. It was coming out of the cut, running dead before the wind, but yawing and gybing in a manner that indicated either utter recklessness or absolute ignorance on the part of its crew. The two canoes were so close together that Worth could hear Sumner plainly as he shouted: "It's an Indian canoe, and apparently unmanageable. I'm going to up sail and run down for a look at it. Do you paddle in to shore, and be out of harm's way before that squall bursts." "Oh, Sumner, don't run any risks!" shouted Worth. "All right, I'll be careful. But you'll make things a great deal easier for me if you will start at once for shore. That's a good fellow." So Worth did as his friend desired, and Sumner, hoisting his double-reefed main-sail, bore down on the strange canoe, which would otherwise have passed him at quite a distance. It was going at a tremendous pace, and as the two craft neared each other, Sumner saw to his consternation that the sole occupant of the dugout was a child who stretched out its little arms imploringly towards him. He saw this as the runaway canoe, under full sail, shot across his bow. A tumult of thought flashed through the boy's mind like lightning. He was near enough to land to reach it in safety. That child, if left alone, was rushing to certain destruction. He might be able to rescue it, and he might not. The chances were that he would lose his own life in the attempt. Very well; could he lose it in a better cause? What would his father have done under similar circumstances? That last question was sufficient. There was no longer any room for argument. Even during his moment of hesitation the boy had been loosening the reef-line of his main-sail, and simultaneously with his decision a quick pull at the halyard exposed its full surface to the wind. Over heeled the canoe, with Sumner leaning far out on the weather side. Then her head paid off, and under the influence of the first blast of the squall she sprang away like a frightened animal, in the direction taken by the runaway. That same afternoon a fleet of Indian canoes, containing Ul-we and his companions, had crossed Biscayne Bay from the main-land. Instead of descending the river on which they had left our explorers, they had skirted the edge of the 'Glades to another that flowed into the bay, the secret of which they did not choose to have Lieutenant Carey learn. Although it still lacked a day of new moon, they decided to take advantage of the fair wind, cross the bay, and spend the intervening time in catching and smoking a supply of fish at a point several miles above Cape Florida. In the canoe with Ul-we was his six-year-old brother, the little Ko-wik-a, who was sometimes allowed to hold the sheet while they were sailing, and who considered himself fully competent to manage the boat alone. However, being very wise in some things, he did not say this nor express in words his longing for a chance to prove his skill. He simply waited for an opportunity that was not long in coming. After the Indians had pitched their camp, Ul-we, taking Ko-wik-a with him, went up to the cut to set a net into which fish would run with the flood-tide. Reaching the place, he went into the mangroves to cut some poles, leaving his little brother in the canoe. This was Ko-wik-a's chance, and he was quick to seize it. He would now show Ul-we that if he was little, he could sail a boat. The big brother had hardly disappeared when the little one shoved the canoe out from the mangroves and grasped the sheet in his chubby hands. The sail was already hoisted. He did not try to steer, but the wind and swiftly ebbing tide did that for him. A minute later and he was running out of the cut at racing speed, wholly jubilant over the complete success of his experiment. When he got ready to turn round and go back, he became a little frightened to find out that something more than wishing to do so was necessary. When his craft shot out from the cut, and, leaving the land behind, headed out into an infinitely larger body of water than the little fellow had ever before seen, he became thoroughly demoralized, and began to call loudly for Ul-we. Poor Ul-we had just discovered that both his little brother, whom he loved better than anyone or anything in the world, and his canoe had disappeared, and was rushing frantically towards the outer beach. His instinct told him what had happened, and his one hope was to reach the end of the cut in time to swim off and intercept the runaway. When he did get there it was only in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his own well-known sail far out at sea, with another much whiter and smaller one behind it. Then a cruel squall burst over the ocean. In a cloud of rain and mist, borne forward by the fierce wind, the two sails disappeared and the whole landscape was blotted from view. From a place of safety on the opposite side of the cut, though unseen by Ul-we, Worth Manton strained his eyes for a last glimpse of the _Psyche's_ fluttering signal flag, and the others, rapidly nearing him, wondered at his gesture of despair as it was blotted out. The squall was long and fierce, and by the time it had passed, the darkness of night had shut in and the stars were shining. CHAPTER XXXIX. A BLACK SQUALL AND THE STRANDED STEAMER. Although the _Psyche_ was flying at racing speed dead before the wind, which freshened with each moment, and was rolling frightfully under her press of canvas, she was no match in running for the long dugout of which she was in pursuit. Had the latter been properly trimmed and steered, the light cedar canoe could never have caught it. As it was, Sumner saw that he was gaining, but so slowly that he could not hope to overtake it before being carried miles out to sea. In that weather and with night coming on, this was by no means a cheerful prospect. Still he had no thought of turning back. He had entered upon this race with a full knowledge of its possible consequences, and he would either save the helpless little figure that had appealed to him so imploringly, or perish with it. So the clutch on his deck tiller tightened, and the taut main-sheet held in the other hand was not slackened a single inch, until the hissing rush of the black squall was in his ears. Then the canoe was sharply luffed, the sheet was dropped, the halyard cast off, and the white sail fell to the deck like a broken wing. As it was gathered in and made fast with a turn of the sheet, the squall burst on the stanch little craft and heeled it far over. It offered too little resistance to be capsized, and a minute later, steadied by the double-bladed paddle, it was once more got before the wind and was scudding under bare poles. While doing all this, Sumner had been too busy to look after the object of his pursuit. Now he could not see it, and he almost choked with the thought that his brave effort had been made in vain, after all. No, there it was, close at hand, but no longer showing a sail or flying from him. Heeling over before the blast, its long boom had been thrust into the water, and in an instant the slender craft had been upset. Now, full of water, it floated on one side like a log. At first, Sumner failed to see its tiny occupant, and the thought that he had been drowned almost within reach was a bitter one. But no. Hurrah! There he is! With head just above the water, and chubby hands clutching at the slippery sides of his craft, the plucky little chap was still fighting for life. As the _Psyche_ swept alongside, steered to a nicety, Sumner reached out, and, nearly overturning his canoe by the effort, caught the little fellow by an arm. The water was pouring in over the cockpit coaming, and had the child been a pound heavier, the next instant would have seen two helplessly drifting canoes instead of one. As it was, he was hauled in and safely deposited in the inch or more of water that swashed above the cockpit floor. With infinite self-possession the child smiled up into the face of his rescuer and lisped: "How, Sumner!" Then the boy recognized the little Ko-wik-a, whose acquaintance he had made in Ul-we's camp, and as a relief to his own overstrained nerves, called him a little imp, and abused him roundly for getting them into such a scrape. At the same time tears stood in his eyes, and he could have hugged the child cuddling between his knees and smiling so confidingly in his face. [Illustration: SUMNER RESCUES KO-WIK-A.] Though the rescue of Ko-wik-a had been so happily accomplished, they were still in a sad plight--driving out to sea in an egg-shell, with no chance of battling back against the tempest, and the darkness of night enshrouding them. With each moment the storm-lashed waves were mounting higher. All Sumner's skill was required to prevent the canoe from broaching to and turning over. How much longer would his strength hold out? Already he felt it failing. He would soon become exhausted, and then-- Hark! What was that? The note of a steam-whistle? Yes, and another, and still others, struggling back hoarsely against the wind. Then a light twinkled through the darkness, and directly other lights were outlining a huge black shape right in their track. Sumner remembered the steamer he had seen just before parting from Worth. Could this be she? What was she doing there, apparently at anchor? Driving under her stern, a few minutes' hard paddling brought the canoe into the quiet calm of the towering lee. Then Sumner shouted again and again, but the voice of the ship calling for aid in her own distress drowned his cries. After a while the whistle notes ceased, and he shouted again. This time he was heard, and an answering hail came from the deck high above him, "Who is it, and where are you?" Sumner answered, and in a few minutes a port low down in the ship's side was flung open, and a flood of light poured from it. Two ropes were lowered, and Sumner getting the bights under the bow and stern of his canoe, it, with its occupants, was lifted to the level of the open port. Strong arms first received the little Ko-wik-a, and then helped the young canoeman aboard the steamer. "Where is your vessel?" demanded the captain, who was among those assembled to witness this unexpected arrival. "There," answered Sumner, pointing to the _Psyche_. "You don't mean to say that you are navigating the ocean in that cockle-shell?" "Yes, I do; though I don't expect I should have navigated it much longer if I hadn't fallen in with you just as I did. How do you happen to be at anchor here, and what were you whistling for?" "We are not at anchor. We are aground, and I was blowing the whistle in the hope of attracting some vessel or vessels, into which we could lighter our cargo. Now I suppose I shall have to throw it overboard." "What for?" asked Sumner. "With this offshore wind there won't be any heavy sea, and unless you have stove a hole in her bottom she ought to float with the flood-tide." "Flood-tide! Isn't it the top of the flood now?" exclaimed the captain. "No; it's the very last of the ebb, and the flood will give you a couple of feet more water." "Are you certain of that?" "Certain." "Then you are a trump!" cried the captain. "And I'm away out of my reckoning, somehow. Your coming just as you have has undoubtedly saved my cargo, for I should have begun heaving it overboard by this time. You see, I was hugging the coast to escape the force of the Gulf as much as possible, but was keeping a sharp lookout for the red buoy that marks the end of the reef. I can't imagine how we missed it, unless it has gone; but we did, and when Fowey was lighted, I saw that we were too close in shore. I didn't know that we were inside of the reef; but we struck within five minutes after I altered her course, and that was nearly half an hour ago. We don't seem to have hit very hard, and she lies easy without making any water; but she's here to stay, unless, as you say, the flood-tide will lift her off. You are certain that this is the last of the ebb?" "As certain as that I am standing here," answered Sumner, who had a very distinct recollection of how the current had rushed out through the cut. "Then let us go up into my room and have some supper. There you can tell me how you happened to be out here in such weather with a pickaninny aboard while we wait for the tide." How safe and comfortable the great ship seemed, after that wild race to sea in a canoe! How the captain and mates and passengers marvelled at Sumner's adventures, and what a pet they all made of little Ko-wik-a. As for that self-possessed young Indian, he accepted all the attentions lavished upon him in the most matter-of-fact manner, and with the utmost composure. He expressed no surprise at anything he saw; but his keen little eyes studied all the details of his novel surroundings, and he stored away scraps of startling information with which to astonish his young Everglade comrades for many a day. The squall passed and the sea smoothed out its wrinkles soon after the crew of the _Psyche_ came aboard, and shortly before midnight the rising tide lifted the great ship gently off the reef. She was backed to a safe distance from it, and there anchored to await the coming of daylight. Knowing what anxiety his friends and Ko-wik-a's friends must be suffering on their account, Sumner determined to return to them at the earliest possible moment. The first signs of dawn, therefore, found the _Psyche_, with her crew and passenger, once more afloat. A hearty cheer followed the brave little craft as she glided away from the great ship, and in less than an hour she was paddled gently up to where the other canoes and the cruiser lay on the beach. It had been a sad night to the inmates of that lonely camp, and most of its long hours had been spent in a fruitless watching for the return of the well-loved lad, whom most of them had such slight hopes of ever again seeing. Only Worth had faith, and declared that while he did not know how Sumner would manage it, he was confident that he would turn up again all right somehow. Towards morning their anxiety found relief in a troubled sleep, and as Sumner walked into the camp there was none to greet him or note his coming. "Hello, in the camp!" he shouted. "Here it is almost sunrise and no breakfast ready yet!" No surprise could be more complete or more joyful than that. Worth was the first to spring to his feet. "He's come back safe and sound!" he shouted. "Oh, Sumner, I knew you would! I was sure of it, and told them so!" "The next time I let you away from my side it will only be at the end of a long rope, you young rascal, you!" said the Lieutenant, after the extravagant joy of the first greeting had somewhat subsided. After an unusually late and happy breakfast, they sailed through the cut and into the beautiful bay to which it led. They soon discovered the camp to which Ko-wik-a belonged, and the canoe that had rescued him had the honor of bearing him to it. He was received with a wondering joy that was none the less real for its lack of extravagant manifestation. As Ul-we took the child from Sumner's arms, he turned his face away to hide the emotion that would be unbecoming in an Indian and a warrior. It was there, however, and the look of intense gratitude that he gave the boy was more expressive than any words that he could have uttered. Then the Indians broke their camp, and they and the whites sailed away together to the appointed rendezvous on Cape Florida. CHAPTER XL. THE HAPPY ENDING OF THE CRUISE. On their entire cruise our young canoemates had not enjoyed a day's run so much as they did this one in company with the Indians who had crossed the Everglades with them, but of whom they had seen so little. The wind was so fair that the boats without centre-boards could sail as well as those with, and the run was a series of match races, of which the _Psyche_ and _Cupid_ were winners in nearly every case. As Ul-we's canoe had been lost the night before, the Lieutenant invited both him and the little Ko-wik-a to a sail in the _Hu-la-lah_, and even the self-contained young Indian was compelled to express his admiration of the graceful craft. When he ventured to ask what such a canoe would cost, and the price was named, his face indicated his despair at ever being able to accumulate such a sum, and he murmured: "Heap money! Injun no get um." At Cape Florida, while the camps were being pitched but a short distance from each other, the boys went with Ul-we to set another fish-trap, such as he had been about to prepare when Ko-wik-a ran away with his canoe the day before. The little fellow went with them, but he no longer showed any inclination to go sailing on his own hook. After Ul-we had fixed his trap they went over to a submerged bank that extends southward several miles from the cape. Here, while the boys waded in the shoal water collecting sea porcupines, urchins, tiny squids, bits of live coral, and numberless other marine curiosities, Ul-we was busy gathering and throwing into his canoe a quantity of big greenish shells that looked like so many rocks. When they were ready to go back, and Sumner saw this novel cargo, he exclaimed: "Good! Now we will have some conch soup for dinner!" "How do you know?" asked Worth. "Because here are the conchs, and Ul-we has enough for all of us." "Those things!" cried Worth, in a tone of disgust. "You surely don't mean that they are good to eat?" "Yes, I do," laughed Sumner, picking up one of the shells and showing Worth the white meat with which its exquisitely pink interior was filled. "I mean that these fellows can be made into the very best soup I know of." "Seems to me I have seen that kind of a shell before," said Worth, "but I never knew that any one ever ate their contents." "Of course you have seen the shells. You will find them in half the farm-houses of the country, where, with the point of the small end cut off, they are used as dinner horns. As for the eating part, you wait till Quorum gives you a chance to test it this evening. If you don't find it fully as good as sofkee, then I shall be mistaken." The boys had been greatly disappointed at not finding either the Mantons' yacht nor the _Transit_ awaiting them at the cape. Several times in the course of the afternoon they climbed to the top of an abandoned light-house tower near their camp, in the hope of sighting a sail bound in that direction. As they did so just before sunset, they saw several far over towards the main-land, but they were too distant for their character to be distinguished. Never had they seen anything so exquisitely beautiful or so royally gorgeous as that Southern sunset, and they lingered at the top of the tower until the last of its marvellous flame tints had burned out, and the delicate crescent of the new moon was sinking into the 'Glades behind the distant pine-trees of the main-land. At supper time Worth was introduced to conch soup, and he agreed with Sumner that it was fully equal to sofkee. After supper the boys strolled over to the Indian camp, to which Lieutenant Carey was attracted soon afterwards by their shouts of laughter. He did not recognize the boys until they spoke to him, for they had persuaded Ul-we to array them as he had after the forest fire, and they were now in full Indian costume. In the mean time the distant sails that they had sighted from the top of the old tower had been running across the bay before a brisk breeze, and two vessels had quietly come to anchor just inside the cape. The glow of the camp-fires could be seen from these, and from one of them a boat containing several persons pulled in to the beach. A minute later two gentlemen, whose footsteps were unheard in the sand, stood on the edge of the circle of firelight, and one of them said to the other, in a low and disappointed tone: "It's only an Indian camp after all, Tracy." "So it is," replied the other, regretfully. "Still, they may be able to give us some news. Let's go in and inquire." At that moment the attention of the Indians was equally divided between Sumner, who was apparently accumulating a fortune by taking half-dollars from little Ko-wik-a's mouth and ears, and Worth, who was attempting to dance what he called a clog with Indian variations, to the music of Lieutenant Carey's whistle. Suddenly little Ko-wik-a, who was nervously excited over Sumner's wonderful performance, uttered a startled cry and sprang to one side, staring into the darkness. All the others looked in the same direction, and probably the dignified Mr. Manton was never more surprised in his life than when a young Indian bounded to his side, flung his arms about his neck, and called him "Dear father!" His brother was equally amazed when another young Indian sprang to where he was standing, seized his hand, and called him "Mr. Tracy!" When they discovered, by their voices and by what they were incoherently saying, that these young Indians were not Indians at all, but the very boys of whom they were in search, tanned to the color of mahogany, and dressed in borrowed finery, the surprise and delight of the two gentlemen can better be imagined than described. "Is it possible," cried Mr. Manton, holding Worth off at arm's-length so that the firelight shone full upon him, "that this can be the pale-faced chap with a cough who left me in St. Augustine a couple of months ago? Why, son, you've grown an inch taller and, I should say, six in breadth!" Then, turning to the other boy, and scanning his features closely, he added: "And is this Sumner Rankin, the son of my old schoolmate Rankin, whom I lost sight of after he went into the navy? My boy, for your father's sake, and for the sake of what you have done for Worth this winter, I want you hereafter to regard me as a father, and continue to act as this boy's elder brother. Ever since Tracy told me of you I have been almost as impatient to meet you as to rejoin Worth, for as schoolmates your father and I were as dear to each other as own brothers." While this joyful meeting was taking place, a boat from the _Transit_ had come ashore, and Ensign Sloe was reporting to Lieutenant Carey. Then the whole party had to sit down where they were, and, surrounded by the grave-faced Indians, tell and listen to as much of the past two months' experience as could be crowded into as many hours. The Mantons were charmed with Lieutenant Carey, and he with them, while towards Ul-we their gratitude was unbounded. Old Quorum, too, was introduced, and warmly thanked for his fidelity to the young canoemates. [Illustration: THE SURPRISE AND DELIGHT OF THE TWO GENTLEMEN CAN BE BETTER IMAGINED THAN DESCRIBED.] Before the schooners sailed for Key West, which they did the next day, Lieutenant Carey presented Ul-we with the _Hu-la-lah_, and Worth gave him the handsomest rifle in his father's collection, besides promising to send little Ko-wik-a a light canoe for his very own. Mr. Manton and Uncle Tracy between them not only purchased from the Indians, at fabulous prices, the costumes in which they found the boys, but everything else they could think of that would aid in reproducing their present appearance and surroundings for the benefit of their Northern friends. The properties they thus acquired included bear, wolf, panther, and deer skins, and even a sofkee kettle with its great wooden spoon. Besides this, they and the Lieutenant so loaded the Indian canoes with provisions, tobacco, cartridges for their rifles and shot-guns, and other useful things, that this occasion formed a theme for conversation about every camp-fire throughout the length and breadth of the Everglades for many a long day. Should Lieutenant Carey and his party ever care to penetrate those wilds again, they will be certain of a hearty welcome, and of being allowed to go where they please. Then the two yachts set sail for their run down the reef to Key West, where another joyful greeting awaited the young canoemates. Before the Mantons left there, it was arranged that Mrs. Rankin should dispose of her Key West home as soon as possible, and sail for New York, where Mr. Manton said he had a cosey little house waiting for just such tenants as herself and Sumner. "Be sure and come as quickly as you can," he said, "for I want my new boy to design and build me a yacht this summer for next winter's cruising." "I shall need one too," added Uncle Tracy, "and I think I know of several more that will be wanted." "Don't forget to bring the _Psyche_ with you, Sumner!" shouted Worth, the last thing. "As if I would!" answered Sumner. "Whatever boats I may own, I will never part with that dear canoe so long as I live." That evening, as the boy and his mother sat discussing their pleasant prospects for the future, Sumner said: "Well, mother, I have learned one thing from the past two months' experience, and that is that wealthy people can be just as kind and considerate, and may be as dearly loved, as poor ones. I didn't believe it at one time, but now I know it." * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected. Archaic, dialect and alternative spelling has been retained. Blank pages facing illustrations have been removed. Emphasised text is shown thus: _italics_ =bold= 
41136	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. On page 169, "household gods" should possibly be "household goods". On page 320, "spice of her mind" should possibly be "piece of her mind". A PLUCKY GIRL BY MRS. L. T. MEADE AUTHOR OF "CECELIA'S AWAKENING," "PEGGY FROM KERRY," "FOR DEAR DAD," "A WILD IRISH GIRL," "A GIRL OF HIGH ADVENTURE," "THE CHESTERTON GIRL GRADUATES," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1900, by George W. Jacobs & Co. Contents CHAP PAGE I. FORTUNE'S BALL 1 II. FRIENDS OR QUONDAM FRIENDS 9 III. MY SCHEME 23 IV. THE VERDICT 31 V. JANE MULLINS 55 VI. THE BERLIN WOOL ROOM 74 VII. THE PAYING GUESTS 83 VIII. THE FLOUR IN THE CAKE 96 IX. THE ARTIST'S EYE 103 X. HER GRACE OF WILMOT 116 XI. WHY DID HE DO IT? 132 XII. TWO EXTREMES 147 XIII. THE UGLY DRESS 160 XIV. ANXIETY 176 XV. DR. READE 186 XVI. GIVE ME YOUR PROMISE 199 XVII. A DASH OF ONIONS 207 XVIII. BUTTERED BREAD 222 XIX. YOU USED TO LOVE US 234 XX. RUINED 242 XXI. MR. PATTENS 250 XXII. THE MAN IN POSSESSION 262 XXIII. ALBERT 273 XXIV. THE BOND 297 XXV. YOU ARE A GOOD MAN 311 XXVI. HAND IN HAND 319 XXVII. TOO LATE 324 XXVIII. THIS DEAR GIRL BELONGS TO US 336 XXIX. HAVE I LOST YOU? 345 XXX. THE DUCHESS HAS HER SAY 356 XXXI. THE END CROWNS ALL 368 A PLUCKY GIRL CHAPTER I FORTUNE'S BALL I was born a month after my father's death, and my mother called me after him. His name was John Westenra Wickham, but I was Westenra Wickham alone. It was a strange name for a girl, and as I grew up people used to comment on it. Mother loved it very much, and always pronounced it slowly. She was devoted to father, and never spoke of him as most people do of their dead, but as if he were still living, and close to her and to me. When a very little child, my greatest treat was to sit on her knee and listen to wonderful stories of my brave and gallant father. He was a handsome man and a good man, and he must have possessed, in a large degree, those qualities which endear people to their fellows, for surely it was no light cause which made my mother's beautiful brown eyes sparkle as they did when she spoke of him, and her whole face awake to the tenderest life and love and beauty when she mentioned his name. I grew up, therefore, with a great passionate affection for my dead father, and a great pride in his memory. He had been a Major-General in a Lancer regiment, and had fought many battles for his country, and led his men through untold dangers, and performed himself more gallant feats than I could count. He received his fatal wound at last in rescuing a brother-officer under fire in Zululand, and one of the last things he was told was that he had received his Victoria Cross. During my father's lifetime mother and he were well off, and for some years after his death there did not appear to be any lack of money. I was well educated, partly in Paris and partly in London, and we had a pretty house in Mayfair, and when I was eighteen I was presented to Her Gracious Majesty by mother's special friend, and my godmother, the Duchess of Wilmot, and afterwards I went a great deal into society, and enjoyed myself as much as most girls who are spirited and happy and have kind friends are likely to do. I was quite one and twenty before the collapse came which changed everything. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but our gold vanished like a dream, and we found ourselves almost penniless. "Now what are we to do, Westenra?" said mother. "But have we nothing?" I replied. "Only my pension as your dear father's widow. Your pension as his child ceased when you came of age, and I believe, for so our lawyers tell me, that there is about fifty pounds besides. I think we can count on a hundred and fifty a year. Can we live on that sum, Westenra?" "No," I answered proudly. I was standing behind one of the silk curtains in the drawing-room as I spoke. I was looking down into the street. The room was full of luxury, and the people who passed backwards and forwards in their luxurious carriages in the street below were many of them our friends, and all more or less moved in what was called nice society. I was full of quite unholy pride at that moment, and poverty was extremely distasteful, and to live on a hundred and fifty pounds a year seemed more than impossible. "What is it, West? What are you thinking of?" said mother, in a sad voice. "Oh, too many things to utter," I replied. "We can't live on the sum you mention. Why, a curate's wife could scarcely manage on it." "Don't you think we might just contrive in a very small cottage in the country?" pleaded mother. "I don't want much, just flowers round me and the country air, and your company, darling, and--and--oh, very small rooms would do, and the furniture of this house is ours. We could sell most of it, and send what we liked best down to the cottage." "It can't be done," I answered. "Listen, mother, I have a proposal to make." "What is it, my darling? Don't stand so far away--come and sit near me." I walked gravely across the room, but I did not sit down. I stood before mother with my hands tightly locked together, and my eyes fastened on her dear, lovely, delicate old face. "I am glad that the furniture is ours," I began. "Of course it is." "It is excellent furniture," I continued, looking round and appraising it quickly in my mind's eye: "it shall be part of our capital." "My dear child, our capital? What do you mean?" "We will take a house in Bloomsbury, put the furniture in, and have paying guests." "West, are you mad? Do you remember who I am--Mrs. Wickham, the widow of--or no, I never will allow that word--the wife of your dear, dear, noble father." "Father would approve of this," I answered. "He was a brave man and died fighting, just as I mean to die fighting. You are shocked at the idea to-night, mother, because it is fresh to you, but in a week's time you will grow accustomed to it, you will take an interest in it, you will even like it. I, bury myself in the country and starve!--no, no, no, I could not do it. Mother, darling, I am your slave, your devoted slave, your own most loving girl, but don't, don't ask me to vegetate in the country. It would kill me--it would kill me." I had dropped on my knees now and taken both her hands in mine, and I spoke with great excitement, and even passion. "Don't stir for a moment," said mother; "how like your father you look! Just the same eyes, and that straight sort of forehead, and the same expression round your lips. If your father were alive he would love you for being brave." As mother looked at me I think she forgot for the moment the terrible plunge we were about to make into the work-a-day strata of society, but the next instant the horrid fact was brought back to her, for Paul, our pretty little page, brought in a sheaf of letters on a salver. Of course they were unpaid bills. Mother said sadly-- "Put them with the others, Westenra." "All these bills must be met," I said stoutly, after Paul had closed the door behind him. "There will be just enough money for that purpose, so we need not start handicapped. For my part, I mean to enjoy our scheme vastly." "But, my child, you do not realise--you will be stepping down from the position in which you were born. Our friends will have nothing to do with us." "If they wish to give us up because we do something plucky they are not worthy to be called friends," was my reply. "I don't believe those friends we wish to keep will desert us, mother. On the contrary, I am certain they will respect us. What people cannot stand in these days is genteel poverty--its semi-starvation, its poor mean little contrivances; but they respect a hand-to-hand fight with circumstances, and when they see that we are determined to overcome in the battle, then those who are worth keeping will cling to us and help us; and if all our friends turn out to be the other sort, mother, why"--and here I rose and stretched out my arms wide--"let them go, they are not worth keeping. Those who won't be fond of us in our new home in Bloomsbury we can do without." "You are enthusiastic and--and ignorant," said mother. "I grant that I am enthusiastic," I answered. "It would be a great pity if I had none of that quality at one and twenty; but as to my ignorance, well, time will prove. I should like, however, to ask you a straight question, mother. Would father have sat beside his guns and done nothing when the fight was going against him? Was that the way he won his Victoria Cross?" Mother burst out crying. She never could bear me to allude to that fatal and yet glorious occasion. She rose now, weak and trembling, and said that she must defer the discussion of ways and means until the next day. I put on my hat and went for a walk alone. I was full of hope, and not at all depressed. Girls in these days are always glad to have something new to do, and in the first rush of it, the idea of leaving the humdrum path of ordinary society and of entering on a new and vigorous career filled me with ecstacy. I don't really think in the whole of London there was a prouder girl than the real Westenra Wickham; but I do not think I had ordinary pride. To know titled people gave me no special pleasure, and gay and pretty dresses were so common with me that I regarded them as the merest incidents in my life, and to be seen at big receptions, and at those "At Homes" where you met the most fastidious and the smartest folks, gave me no joy whatsoever. It is true I was very fond of my godmother, the Duchess of Wilmot, and of another dear little American friend, who had married a member of the Cabinet, Sir Henry Thesiger. But beyond these two I was singularly free from any special attachments. The fact is, I was in love with mother. Mother herself seemed to fill all my life. I felt somehow as if father had put some of his spirit into me, and had bound me over by a solemn vow to look after her, to comfort her, to guard her, until he himself came to fetch her, and now my thought of thoughts was how splendid and how necessary it would be to keep her usual comforts round my dainty, darling, lovely mother, to give her the food she required, and the comfortable rooms and the luxury to which she was born; and I felt that my pride, if I could really do that, would be so great and exultant, that I should hold my head higher than ever in the air. Yes, I would have a downright good try, and I vowed I would not fail. It seemed to me as I turned home again in the sweet golden summer evening that fortune's ball lay at my feet, that in the battle I would not be conquered, that like my father I in my own way would win the Victoria Cross. CHAPTER II FRIENDS OR QUONDAM FRIENDS Mother used to say that there were times when her daughter Westenra swept her right off her feet. "I can no more resist you," she used to remark on these occasions, "than if you were a great flood bearing me along." Perhaps never did mother find my power so strong, so determined as on the present occasion. It was in vain for her, poor darling, to speak of our friends, of those dear, nice, good people who had loved father and for his sake were good to his widow. I had my answer ready. "It is just this, mother," I said, "what we do will cause a gleaning--a sifting--amongst our friends. Those who are worth keeping will stay with us, those who are not worth keeping will leave us. And now do you know what I mean to do? I mean this morning, with your leave, to order the carriage, the carriage which we must put down at the end of the week, but which we can certainly keep for the next couple of days, and go round to our friends and tell them what we are about to do." "You must go alone then, Westenra, for I cannot go with you." "Just as you please, mother. I would rather you had the courage; but still, never mind, darling, I will do it by myself." Mother looked at me in despair. "How old are you?" she said suddenly. "You know quite well," I replied, "I was twenty-one a month ago." Mother shook her head sadly. "If you really intend to carry out this awful idea, West, you must consider youth a thing of the past," she said. I smiled and patted her cheek. "Nothing of the sort," I answered; "I mean to be young and vigorous and buoyant and hopeful as long as I have you with me, so there! Now, may I ring the bell and tell Paul to desire Jenkins to bring the victoria round at eleven o'clock?" Mother could not refuse, and having executed this order I sat down with considerable appetite to breakfast. I was really enjoying myself vastly. Punctual to the hour, I stepped into our pretty carriage. First of all I would visit my dear old godmother, the Duchess of Wilmot. Accordingly, early as it was, I told Jenkins to drive me to the Duchess's house in Park Lane. When we drew up at the house I jumped out, ran up the steps and sounded the bell. The man who opened the door informed me that her Grace was at home to no one at so early an hour. I thought for a moment, then I scribbled something on a little piece of paper. "Dear Duchess," I said, "I want to see you particularly, the matter is very urgent.--Your god-daughter, WESTENRA WICKHAM." This I twisted up and gave to the man. "Give that to her Grace, I will wait to see if there is an answer," I said. He came down in a moment or two. "Her Grace will see you, Miss Wickham," he said. I entered the house, and following the footman up some winding stairs and down some corridors, I was shown into the small boudoir where the Duchess generally sat in the morning. She was fully dressed, and busily writing notes. "That will do, Hartop," she said to the man; "close the door, please. Now then, Westenra, what is the meaning of this? What eccentric whim has induced you to visit me at so early an hour?" "I wanted to tell you something," I said; "mother is awfully distressed, but I thought you had better know." "How queer you look, my child, and yet I seldom saw you brighter or handsomer. Take off your hat and sit near me. No, I am not specially busy. Is it about the Russells' reception? Oh, I can take you if your mother is not strong enough. You want to consult me over your dress? Oh, my dear Westenra, you must wear----" "It has nothing to do with that," I interrupted. "Please let me speak. I want to say something so badly. I want to consult you." "Of course," said her Grace. She laid her jewelled hand on my arm. How I loved that white hand! How I adored my beautiful old friend! It would be painful to give her up. Was she going to give me up? "I will tell you something quite frankly," I said. "I love you very much; you have always been kind to me." "I am your godmother, don't forget." "A great trouble has come to us." "A great trouble, my dear, what do you mean?" "Mother thinks it a fearful trouble, and I suppose it is, but anyhow there are two ways of taking it. There is the sinking-down way, which means getting small and poor and thin, anaemic, in short, and there is the bold way, the sort of way when you stand up to a thing, you know what I mean." "You are talking school-boy language. My grandson Ralph would understand you; he is here; do you want to see him? I am a little too busy for riddles, Westenra." "Oh! I do beg your pardon. I know I am taking a great liberty: no one else would come to you at so early an hour." "Well, speak, my dear." "We have lost our money." "Lost your money!" cried the Duchess. "Yes; everything, or nearly everything. It was through some bad investments, and mother was not at all to blame. But we have nothing left, or nearly nothing--I mean we have a hundred and fifty a-year, about the price of one of your dresses." "Don't be personal, Westenra--proceed." "Mother wants to live in a cottage in the country." "I do not see how she could possibly do it," said the Duchess. "A cottage in the country! Why, on that pittance she could scarcely afford a workman's cottage, but I will speak to my friends; something must be arranged immediately. Your dear, lovely, fragile mother! We must get her a suite of apartments at Hampton Court. Oh! my poor child, this is terrible." "But we do not choose to consider it terrible," I replied, "nor will we be beholden to the charity of our friends. Now, here is the gist of the matter. I have urged mother to take a house in Bloomsbury." "Bloomsbury?" said the Duchess a little vaguely. "Oh, please Duchess, you must know. Bloomsbury is a very nice, healthy part of the town. There are big Squares and big houses; the British Museum is there--now, you know." "Oh, of course, that dreary pile, and you would live close to it. But why, why? Is it a very cheap neighbourhood?" "By no means; but city men find it convenient, and women who work for their living like it also, and country folks who come to town for a short time find it a good centre. So we mean to go there, and--and make money. We will take our furniture and make the house attractive and--and take paying guests. We will keep a boarding-house. Now you know." I stood up. There was a wild excited feeling all over me. The most daring flight of imagination could never associate the gracious Duchess of Wilmot with a lodging-house keeper, and mother had always hitherto been the Duchess's equal. I had never before felt _distrait_ or nervous in the Duchess's presence, but now I knew that there was a gulf between us--that I stood on one side of the gulf and the Duchess on the other. I stretched out my hands imploringly. "I know you will never speak to me again, you never can, it is not to be thought of. This is good-bye, for we must do it. I see you understand. Mother said that it would part us from our friends, and I thought she was wrong, but I see now that she was right. This is good-bye." Before she could prevent me I dropped on my knees and raised the jewelled hand to my lips, and kissed it passionately. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Westenra," said the Duchess then, "don't go into hysterics, nor talk in that wild way. Sit down again quietly, dear, and tell me what sort of person is a boarding-house keeper." Her tone made me smile, and relieved the tension. "Don't you really know?" I asked; "did you never hear of people who take paying guests? They swarm at the seaside, and charge exorbitant prices." "Oh, and rob you right and left," said the Duchess; "yes, my friends have told me of such places. As a rule I go to hotels by preference, but do you mean, Westenra, that your mother is going to live in apartments for the future?" "No, no," I answered wildly; "she will have a house, and she and I, both of us, will fill it with what they call paying guests. People will come and live with us, and pay us so much a week, and we will provide rooms for them, and food for them, and they will sit with us in the drawing-room and, and--_perhaps_ we will have to amuse them a little." The Duchess sank feebly back in her chair. She looked me all over. "Was there ever?" she asked, "I scarcely like to ask, but was there ever any trace of insanity in your family?" "I have never heard that there was," I replied. "It is certainly not developing in me. I have always been renowned for my common sense, and it is coming well to the fore now." "My poor child," said the Duchess tenderly. She drew me close to her. "You are a very ignorant little girl, Westenra," she said, "but I have always taken a deep interest in you. You are young, but you have a good deal in your face--you are not exactly pretty, but you have both intelligence and, what is more important from my point of view, distinction in your bearing. Your father was my dear and personal friend. The man he rescued, at the cost of his own life, was my relation. I have known your mother too since we were both girls, and when she asked me, after your dear father's death, to stand sponsor to his child I could not refuse. But now, what confused rigmarole are you bringing to my ears? When did the first symptoms of this extraordinary craze begin?" "A fortnight ago," I answered, "when the news came that our money, on which we had been living in great peace and comfort, had suddenly vanished. The investments were not sound, and one of the trustees was responsible. You ought to blame him, and be very angry with him, but please don't blame me. I am only doing the best I can under most adverse circumstances. If mother and I went to the country we should both die, not, perhaps, of physical starvation, but certainly of that starvation which contracts both the mind and soul. It would not matter at all doing without cream and meat, you know, and----" "Oh dear," interrupted the Duchess, "I never felt more bewildered in my life. Whatever goes wrong, Westenra, people have to live, and now you speak of doing without the necessaries of life." "Meat and cream are not necessary to keep one alive," I replied; "but of course you have never known the sort of people who do without them. I should certainly be hand and glove with them if I went into the country, but in all probability in the boarding-house in Bloomsbury we shall be able to have good meals. Now I must really say good-bye. Try and remember sometimes that I am your god-daughter ... and that mother loves you very much. Don't _quite_ give us both up--that is, as far as your memory is concerned." The Duchess bustled to her feet. "I can't make you out a bit," she said. "Your head has gone wrong, that is the long and short of it, but your mother will explain things. Stay to lunch with me, Westenra, and afterwards we will go and have a talk with your mother. I can either send her a telegram or a note." "Oh, I cannot possibly wait," I replied. "I drove here to-day, but we must give up the carriage at the end of the week, and I have other people to see. I must go immediately to Lady Thesiger. You know what a dear little Yankee she is, and so wise and sensible." "She is a pretty woman," said the Duchess, frowning slightly, "but she does not dress well. Her clothes don't look as if they grew on her. Now you have a very lissom figure, dear; it always seems to be alive, but _have_ I heard you aright? You are going to live in apartments. No; you are going into the country to a labourer's cottage--no, no, it isn't that; you are going to let apartments to people, and they are not to have either cream or meat. They won't stay long, that is one comfort. My poor child, we must get you over this craze. Dr. Paget shall see you. It is impossible that such a mad scheme should be allowed for a moment." "One thing is certain, she does not take it in, poor darling," I said to myself. "You are very kind, Duchess," I said aloud, "and I love you better than I ever loved you before," and then I kissed her hand again and ran out of the room. The last thing I saw of her round, good-humoured face, was the pallor on her cheeks and the tears in her eyes. Lady Thesiger lived in a large flat overlooking Kensington Gardens. She was not up when I called, but I boldly sent my name in; I was told that her ladyship would see me in her bathroom. I found her reclining on a low sofa, while a pretty girl was massaging her face. "Is that you, Westenra?" she said; "I am charmed to see you. Take off your hat. That will do, Allison; you can come back in half-an-hour. I want to be dressed in time for lunch." The young woman withdrew, and Lady Thesiger fixed her languid, heavily-fringed eyes on my face. "You might shut that window, Westenra," she said, "that is, if you mean to be good-natured. Now what is it? you look quite excited." "I am out of bondage, that is all," I said. I never treated Jasmine with respect, and she was a power in her way, but she was little older than I, and we had often romped together on rainy days, and had confided our secrets one to the other. "Out of bondage? Does that mean that you are engaged?" "Far from it; an engagement would probably be a state of bondage. Now listen, you are going to be awfully shocked, but if you are the good soul I think you are, you ought to help me." "Oh, I am sure I will do anything; I admire you very much, child. Dear me, Westenra, is that a new way of doing your hair? Let me see. Show me your profile? I am not sure whether I quite like it. Yes, on the whole, I think I do. You have pretty hair, very pretty, but now, confess the truth, you do wave it; all those little curls and tendrils are not natural." "As I love you, Jasmine, they are," I replied. "But oh, don't waste time now over my personal appearance. What do you think of my physical strength? Am I well made?" "So-so," answered Lady Thesiger, opening her big dark eyes and gazing at me from top to toe. "I should say you were strong. Your shoulders are just a trifle too broad, and sometimes I think you are a little too tall, but of course I admire you immensely. You ought to make a good marriage; you ought to be a power in society." "From this hour, Jasmine," I said, "society and I are at daggers drawn. I am going to do that sort of thing which society never forgives." "Oh, my dear, what?" Lady Thesiger quite roused herself. She forgot her languid attitude, and sat up on her elbow. "Do pass me that box of Fuller's chocolates," she said. "Come near and help yourself; they are delicious, aren't they?" I took one of the sweetmeats. "Now then," said her ladyship, "speak." "It is this. I must tell you as briefly as possible--mother and I have lost our money." "Oh, dear," said the little lady, "what a pity that so many people do lose their money--nice people, charming people who want it so much; but if that is all, it is rather fashionable to be poor. I was told so the other day. Some one will adopt you, dear; your mother will go into one of the refined order of almshouses. It is quite the fashion, you know, quite." "Don't talk nonsense," I said, and all the pride which I had inherited from my father came into my voice. "You may think that mother and I are low down, but we are not low enough to accept charity. We are going to put our shoulders to the wheel; we are going to solve the problem of how the poor live. We will work, for to beg we are ashamed. In short, Jasmine, this diatribe of mine leads up to the fact that we are going to start a boarding-house. Now you have the truth, Jasmine. We expect to have charming people to live with us, and to keep a large luxurious house, and to retrieve our lost fortune. Our quondam friends will of course have nothing to do with us, but our real friends will respect us. I have come here this morning to ask you a solemn question. Do you mean in the future to consider Westenra Wickham, the owner of a boarding-house, your friend? If not, say so at once. I want in this case to cut the Gordian knot quickly. Every single friend I have shall be told of mother's and my determination before long; the Duchess knows already." "The Duchess of Wilmot?" said Lady Thesiger with a sort of gasp. She was sitting up on the sofa; there was a flush on each cheek, and her eyes were very bright. "And what did the Duchess say, Westenra?" "She thinks I am mad." "I agree with her. My poor child. Do let me feel your forehead. Are you feverish? Is it influenza, or a real attack of insanity?" "It is an attack of downright common-sense," I replied. I rose as I spoke. "I have told you, Jasmine," I said, "and now I will leave you to ponder over my tidings. You can be my friend in the future and help me considerably, or you can cut me, just as you please. As to me, I feel intensely pleased and excited. I never felt so full of go and energy in my life. I am going to do that which will prevent mother feeling the pinch of poverty, and I can tell you that such a deed is worth hundreds of 'At Homes' and receptions and flirtations. Why, Jasmine, yesterday I was nobody--only a London girl trying to kill time by wasting money; but from this out I am somebody. I am a bread-winner, a labourer in the market. Now, good-bye. You will realise the truth of my words presently. But I won't kiss you, for if you decide to cut me you might be ashamed of it." CHAPTER III MY SCHEME I arrived home early in the afternoon. "Dear mother," I said, "I had an interview with the Duchess of Wilmot and with Lady Thesiger. After seeing them both, I had not the heart to go on to any more of our friends. I will describe my interview presently, but I must talk on another matter now. Our undertaking will be greatly prospered if our friends will stick to us and help us a little. If, on the other hand, we are not to depend on them, the sooner we know it the better." "What do you mean?" asked my mother. "Well, of course, mother dear, we will have our boarding-house. I have thought of the exact sort of house we want. It must be very large and very roomy, and the landlord must be willing to make certain improvements which I will suggest to him. Our boarding-house will be a sort of Utopia in its way, and people who come there will want to come again. We will charge good prices, but we will make our guests very comfortable." Mother clasped my hand. "Oh, my dear, dear child," she said. "How little you know about what you are talking. We shall have an empty house; no one will come to us. Neither you nor I have the faintest idea how to manage. We shall not only lose all the money we have, but we shall be up to our ears in debt. I do wish, Westenra, you would consider that simple little cottage in the country." "If it must come to our living within our means," I said slowly, "I have not the least doubt that the Duchess of Wilmot would allow me to live with her as a sort of companion and amanuensis, and influence would be brought to bear to get you rooms in Hampton Court; but would you consent, mother darling, would you really consent that I should eat the bread of dependence, and that you should live partly on charity?" Mother coloured. She had a very delicate colour, and it always made her look remarkably pretty. In her heart of hearts, I really do think she was taken with the idea of Hampton Court. The ladies who lived in those suites of apartments were more or less aristocratic, they were at least all well connected, and she and they might have much in common. It was, in her opinion, rather a distinction than otherwise to live there, but I would have none of it. "How old are you, mother?" I asked. "Forty-three," she answered. "Forty-three," I repeated. "Why, you are quite young, just in the prime of middle-age. What do you mean by sitting with your hands before you for the rest of your life? You are forty-three, and I am twenty-one. Do you think for a single moment that able-bodied women, like ourselves, are to do nothing in the future; for if I did go to the Duchess my post would be merely a sinecure, and you at Hampton Court would vegetate, nothing more. Mother, you will come with me, and help me? We will disregard society; if society is ashamed of us, let it be ashamed, but we must find out, and I have a scheme to propose." "You are so full of schemes, Westenra, you quite carry me away." Dear mother looked bewildered, but at the same time proud of me. I think she saw gleaming in my eyes, which I know were bright and dark like my father's, some of that spirit which had carried him with a forlorn hope into the thickest of the fight, and which enabled him to win the Victoria Cross. There are a great many Victoria Crosses to be secured in this world, and girls can get and wear some of them. "Now," I said, "we need not give up this house until the autumn. The landlord will then take it off our hands, and we shall move into our Bloomsbury mansion, but as I did not quite succeed to-day in knowing exactly how we stood with our friends, I propose that next week we should give an 'At Home,' a very simple one, mother, nothing but tea and sweet cakes, and a few sandwiches, no ices, nothing expensive." "My dear Westenra, just now, in the height of the season, would any one come?" "Yes, they will come, I will write to all the friends I know, and they will come out of curiosity. We will invite them for this day fortnight. I don't know any special one of our friends who has an 'At Home' on the third Friday in the month. But let me get our 'At Home' book and see." I looked it out, and after carefully examining the long list of our acquaintances, proclaimed that I thought the third Friday in the month was a tolerably free day. "We will ask them to come at three," I said, "a little early in the afternoon, so that those who do want to go on to friends afterwards, will have plenty of time." "But why should they come, Westenra; why this great expense and trouble, just when we are parting with them all, for if I go to Hampton Court, or the country, or to that awful boarding-house of yours, my poor child, my days in society are at an end." "In one sense they are, mother, nevertheless, I mean to test our friends. People are very democratic in these days, and there is no saying, but that I may be more the fashion than ever; but I don't want to be the fashion, I want to get help in the task which is before me. Now, do hear me out." Mother folded her hands in her lap. Her lips were quivering to speak, but I held her in control as it were. I stood before her making the most of my slender height, and spoke with emphasis. "We will ask all our friends. Paul will wait on them, and Morris shall let them in, and everything will be done in the old style, for we have just the same materials we ever had to give a proper and fashionable 'At Home,' but when they are all assembled, instead of a recitation, or music, I will jump up and stand in the middle of the room, and briefly say what we mean to do. I will challenge our friends to leave us, or to stick to us." "Westenra, are you mad? I can never, never consent to this." "It is the very best plan, and far less troublesome than going round to everybody, and they will be slightly prepared, for the dear Duchess will have mentioned something of what I said this morning to her friends, and I know she will come. She won't mind visiting us here just once again, and Jasmine will come, and--and many other people, and we will put the thing to the test. Yes, mother, this day fortnight they shall come, and I will write the invitations to-night, and to-morrow you and I will go to Bloomsbury and look for a suitable house, for by the time they come, mother, the house will have been taken, and I hope the agreement made out, and the landlord will have been consulted, and he will make the improvements I suggest and will require. It is a big thing, mother, a great big venture for two lone women like ourselves, but we will succeed, darling, we _must_ succeed." "You are a rock of strength, West," she answered, half proudly, half sadly, "you are just like your father." That night I sent out the invitations. They were ordinary notes of invitation, for on second thoughts I resolved not to prepare our many acquaintances beforehand. "Mrs. Wickham at home on such a day," nothing more. I posted the letters and slept like a top that night, and in the morning awoke with the tingling sensation which generally comes over me when I have a great deal to do, and when there is an important and very interesting matter at stake. I used to feel like that at times when I was at school. On the day when I won the big scholarship, and was made a sort of queen of by the other girls, I had the sensation very strongly, and I felt like it also when a terrible illness which mother had a few years ago came to a crisis, and her precious life lay in the balance. Here was another crisis in my career, almost the most important which had come to me yet, and I felt the old verve and the old strong determination to conquer fate. Fate at present was against me, but surely I was a match for it: I was young, strong, clever, and I had a certain _entrée_ into society which might or might not help me. If society turned its back on me, I could assuredly do without it. If, on the other hand, it smiled on me, success was assured in advance. I ran downstairs to breakfast in the best of spirits. I had put on my very prettiest white dress, and a white hat trimmed with soft silk and feathers. "Why, Westenra, dressed already?" said mother. "Yes, and you must dress too quickly, Mummy. Oh, there is Paul. Paul, we shall want the victoria at ten o'clock." Paul seemed accustomed to this order now. He smiled and vanished. None of our servants knew that their tenure with us was ended, that within a very short time mother and I would know the soft things of life no more. We were dragging out our last delicious days in the Land of Luxury; we were soon to enter the Land of Hard Living, the Land of Endeavour, the Land of Struggle. Might it not be a better, a more bracing life than our present one? At least it would be a more interesting life, of that I made sure, even before I plunged into its depths. Mother ate her breakfast quite with appetite, and soon afterwards we were driving in the direction of Bloomsbury. Jenkins, who had lived with us for years, and who had as a matter of course imbibed some of the aristocratic notions of our neighbourhood, almost turned up his nose when we told him to stop at the house of a well-known agent in Bloomsbury. He could not, like the Duchess of Wilmot, confess that he did not know where Bloomsbury was, but he evidently considered that something strange and by no means _comme il faut_ had occurred. Presently we reached our destination, it was only half-past ten. "Won't you get out, mother?" I asked as I sprang to the pavement. "Is it necessary, dear child?" replied mother. "I think it is," I answered; "you ought to appear in this matter, I am too young to receive the respect which I really merit, but with you to help me--oh, you will do _exactly_ what I tell you, won't you?" "My dear girl!" "Yes, Mummy, you will, you will." I took her hand, and gave it a firm grip, and we went into the house-agent's together. CHAPTER IV THE VERDICT The first thing I noticed when I entered the large room where Messrs Macalister & Co. carried on their business, was a young man, tall and very well set up, who stood with his back to us. He was talking earnestly to one of Macalister's clerks, and there was something about his figure which caused me to look at him attentively. His hair was of a light shade of brown, and was closely cropped to his well-shaped head, and his shoulders were very broad and square. He was dressed well, and had altogether that man-of-the-world, well bred sort of look, which is impossible to acquire by any amount of outward veneer. The man who stood with his back to us, and did not even glance round as we came into the agent's office, was beyond doubt a gentleman. I felt curiously anxious to see his face, for I was certain it must be a pleasant one, but in this particular fate did not favour me. I heard him say to the clerk in a hurried tone-- "I will come back again presently," and then he disappeared by another door, and I heard him walking rapidly away. Mother had doubtless not noticed the man at all. She was seated near a table, and when the clerk in question came up to her, seemed indisposed to speak. I gave her a silent nudge. "We want--ahem," said my mother--she cleared her throat, "we are anxious to look at some houses." "Fourteen to fifteen bedrooms in each," I interrupted. "Fourteen to fifteen bedrooms," repeated mother. "How many sitting rooms, Westenra?" "Four, five, or six," was my answer. "Oh, you require a mansion," said the agent. "Where do you propose to look for your house, madam?" He addressed mother with great respect. Mother again glanced at me. "We thought somewhere north," she said; "or north-west," she added. "W.C.," I interrupted; "Bloomsbury, we wish to settle in Bloomsbury." "Perhaps, Westenra," said my mother, "you had better describe the house. My daughter takes a great interest in houses," she added in an apologetic tone to the clerk. The face of the clerk presented a blank appearance, he showed neither elation nor the reverse at having a young lady to deal with instead of an old lady. He began to trot out his different houses, to explain their advantages, their aristocratic positions. "Aristocratic houses in Bloomsbury--aristocratic!" said mother, and there was a tone of almost scorn in her voice. "I assure you it is the case, madam. Russell Square is becoming quite the fashion again, and so is"--he paused--"Would Tavistock Square suit you?" he said, glancing at me. "I do not know," I answered. "I seem to be better acquainted with the names of Russell Square or Bloomsbury Square. After all, if we can get a large enough house it does not greatly matter, provided it is in Bloomsbury. We wish to see several houses, for we cannot decide without a large choice." "You would not be induced, ladies, to think of a flat?" queried the agent. Mother glanced at me; there was almost an appeal in her eyes. If I could only be induced to allow her to live in a tiny, tiny flat--she and I alone on our one hundred and fifty a year--but my eyes were bright with determination, and I said firmly-- "We wish to look at houses, we do not want a flat." Accordingly, after a little more argument, we were supplied with orders to view, and returning to the carriage I gave brief directions to Jenkins. During the rest of the morning we had a busy time. We went from one house to another. Most were large; some had handsome halls and wide staircases, and double doors, and other relics of past grandeur, but all were gloomy and dirty, and mother became more and more depressed, and more and more hopeless, as she entered each one in turn. "Really, Westenra," she said, "we cannot do it. No, my darling, it is hopeless. Think of the staff of servants we should require. Do look at these stairs, it is quite worth counting them. My dear child, such a life would kill me." But I was young and buoyant, and did not feel the stairs, and my dreams seemed to become more rosy as obstacles appeared in view. I was determined to conquer, I had made up my mind to succeed. "Whatever happens you shall not have a tiring time," I said affectionately to my dear mother, and then I asked one of the caretakers to give her a chair, and she sat in the great wide desolate drawing-room while I ran up and down stairs, and peeped into cupboards, and looked all over the house, and calculated, as fast as my ignorant brain would allow me, the amount of furniture which would be necessary to start the mansion I had in view. For one reason or another most of the houses on the agent's list were absolutely impossible for our purpose, but at last we came to one which seemed to be the exact thing we required. It was a corner house in a square called Graham Square, and was not so old by fifty years as the houses surrounding it. In height also it was a storey lower, but being a corner house it had a double frontage, and was in consequence very large and roomy. There were quite six or seven sitting rooms, and I think there were up to twenty bedrooms in the house, and it had a most cheerful aspect, with balconies round the drawing-room windows, and balconies to the windows of the bedrooms on the first floor. I made up my mind on the spot that the inmates of these special rooms should pay extra for the privilege of such delightful balconies. And the windows of the house were large, and when it was all re-papered and re-painted according to my modern ideas, I knew that we could secure a great deal of light in the rooms; and then besides, one whole side faced south-east, and would scarcely ever be cold in winter, whereas in summer it would be possible to render it cool by sun-blinds and other contrivances. Yes, the house would do exactly. I ran downstairs to mother, who had by this time given up climbing those many, many stairs, and told her that I had found the exact house for our purpose. "Seventeen Graham Square is magnificent," I said. "My dearest, darling mother, in ten years time we shall be rich women if we can only secure this splendid house for our purpose." "We do not even know the rent," said mother. "Oh, the rent," I cried. "I forgot about that. I will look on the order to view." I held it in my hand and glanced at it. Just for a moment my heart stood still, for the corner house commanded a rental of two hundred and eighty pounds a year. Not at all dear for so big a mansion, but with rates and taxes and all the other etceteras it certainly was a serious item for us to meet, and would be considered even by the most sanguine people as a most risky speculation. "Never mind, never mind," I cried eagerly, "we will secure this house; I do not think we need look at any of the others." I crumpled up the remaining orders. Mother stepped into the carriage, and Jenkins took us back to the agent's. "You must speak this time, Westenra," said mother. "Remember it is your scheme, darling; I am not at all accustomed to this sort of business; it will be necessary for you to take the initiative." "Very well, mother, I will; and suppose you stay in the carriage." I uttered these last words in a coaxing tone, for the tired look on her face almost frightened me, and I did not want her to take any of the worry of what I already called to myself "Westenra's grand scheme." I entered the office, and the man who had attended to us in the morning came forward. I told him briefly that of the many houses which we had looked over, the only one which would suit our purpose was No. 17 Graham Square. "Ah," he answered, "quite the handsomest house on our list. Do you want it for your own occupation, Miss--Miss----" "Wickham," I said. "Yes, of course we want the house for ourselves--that is, mother would like to rent it." "It is a high rent," said the man, "not of course high for such a fine mansion, but higher than the rest of the houses in the Square. It contains a great many rooms." He glanced at me as though he meant to say something impertinent, but, reading an expression of determination on my face, he refrained. "How soon can we take possession of the house?" I asked. "It would of course be papered and painted for us?" "If you take a lease, not otherwise," answered Macalister's clerk. "I think we would take a lease," I replied. "What is the usual length?" "Seven, fourteen, twenty-one years," he answered glibly; "but I do not think the landlords round here would grant a longer lease than fourteen years." "Oh, that would be quite long enough," I answered emphatically. "We should like to arrange the matter as soon as possible, we are greatly pleased with the house. Of course the drains must be carefully tested, and the entire place would have to be re-decorated from cellar to attic." "For a fourteen years' lease I doubt not this would be done," said the man, "but of course there are several matters to be gone into. You want the house for a private residence, do you not?" "Yes, and no," I said faintly. There was a room just beyond where I was seated, and at that moment I heard a book fall heavily to the ground. It startled me. Was any one in there listening to what we were saying? The clerk stepped forward and quietly closed the door. "To be frank with you," I said, "we wish to secure 17 Graham Square in order to start a boarding-house there." The man immediately laid down the large book in which he had been taking my orders. "That will never do," he said. "We cannot allow business of any sort to be carried on in the house, it would destroy all the rest of the property. It is far too aristocratic for anything of the kind." "But our house would be practically private," I said; "I mean," I continued, stammering and blushing, and feeling ready to sink through the floor, "that our guests would be extremely nice and well-behaved people." "Oh, I have no doubt whatever of that," replied the clerk, "but there is a condition in every lease in that special Square, that money is not to be earned on the premises. I presume your guests would not come to you for nothing?" "Certainly not," I replied. I felt myself turning cold and stiff. All the angry blood of my noble ancestors stirred in my veins. I said a few more words and left the shop. "Well?" asked mother. She was looking dreary and terribly huddled up in the carriage. It was a warm day, but I think going through those empty houses had chilled her. "Well, Westenra, have you taken No. 17?" "Alas! no," I answered in some heat; "would you believe it, mother, the agent says the landlord will not let us the house if we make money in it." "If we make money in it? I do not understand," answered mother. Her blue eyes were fixed on my face in an anxious way. "Why, mother, darling, don't you know we meant to fill the house with paying guests." "Oh, I forgot," said mother. "Home, Jenkins, as fast as possible." Jenkins whipped up the horses, and we trotted home. Mother looked distinctly relieved. "So you have not taken the house?" she said. "I cannot get it," I answered. "It is more than provoking. What are we to do? I had taken such a fancy to the place." "It did seem, for that benighted place, fairly cheerful," said my mother, "but, Westenra, there is a Providence guiding our paths. Doubtless Providence does not intend you to wreck your young life attending to lodgers." "But, mother dear, don't you understand that we must do something for our living? It is disappointing, but we shall get over it somehow." During the rest of that day mother refused even to discuss the boarding-house scheme. She seemed to think that because we could not get 17 Graham Square, there was no other house available for our purpose. The next day I went out without mother. I did not visit the same agent. After finding myself in Bloomsbury I repaired to a post-office, and, taking down the big Directory, secured the names of several agents in the neighbourhood. These I visited in turn. I had dressed myself very plainly; I had travelled to my destination by 'bus. I thought that I looked exactly what I felt--a very business-like young woman. Already the gulf was widening between my old and my new life. Already I was enjoying my freedom. Once more I was supplied with a list of houses, and once again I trotted round to see them. Alack and alas! how ugly empty houses did look; how dilapidated and dirty were the walls without the pictures and bookcases! How dreary were those countless flights of stairs, those long narrow windows, those hopelessly narrow halls; and then, the neighbourhood of these so-called mansions was so sordid. Could we by any possible means brighten such dwellings? Could we make them fit to live in? I visited them all, and finally selected three of these. Two had a clause forbidding the letting out of apartments, but the third and least desirable of the houses was to be the absolute property of the tenant to do what he liked with. "That mansion," said the obliging agent, "you can sublet to your heart's content, madam. It is a very fine house, only one hundred and eighty pounds a year. There are ten bedrooms and five sitting-rooms. You had better close with it at once." But this I could not do. The outlook from this house was so hideous; the only way to it was through an ugly, not to say hideous, thoroughfare. I thought of my delicate, aristocratic mother here. I thought of the friends whom I used to know visiting us in 14 Cleveland Street, and felt my castle in the clouds tumbling about my ears. What was to be done! "I cannot decide to-day," I said; "I will let you know." "You will lose it, madam," said the agent. "Nevertheless, I cannot decide so soon; I must consult my mother." "Very well, madam," said the man, in a tone of disappointment. I left his office and returned home. For the next few days I scarcely spoke at all about my project. I was struggling to make up my mind to the life which lay before us if we took 14 Cleveland Street. The street itself was somewhat narrow; the opposite houses seemed to bow at their neighbours; the rooms, although many, were comparatively small; and last, but by no means least, the landlord would do very little in the way of decoration. "We can let houses of this kind over and over again," said the agent, "I don't say that Mr. Mason won't have the ceilings whitened for you, but as to papering, no; the house don't require it. It was done up for the last tenant four years ago." "And why has the last tenant left?" I asked. "Owing to insolvency, madam," was the quick reply, and the man darted a keen glance into my face. Insolvency! I knew what that meant. It was another word for ruin, for bankruptcy. In all probability, if we took that detestable house, we also would have to leave on account of insolvency, for what nice, cheerful, paying guests would care to live with us there? I shook my head. Surely there must be somewhere other houses to let. During the next few days I spent all my time searching for houses. I got quite independent, and, I think, a little roughened. I was more brusque than usual in my manners. I became quite an adept at jumping in and out of omnibuses. I could get off omnibuses quite neatly when they were going at a fairly good pace, and the conductors, I am sure, blessed me in their hearts for my agile movements. Then the agents all round Bloomsbury began to know me. Finally, one of them said, on the event of my fourth visit-- "Had you not better try further afield, Miss? There are larger, brighter, and newer houses in the neighbourhood of Highbury, for instance." "No," I said, "we must live in Bloomsbury." Then I noticed that the man examined me all over in quite a disagreeable fashion, and then he said slowly-- "14 Cleveland Street is still to be had, Miss, but of course you understand that the landlord will want the usual references." "References!" I cried. "He shall certainly have them if he requires them." And then I wondered vaguely, with a queer sinking at my heart, to whom of all our grand friends I might apply who would vouch for us that we would not run away without paying the rent. Altogether, I felt most uncomfortable. The days passed. No more likely houses appeared on the horizon, and at last the afternoon came when our friends were to visit us, when I, Westenra, was to break to these fashionable society people my wild project. But I had passed through a good deal of the hardening process lately, and was not at all alarmed when the important day dawned. This was to be our very last entertainment. After that we would step down. Mother, exquisitely dressed in dove-coloured satin, waited for her guests in the drawing-room. I was in white. I had given up wearing white when I was going about in omnibuses, but I had several charming costumes for afternoon and evening wear still quite fresh, and I donned my prettiest dress now, and looked at my face in the glass with a certain amount of solicitude. I saw before me a very tall, slender girl; my eyes were grey. I had a creamy, pale complexion, and indifferently good features. There were some people who thought me pretty, but I never did think anything of my looks myself. I gave my own image a careless nod now, and ran briskly downstairs. "You'll be very careful what you say to our guests, Westenra?" queried mother. "This whole scheme of yours is by no means to my liking. I feel certain that the dear Duchess and Lady Thesiger will feel that they have been brought here unfairly. It would have been far franker and better to tell them that something singularly unpleasant was about to occur." "But, dearest mother, why should it be unpleasant? and it is the fashion of the day to have sensation at any cost. Our guests will always look back on this afternoon as a sort of red letter day. Just think for yourself how startled and how interested they will be. Whether they approve, or whether they disapprove, it will be immensely interesting and out of the common, mother. O mother! think of it!" I gripped her hand tightly, and she said-- "Don't squeeze me so hard, Westenra, I shall need all my pluck." Well, the hour came and also the guests. They arrived in goodly numbers. There was the usual fashionable array of carriages outside our door. There were footmen in livery and coachmen, and stately and magnificently groomed horses, and the guests poured up the stairs and entered our drawing rooms, and the chatter-chatter and hum-hum of ordinary society conversation began. Everything went as smoothly as it always did, and all the time my mother chatted with that courtly grace which made her look quite in the same state of life as the Duchess of Wilmot. In fact the only person in the room who looked at all nervous was the said Duchess. She had a way of glancing from me to mother, as if she was not quite sure of either of us, and once as I passed her, she stretched out her hand and touched me on my sleeve. "Eh, Westenra?" she said. "Yes, your Grace," I replied. "All that silliness, darling, that you talked to me the other day, is quite knocked on the head, is it not? Oh, I am so relieved." "You must wait and find out," was my reply. "I have something to say to every one soon, and oh please, try not to be too shocked with me." "You are an incorrigible girl," she replied, but she shook her head quite gaily at me. She evidently had not the slightest idea of what I was going to do. As to my special friend Jasmine Thesiger, she was as usual surrounded by an admiring group of men and women, and gave me no particular thought. I looked from one to the other of all our guests: I did not think any more were likely to come. All those who had been specially invited had arrived. My moment had come. Just then, however, just before I rose from my seat to advance into the middle of the room, I noticed coming up the stairs a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was accompanied by a friend of ours, a Mr. Walters, a well-known artist. I had never seen this man before, and yet I fancied, in a sort of intangible way, that his figure was familiar. I just glanced at him for a moment, and I do not believe he came into the room. He stood a little behind Mr. Walters, who remained in the doorway. My hour had come. I glanced at mother. Poor darling, she turned very white. I think she was almost terrified, but as to myself I felt quite cheerful, and not in the least alarmed. "I want to say something to all my dear friends," I began. I had a clear voice, and it rose above the babel. There came sudden and profound silence. I saw a lady nudge her neighbour. "I did not know," I heard her say, "that Westenra recited," and then she settled herself in a comfortable attitude to listen. I stood in the middle of the floor, and faced everybody. "I have something to say," I began, "and it is not a recitation. I have asked you all to come here to-day to listen to me." I paused and looked round. How nice our guests looked, how kind, how beautifully dressed! What good form the men were in, and how aristocratic were the women. How different these men and women were from the people I had associated with during the week--the people who took care of the houses in Bloomsbury, the agents who let the houses, the people whom I had met in the busses going to and from the houses. These nice, pleasant, well-bred people belonged to me, they were part and parcel of my own set; I was at home with them. I just caught the Duchess's eye for a moment, and I think there was alarm in those brown depths, but she was too essentially a woman of the world to show anything. She just folded her jewelled hands in her lap, leant back in her chair, and prepared to listen. One or two of the men, I think, raised their eye-glasses to give me a more critical glance, but soon even that mark of special attention subsided. Of course it was a recitation. People were beginning to be tired of recitations. "I want to say something, and I will say it as briefly as possible," I commenced. "Mother does not approve of it, but she will do it, because she has yielded to me as a dear, good, _modern_ mother ought." Here there was a little laugh, and some of the tension was lessened. "I want to tell you all," I continued, "for most of you have been our friends since I was a child, that mother and I are--poor. There is nothing disgraceful in being poor, is there? but at the same time it is unpleasant, unfortunate. We were fairly well off. Now, through no fault of our own, we have lost our money." The visitors looked intensely puzzled, and also uncomfortable, but now I raised my eyes a little above them. It was necessary that if I went on putting them to the test, I should not look them full in the face. "We are poor," I continued, "therefore we cannot live any longer in this house. From having a fair competence, not what many of you would consider riches, but from having a fair competence, we have come down to practically nothing. We could live, it is true, in the depths of the country, on the very little which has been saved out of the wreck, but I for one do not wish to do that. I dislike what is called decent poverty, I dislike the narrow life, the stultifying life, the mean life. I am my father's daughter. You have heard of my father, that is his picture"--I pointed as I spoke to an oil painting on the wall. "You know that he was a man of action, I also will act." I hurried my voice a trifle here--"So mother and I mean not to accept what many people would consider the inevitable; but we mean, to use a vulgar phrase, to better ourselves." Now it is certain, our guests were a little surprised. They began to fidget, and one or two men came nearer, and I thought, though I am not sure, that I saw the tall man, with the head of closely cropped hair, push forward to look at me. But I never looked any one full in the eyes; I fixed mine on father's picture. I seemed to hear father's voice saying to me-- "Go on, Westenra, that was very good, you and I are people of action, remember." So I went on and I explained my scheme. I told it very briefly. Mother and I would in future earn our own living. I was educated fairly well, but I had no special gifts, so I would not enter the Arena where teachers struggled and fought and bled, and many of them fell by the wayside. Nor would I enter the Arena of Art, because in no sense of the word was I an artist, nor would I go on the Stage, for my talent did not lie in that direction, but I had certain talents, and they were of a practical sort. I could keep accounts admirably; I could, I believed, manage a house. Then I skilfully sketched in that wonderful boarding-house of my dreams, that house in dull Bloomsbury, which by my skill and endeavour would be bright and render an acceptable home for many. Finally, I said that my mother and I had made up our minds to leave the fashionable part of London and to retire to Bloomsbury. "We will take our house from September," I said, "and advertise very soon for paying guests, and we hope the thing will do well, and that in ten or twelve years we shall have made enough money to keep ourselves for the future in comfort. Now," I continued, "I appeal to no one to help us. We do not intend to borrow money from anybody, and the only reason I am speaking to you to-day is because I wish, and I am sure mother agrees with me, to be quite frank with you. Mother and I know quite well that we are doing an absolutely unconventional thing, and that very likely you, as our friends of the past, will resent it. Those of you who do not feel that you can associate with two ladies who keep a boarding-house, need not say so in so many words, but you can give us to understand, by means known best to yourselves, whether you will know us in the future. If you want to cut us we shall consider it quite right, quite reasonable, quite fair. Then those who do intend to stick to us, even through this great change in our lives, may be the greatest possible help by recommending us and our boarding-house to their friends, that is, if any of you present have friends who would live in Bloomsbury. "Mother and I thought it quite fair that you should know, and we thought it best that I should tell you quite simply. We are neither of us ashamed, and mother approves, or at least she will approve presently, of what I have done." There was a dead silence when I ceased speaking, followed by a slight rustling amongst the ladies. The men looked one and all intensely uncomfortable, and the tall man who had come in with Mr Walters, the artist, disappeared altogether. I had not been nervous while I was speaking, but I felt nervous now. I knew that I was being weighed in the balance, that I and my scheme were being held up before the mental eyes of these people with the keenest, most scathing criticism. Would one in all that crowd understand me? I doubted it. Perhaps in my first sensation of sinking and almost despair something of my feeling stole into my face, for suddenly Jasmine sprang to her feet and said in an excited, tremulous voice-- "I for one say that Westenra is a very plucky girl. I wish her God speed, and I hope her scheme will succeed." This was very nice indeed of Jasmine, but I do not know that it relieved the situation much, for still the others were silent, and then one lady got up and went over to mother and took her hand and said-- "I am very sorry for you, dear Mrs. Wickham, very sorry indeed. I fear I must say good-bye now; I am very sorry. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Wickham." And this lady's example was followed by most of the other ladies, until at last there was no one left in the room but the Duchess of Wilmot and Lady Thesiger and ourselves. Lady Thesiger's cheeks were brightly flushed. "My dear Westenra," she said, "you are one of the most eccentric creatures in creation. Of course from first to last you are as wrong as you can be. You know nothing about keeping a boarding-house, and you are bound to fail. I could not say so before all those ridiculous people, who would not have understood, but I say so now to you. My dear girl, your speech was so much Greek to them. You spoke over their heads or under their feet, just as you please to put it, but comprehend you they did not. You will be the talk of the hour, and they will mention you as a girl whom they used to know, but who has gone a little mad, and then you will be forgotten. You would have done fifty times better by keeping this thing to yourself." "That is precisely what I think," said the Duchess. "My dear Mary," she added, turning to my mother, "what is the matter with your child? Is she quite _right_?" The Duchess gave an expressive nod, and I saw mother's face turn pale. "Oh, do listen to me for a moment," interrupted pretty Lady Thesiger, "what I say is this. Westenra is on the wrong tack. If she wishes to earn money, why must she earn it in this preposterous, impossible manner? It would be fifty times better for her to go as a teacher or a secretary, but to keep a boarding-house! You see for yourself, dear Mrs. Wickham, that it is impossible. As long as we live in society we must adhere to its rules, and for West calmly to believe that people of position in London will know her and respect her when she is a boarding-house keeper, is to expect a miracle. Now, I for one will not cut you, Westenra." "Nor will I cut you, Westenra," said the Duchess, and she gave a profound sigh and folded her hands in her lap. "Two of your friends will not cut you, but I really think all the others will," said Lady Thesiger. "Then I suppose you expect me to recommend nice Americans to come and stay with you, but it is my opinion that, with your no knowledge at all of this sort of thing, you will keep a very so-so, harum-scarum sort of house. How can I recommend my nice American friends to be made thoroughly uncomfortable by you? Oh, I am _very_ sorry for you." Lady Thesiger got up as she spoke; she kissed me, squeezed my hand, and said, "Oh child, what a goose you are!" and left the room. The Duchess followed more slowly. "I don't forget, my child," she said, "that I am your godmother, that I loved your dear father, that I love your mother, that I also love you. Do not be wilful, Westenra; give up this mad scheme. There are surely other ways open to you in this moment of misfortune. Above all things, try not to forget that you are your father's daughter." CHAPTER V JANE MULLINS On the evening which followed our last "At Home," mother came to me, and earnestly begged of me to pause and reflect. "Wherever you go I will go, Westenra," she said; "that may be taken as a matter of course, but I do think you are wrong to go against all the wishes of our friends." "But our friends won't do anything for us, Mummy!" I answered, "and they will forget us just as soon in the cottage in the country, as they will in the boarding-house in town; sooner, in fact, if that is any consolation to you, and I do want to try it, Mummy, for I cannot be buried alive in the country at twenty-one." "Then I will say no more," replied mother. "I only trust the way may be made plain for us, for at present I cannot see that it is; but if we can find a suitable house, and take it, I will go with you, West, although, darling, I hate the thing--I do truly." After this speech of mother's it can easily be supposed that I slept badly that night. I began for the first time in my life to doubt myself, and my own judgment. I began even seriously to consider the cottage in the country with its genteel poverty, and I began to wonder if I was to spend the remainder of my youth getting thinner in mind and body, day by day, and hour by hour. "Anæmic," I said to myself. "In the country with no money, and no interests, I shall become anæmic. My thoughts will be feeble and wanting in force, and I shall die long before my time a miserable old maid. Now, there are no real old maids in London. The unmarried women are just as full of force, and go, and common-sense, and ambition, and happiness as the married ones; but in the country, oh, it is different. There old age comes before its time. I knew that I was not the girl to endure having nothing to do, and yet that seemed to be my appointed portion. So during the night I shed very bitter tears, and I hated society for its coldness and want of comprehension. I longed more frantically than ever to find myself in the midst of the people, where "a man was a man for a' that," and mere veneer went for nothing. But if mother's heart was likely to be broken by my taking this step, and if there was no house for me but 14 Cleveland Street, I doubted very much whether I could go on with my scheme. Judge therefore of my surprise and delight, when on the following morning, mother handed me a letter which she had just received. It was from Messrs. Macalister & Co. "Read it," she said, "I do not quite know what it means." I read the letter quickly, it ran as follows:-- "DEAR MADAM,--We write to acquaint you, that we have just had an interview with Mr. Hardcastle, the landlord of 17 Graham Square, and he desires us to say, that he is willing in your case to come to terms with regard to his house, and if you will take it for a lease of fourteen years, he will do it up for you, in the most approved style, and according to your own taste; he also withdraws his embargo to your letting apartments, or having paying guests in your house. "Under the circumstances, we shall be glad to hear if you still entertain the idea of taking this mansion. --Yours faithfully, MACALISTER & CO." "Oh mother!" I cried, "this is just splendid!" My spirits rose with a bound. Anxious as I was to possess a boarding-house, I hated going to 14 Cleveland Street, but 17 Graham Square was a house where any one might be happy. It was charmingly built; it was large, commodious, cheerful, and then the landlord--he must be a delightful man when he withdrew his embargo, when he permitted us--_us_ to have paying guests in our dwelling. Even Jasmine need not be ashamed to send her nice, rich American friends to 17 Graham Square. "This is splendid, mother!" I repeated. "Dear me, Westenra," said mother, looking pale and troubled, "what house is he alluding to? I saw so many that first day, darling, and the only impression they left upon me was, that they were all stairs and narrowness; they seemed to go up and up, for ever and ever, my legs ache even now when I think of them." "But you cannot forget 17 Graham Square," I said, "the last house we saw ... the corner-house. You recollect the hall, how wide it was, and you know there were darling balconies, and you shall have one, little mother, all to yourself, and such a sweet sun-blind over it, and you can keep your favourite plants there, and be, oh, so happy! Mother--mother, this is magnificent!" "I do recall the house now," said mother, "it was not quite as bad as the other houses; but still, Westenra, what does this mean? Why should there be an exception made in our favour?" "Oh, that I know nothing about," I answered, "I suppose the landlord was not going to be so silly as to lose good tenants." "And what is the rent of the house ... I forget." "Two hundred and something," I said in a careless tone, "not at all high for such a house, and the landlord, Mr. Hardcastle, will do it up for us. Mother, we will have the carriage, and go and make our arrangements immediately." "Then you are quite determined, West?" "Mother, dear mother, I do think father would like us to do it." Now, whenever I spoke of my dead father, mother looked intensely solemn and subdued. Once she told me that she thought there was a strong link between my father's spirit and mine, and that at times I spoke so exactly like him, and made use of the identically same expressions, and in short impressed her with the feeling that he was close to her. I did not often use my father's name, therefore, as a means of power over my mother, but I did use it now; and, with the usual result, she got up gently and said-- "We had better go and see the house once more." We did go, we drove straight to the agents, and got the order to view, and went all over 17 Graham Square. Our second visit was far more delightful than the first, for the agent's clerk accompanied us. We found him in an excellent humour, most willing to offer suggestions and to accept any suggestions of ours. Not that mother made any, it was I who, with my usual daring, spoke of this improvement and the other. But darling mother became a little cheerful when she stood in that noble drawing-room and saw the sun shining in bars across the floor, and the agent's clerk was quite astonishingly cheery; he knew just the colour the paper ought to be, for instance, and the tone of the paint, and he even suggested what curtains would go with such paper and such paint. I never saw a man so improved. He had lost his brusqueness, and was very anxious to please us. "It is extraordinary," said mother afterwards; "really I never knew that house-agents could be such agreeable people. No. 17 Graham Square is a handsome house, Westenra, it is a great pity that it is not situated in Mayfair." "But mother, dear mother, we could not have a boarding-house in the very midst of our friends," I said with a smile; "we shall do splendidly in Graham Square, and we should not do at all well in Mayfair." When we returned to the agents, Mr. Macalister himself, one of the heads of the firm, came and interviewed us. After answering a great many questions, it was finally decided that he was to see Mr. Hardcastle, the landlord, and that the landlord was to have an interview the next day with mother; and the agent further agreed that the landlord should call on mother at our own house in Sumner Place, and then we drove home. "I suppose it is completed now," said mother, "the thing is done. Well, child, you are having your own way; it will be a lesson to you, I only trust we shall not be quite ruined. I am already puzzled to know how we are to meet that enormous rent." But at that moment of my career I thought nothing at all about the rent. That night I slept the sleep of the just, and was in high spirits the following day, when the landlord, a nice, jovial, rosy-faced man, arrived, accompanied by the agent. They both saw my mother, who told them frankly that she knew nothing about business, and so perforce they found themselves obliged to talk to me. Everything was going smoothly until Mr. Hardcastle said in the very quietest of tones-- "Of course you understand, Mrs. Wickham, that I shall require references. I am going to lay out a good deal of money on the house, and references are indispensable." "Of course," answered mother, but she looked pale and nervous. "What sort of references?" I asked. "Tradesmen's references are what we like best," was his reply; "but your banker's will be all-sufficient--an interview with your banker with regard to your deposit will make all safe." Then mother turned paler than ever, and looked first at me and then at Mr. Hardcastle. After a pause she said slowly-- "My daughter and I would not undertake our present scheme if we had capital--we have not any." "Not any?" said Mr. Hardcastle, looking blank, "and yet you propose to take a house with a rental of two hundred and eighty pounds a year." "We mean to pay the rent out of the profit we get from the boarders," I replied. Mr. Hardcastle did not make use of an ugly word, but he raised his brows, looked fixedly at me for a moment, and then shook his head. "I am sorry," he said, rising; "I would do a great deal to oblige you, for you are both most charming ladies, but I cannot let my house without references. If you, for instance, Mrs. Wickham, could get any one to guarantee the rent, I should be delighted to let you the house and put it in order, but not otherwise." He added a few more words, and then he and the agent, both of them looking very gloomy, went away. "I shall hear from you doubtless on the subject of references," said Mr. Hardcastle as he bowed himself out, "and I will keep the offer open until Saturday." This was Wednesday, we had three days to spare. "Now, Westenra," said my mother, "the thing has come to a stop of itself. Providence has interfered, and I must honestly say I am glad. From the first the scheme was mad, and as that nice, jovial looking Mr. Hardcastle will not let us the house without our having capital, and as we have no capital, there surely is an end to the matter. I have not the slightest doubt, West, that all the other landlords in Bloomsbury will be equally particular, therefore we must fall back upon our little cottage in----" "No, mother," I interrupted, "no; I own that at the present moment I feel at my wits' end, but I have not yet come to the cottage in the country." I think there were tears in my eyes, for mother opened her arms wide. "Kiss me," she said. I ran into her dear arms, and laid my head on her shoulder. "Oh, you are the sweetest thing on earth," I said, "and it is because you are, and because I love you so passionately, I will not let you degenerate. I will find my way through somehow." I left mother a moment later, and I will own it, went to my own lovely, lovely room, suitable for a girl who moved in the best society, and burst into tears. It was astonishing what a sudden passion I had taken, as my friends would say, to degrade myself; but this did not look like degradation in my eyes, it was just honest work. We wanted money, and we would earn it; we would go in debt to no man; we would earn money for ourselves. But then the thought came to me, "Was my scheme too expensive? had I any right to saddle mother with such an enormous rent?" I had always considered myself a very fair arithmetician, and I now sat down and went carefully into accounts. I smile to this day as I think of myself seated at my little table in the big bay window of my bedroom, trying to make out with pencil and paper how I could keep 17 Graham Square going--I, a girl without capital, without knowledge, without any of the sort of experience which alone could aid me in a crisis of this sort. I spent the rest of the day in very low spirits, for my accounts would not, however hard I tried, show any margin of profit. The more difficulties came in my way, however, the more determined was I to overcome them. Presently I took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines to Mr. Hardcastle. I knew his address, and wrote to him direct. "Dear sir," I said, "will you oblige me by letting me know what capital my mother will require in order to become your tenant for 17 Graham Square." I signed this letter, adding a postscript, "An early answer will oblige." I received the answer about noon the following day. "DEAR MISS WICKHAM,--Your letter puzzles me. I see you have a great deal of pluck and endeavour, and I should certainly do my utmost to please you, but I cannot let you have the house under a capital of five thousand pounds." The letter fell from my hands, and I sat in blank despair. Five thousand pounds is a small sum to many people, to others it is as impossible and as unget-at-able as the moon. We, when our debts were paid, would have nothing at all to live on except the annuity which my mother received from the Government, and a small sum of fifty pounds a year. I began dismally to consider what rent we must pay for the awful cottage in the country, and to what part of the country it would be best to retire, when Paul came into the room and presented me with a card. "There's a lady--a person, I mean--downstairs, and she wants to see you, Miss." I took the card and read the name--Miss Jane Mullins. "Who is she?" I asked; "I don't know her." "She's a sort of betwixt and between, Miss. I showed her into the li'bry. I said you was most likely engaged, but that I would inquire." "Miss Jane Mullins." I read the name aloud. "Show her up, Paul," I said then. "Oh, my dear West, what do you mean?" said mother; "that sort of person has probably called to beg." "She may as well beg in the drawing-room as anywhere else," I said. "I have rather taken a fancy to her name--Jane Mullins." "A hideous name," said mother; but she did not add any more, for the next moment there came a rustle of harsh silk on the landing, the drawing-room door was flung open by Paul in his grandest style, and Miss Jane Mullins walked in. She entered quickly, with a determined step. She was a little woman, stoutly built, and very neatly and at the same time quietly dressed. Her dress was black silk, and I saw at a glance that the quality of the silk was poor. It gave her a harsh appearance, which was further intensified by a kind of fixed colour in her cheeks. Her face was all over a sort of chocolate red. She had scanty eyebrows and scanty hair, her eyes were small and twinkling, she had a snub nose and a wide mouth. Her age might have been from thirty-five to forty. She had, however, a great deal of self-possession, and did not seem at all impressed by my stately-looking mother and by my tall, slender self. As she had asked particularly to see me, mother now retired to the other end of the long drawing-room and took up a book. I invited Miss Mullins to a chair. "I would a great deal rather you called me Jane at once and have done with it," was her remarkable response to this; "but I suppose Jane will come in time." Here she heaved a very deep sigh, raised her veil of spotted net, and taking out her handkerchief, mopped her red face. "It's a warm day," she said, "and I walked most of the way. I suppose you would like me to proceed to business. I have come, Miss Wickham--Miss Westenra Wickham--to speak on the subject of 17 Graham Square." "Have you?" I cried. Had the ground opened I could not have been more amazed. What had this little, rather ugly woman, to do with my dream-house, 17 Graham Square? "It is a very beautiful, fine house," said the little woman. "I went all over it this morning. I heard from your agents, Messrs. Macalister & Co., that you are anxious to take it." I felt that my agents were very rude in thus giving me away, and made no response beyond a stately bend of my head. I was glad that mother was occupying herself with some delicate embroidery in the distant window. She certainly could not hear our conversation. Miss Mullins now pulled her chair forward and sat in such a position that her knees nearly touched mine. "You'll forgive a plain question," she said; "I am here on business. Are you prepared to take the house?" "We certainly wish to take it," I said. "But are you going to take it, Miss Wickham?" I rather resented this speech, and was silent. "Now I'll be plain. My name is blunt, and so is my nature. I want the house." I half rose. "Sit down, Miss Wickham, and don't be silly." This speech was almost intolerable, and I thought the time had come when I should call to mother to protect me, but Jane Mullins had such twinkling, good-humoured eyes, that presently my anger dissolved into a curious desire to laugh. "I know, Miss Wickham, you think me mad, and I was always accounted a little queer, but I'll beat about the bush no longer. You want 17 Graham Square, and so do I. You have got beauty and good birth and taste and style, and your name and your appearance will draw customers; and I have got experience and"--here she made a long, emphatic pause--"_money_. Now my question is this: Shall we club together?" I never in all my life felt more astonished, I was nearly stunned. "Club together?" I said. "Yes, shall we? Seven thousand pounds capital has been placed at my disposal. You, I understand, have got furniture, at least some furniture"--here she glanced in a rather contemptuous way round our lovely drawing-room. "You also, of course, have a certain amount of connection, and I have got a large and valuable connection. Shall we club together?" "I do not think we have any connection at all," I said bluntly; "not one of our friends will notice us when we go to--to Bloomsbury, and we have not half enough furniture for a house like 17 Graham Square. But what do you mean by our clubbing together?" "Let me speak, my dear. What I want is this. I want you to put your furniture, what there is of it, and your connection, what there is of it, and your good birth and your style, and your charming mother into the same bag with my experience and my capital--or rather, the capital that is to be given to me. Will you do it? There's a plain question. Is it to be yes, or is it to be no? I want 17 Graham Square, and so do you. Shall we take it together and make a success of it? I like you, you are honest, and you're nice to look at, and I don't mind at all your being stiff to me and thinking me queer, for by-and-by we'll be friends. Is it to be a bargain?" Just then mother rose from her seat and came with slow and stately steps across the room. "What is it, Westenra?" she said; "what does this--this lady want?" "Oh, I'm not a lady, ma'am," said Jane Mullins, rising and dropping a sort of involuntary curtsey. "I'm just a plain body, but I know all about cooking, and all about servants, and all about house linen, and all about dusting, going right into corners and never slurring them, and all the rest, and I know what you ought to give a pound for beef and for mutton, and what you ought to give a dozen for eggs, and for butter, and how to get the best and freshest provisions at the lowest possible price. I know a thousand things, my dear madam, that you do not know, and that your pretty daughter doesn't know, and what I say is; as we both want 17 Graham Square, shall we put our pride in our pockets and our finances into one bag, and do the job. My name is Jane Mullins. I never was a grand body. I'm plain, but I'm determined, and I am good-humoured, and I am true as steel. I can give you fifty-four references if you want them, from a number of very good honest tradesmen who know me, and know that I pay my debts to the uttermost farthing. Will you join me, or will you not?" "Well," said mother, when this curious little person had finished speaking, "this is quite the most astounding thing I ever heard of in my life. Westenra dear, thank this person very kindly, tell her that you know she means well, but that of course we could not think of her scheme for a single moment." Mother turned as she spoke, and walked up the drawing-room again, and I looked at Jane Mullins, and Jane Mullins looked at me, and her blue eyes twinkled. She got up at once and held out her hand. "Then that's flat," she said; "you'll be sorry you have said it, for Jane Mullins could have done well by you. Good-bye, miss; good-bye, ma'am." She gave a little nod in the direction of my stately mother, and tripped out of the room. I was too stunned even to ring the bell for Paul, and I think Jane Mullins let herself out. Well, as soon as she was gone, mother turned on me and gave me the first downright absolute scolding I had received since I was a tiny child. She said she had been willing, quite willing, to please me in every possible way, but when I descended to talk to people like Jane Mullins, and to consider their proposals, there was an end of everything, and she could not, for my father's sake, hear of such an outrageous proposal for a moment. This she said with tears in her eyes, and I listened quite submissively until at last the precious darling had worn her anger out, and sat subdued and inclined to cry by the open window. I took her hand then and petted her. I told her that really my scolding was quite unmerited, as I had never heard of Jane Mullins before, and was as much amazed as she was at her visit. "All the same," I added, "I have not the slightest doubt that, with Jane Mullins at the helm, we should do splendidly." "My darling, darling West, this is just the straw too much," said mother, and then I saw that it was the straw too much, and at that moment who should come to visit us but pretty little Lady Thesiger. We turned the conversation instinctively. Lady Thesiger said-- "You have not yet gone under, either of you, you are only talking about it. You are quite fit to associate with me for the rest of the day. I want you to come for a long drive in my carriage, and afterwards we will go to the theatre together; there is a very good piece on at the Lyceum. Now, then, be quick, Westenra, get into your very smartest clothes, and Mrs. Wickham, will you also put on your bonnet and mantle?" There was never any resisting Jasmine, and we spent the rest of the day with her, and she was absolutely winning, and so pleasant that she made mother forget Jane Mullins; but then during dinner, in the queerest, most marvellous way, she drew the whole story of Jane Mullins from us both, and mother described with great pride her action in the matter. "Yes, that is all very fine," replied Jasmine; "but now I am going to say a plain truth. I am going to imitate that wonderful little Jane. My truth is this--I would fifty thousand times rather introduce my nice American friends to Jane Mullins's boarding-house than I would to yours, Westenra, for in Jane's they would have their wants attended to, and be thoroughly comfortable, whereas in yours goodness only knows if the poor darlings would get a meal fit to eat." This was being snubbed with a vengeance, and even mother looked angry, and I think she thought that Lady Thesiger had gone too far. During the play that followed, and the drive home and the subsequent night, I thought of nothing but Jane Mullins, and began more and more to repent of my rash refusal of her aid. Surely, if Providence had meant us to carry out our scheme, Providence had also supplied Jane Mullins to help us to do it, and if ever woman looked true she did, and if her references turned out satisfactory why should she not be a sort of partner-housekeeper in the concern? So the next morning early I crept into mother's room, and whispered to her all about Jane and my thoughts during the night, and begged of her to reconsider the matter. "It is very odd, West," said mother, "but what your friend Jasmine said has been coming to me in my dreams; and you know, darling, you know nothing about cooking, and I know still less, and I suppose this Miss Mullins would understand this sort of thing, so, Westenra, if your heart is quite, quite set on it, we may as well see her again." "She left her address on her visiting-card. I will go to her the moment I have finished breakfast," was my joyful response. CHAPTER VI THE BERLIN WOOL ROOM I ordered the carriage and set off, mother having declined to accompany me. Miss Mullins's address was at Highgate; she lived in a small, new-looking house, somewhere near the Archway. I daresay Jane saw me from the window, for I had scarcely run up the little path to her house, and had scarcely finished sounding the electric bell, before the door was opened by no less a person than herself. "Ah," she said, "I felt somehow that you would call; come in, Miss Wickham." Her manner was extremely cordial, there was not a trace of offence at the way in which we had both treated her the day before. She ushered me into a sort of little Berlin wool room, all looking as neat as a new pin. There was Berlin wool everywhere, on the centre-table, on the mantelpiece, on the little side-table. There were Berlin wool antimacassars and a Berlin wool screen, in which impossible birds disported themselves over impossible water, and there was a large waxwork arrangement of fruit and flowers in the centre of the mantelpiece, and there were six chairs, all with their backs decorously placed against the wall, and not a single easy chair. But the room was spick and span with cleanliness and brightness and the due effects of soap and water and furniture-polish. The little room even smelt clean. Miss Mullins motioned me to one of the hard chairs. "I must apologise for the absence of the rocking-chair," she said, "it is being mended, but I dare say being young you won't mind using that hard chair for a little." "Certainly not," I replied. "I observe that every one lounges dreadfully just now," she continued, "but I myself hate easy chairs, and as this is my own house I do not have them in it. The room is clean, but not according to your taste, eh?" "It is a nice room of its kind," I said, "but----" "You need not add any buts, I know quite well what you are thinking about," said Jane Mullins; then she stood right in front of me, facing me. "Won't you sit down?" I said. "No, thank you, I prefer standing. I only sit when I have a good deal on my mind. What is it you have come to say?" I wished she would help me, but she had evidently no intention of doing so. She stood there with her red face and her twinkling eyes, and her broad, good-humoured mouth, the very personification of homely strength, but she was not going to get me out of my difficulty. "Well," I said, stammering and colouring, "I have been thinking over your visit, and--and----" "Yes, go on." "Do you really mean it, Miss Mullins?" I said then. "Would you really like to join two such ignorant people as mother and me?" "Hark to her," said the good woman. "Look here, Miss Wickham, you have reached quite the right frame of mind, and you're not a bit ignorant, my dear, not a bit, only your knowledge and my knowledge are wide apart. My dear Miss Wickham, knowledge is power, and when we join forces and put our united knowledge into the same bag, we will have huge results, huge results, my dear--yes, it is true." "Let us talk it out," I said. "Do you really mean, Miss Wickham, that you and your mother--your aristocratic mother--are seriously thinking of entering into partnership with me?" "I don't know about mother, but I know that I am leaning very much towards the idea," I said; "and I think I ought to apologise, both for my mother and myself, for the rude way in which we treated you yesterday." "I expected it, love; I was not a bit surprised," said Jane Mullins. "I thought it best to plump out the whole scheme and allow it to simmer in your minds. Of course, at first, you were not likely to be taken with it, but you were equally likely to come round. I stayed in this morning on purpose; I was almost sure you would visit me." "You were right," I said. "I see that you are a very wise woman, and I am a silly girl." "You are a very beautiful girl, Miss Wickham, and educated according to your station. Your station and mine are far apart, but having got capital and a certain amount of sense, it would be a very good partnership, if you really think we could venture upon it." "I am willing," I said suddenly. "Then, that is right; here's my hand upon it; but don't be more impulsive to-day, my dear, than you were yesterday. You must do things properly. Here are different references of mine." She walked across the room, took up a little packet, and opened it. "This is a list of tradespeople," she said; "I should like you to write to them all; they will explain to a certain extent my financial position; they will assure you that I, Jane Mullins, have been dealing with them for the things that I require for the last seven years--a seven years' reference is long enough, is it not? But if it is not quite long enough, here is the address of the dear old Rector in Shropshire who confirmed me, and in whose Sunday-school I was trained, and who knew my father, one of the best farmers in the district. "So much for my early life, but the most important reference of all is the reference of the friend, who does not choose his or her name to be mentioned, and who is helping me with capital; not helping you, Miss Wickham, mind--not you nor Mrs. Wickham--but me _myself_, with capital to the tune of seven thousand pounds. I could not do it but for that, and as the person who is lending me this money to make this great fortune happens to be a friend of Mr. Hardcastle's, I think he, Mr. Hardcastle, will let us have the house." "Now this is all very startling and amazing," I said. "You ought to tell us your friend's name and all about it; that is, if we are to go properly into partnership." "It can't be done, my dear. The friend is a very old friend and a very true one, and Mr. Hardcastle is the one to be satisfied. The friend knows that for years I have wanted to start a boarding-house, but the friend always thought there were difficulties in the way. I was too homely, and people are grand in these days, and want some society airs and manners, which you, my dear, possess. So if we put our fortunes into one bag everything will come right, and you must trust me, that's all." I was quite silent, thinking very hard. "When I saw 17 Graham Square yesterday," continued Miss Mullins, "I said to myself, if there is a suitable house for our purpose in the whole W.C. district it is that house. What a splendid drawing-room there is, or rather two drawing-rooms; just the very rooms to entertain people in in the evening. Now if we put all our fortunes into one bag, you, my dear Miss Wickham, shall have the social part of the establishment under your wing. I will arrange all about the servants, and will see that the cooking is right, and will carve the joints at dinner; and your beautiful, graceful, aristocratic lady mother must take the head of the table. She won't have a great deal to do, but her presence will work wonders." "And do you think we shall make any money with this thing?" I said. "It is my impression that we will; indeed I am almost sure of it, but the house must be furnished suitably." "But what is your taste with regard to furniture, Miss Mullins?" I asked, and now I looked apprehensively round the little Berlin wool room. "Well, I always did incline to the primitive colours. I will be frank with you, and say honestly that I never pass by that awful shop, Liberty's in Regent Street, without shuddering. Their greens and their greys and their pinks are not my taste, love--no, and never will be; but I shall leave the furnishing to you, Miss Wickham, for I see by the tone of that dress you are now wearing that you adhere to Liberty, and like his style of decoration." "Oh, I certainly do," I replied. "Very well then, you shall furnish in Liberty style, or in any style you fancy; it does not matter to me. You know the tastes of your own set, and I hope we'll have plenty of them at No. 17, my dear. As a matter of fact, all I care about in a room is that it should be absolutely clean, free from dust, tidily arranged, and not too much furniture in it. For the rest--well, I never notice pretty things when they are about, so you need not bother about that as far as I am concerned. The house is a very large one, and although you have some furniture to meet its requirements, and what I have in this little room will do for my own sitting-room, still I have not the slightest doubt we shall have to spend about a thousand pounds in putting the house into apple-pie order; not a penny less will do the job, of that I am convinced." As I had no knowledge whatever on the subject I could neither gainsay Miss Mullins nor agree with her. "The house must be the envy of all the neighbours," she said, and a twinkle came into her eyes and a look of satisfaction round her mouth. "Oh, it shall be. How delightful you are!" I cried. "What I propose is this," said Jane Mullins; "we--your mother, you and I--sign the lease, and we three are responsible. I take one third of the profits, you a third, and your mother a third." "But surely that is not fair, for you are putting capital into it." "Not at all, it is my friend's capital, and that is the arrangement my friend would like. Come, I cannot work on any other terms. I take a third, you a third, and your mother a third. I, having experience, do the housekeeping. Having experience, I order the servants. You arrange the decorations for the table, you have the charge of the flowers and the drawing-room in the evenings. As funds permit and paying guests arrive you inaugurate amusements in the drawing-room, you make everything as sociable and as pleasant as possible. Your mother gives tone and distinction to the entire establishment." "You seem to be leaving very little for mother and me to do," I said. "Your mother cannot have much to do, for I do not think she is strong," said Miss Mullins. "She is older than I am too, and has seen a great deal of sorrow; but what she does, remember no one else can do, she gives _the tone_. It's a fact, Miss Wickham, that you may try all your life, but unless Providence has bestowed tone upon you, you cannot acquire it. Now I have no tone, and will only obtrude myself into the social circle to carve the joints at dinner; otherwise I shall be busy, extremely busy in my own domain." "Well, as far as I am concerned, I am abundantly willing to enter into this partnership," I said. "I like you very much, and I am sure you are honest and true. I will tell mother what you have said to me, and we will let you know immediately." "All I ask is that you prove me, my dear," said the little woman, and then she took my hand and gave it a firm grip. CHAPTER VII THE PAYING GUESTS Everything went smoothly after my interview with Jane Mullins. In an incredibly short space of time the contract for the house was signed. It was signed by mother, by me, and by Jane Mullins. Then we had exciting and extraordinary days hunting for that furniture which Jane considered suitable, and consulting about the servants, and the thousand and one small minutiæ of the establishment. But finally Jane took the reins into her own hands, whisking my mother and me off to the country, and telling us that we could come and take possession on the 29th of September. "There won't be any visitors in the house then," she said, "but all the same, the house will be full, from attic to cellar, before the week is out, and you had best be there beforehand. Until then enjoy yourselves." Well, I did enjoy myself very much. It was quite terrible of me, for now and then I saw such a look of sorrow on mother's face; but I really did get a wonderful heartening and cheering up by Jane, and when the weeks flew by, and the long desired day came at last, I found myself in excellent spirits, but mother looked very pale and depressed. "You will get accustomed to it," I said, "and I think in time you will learn to like it. It is a brave thing to do. I have been thinking of father so much lately, and I am quite certain that he would approve." "Do you really believe that, West?" asked my mother; "if I thought so, nothing would really matter. West, dearest, you are so brave and masculine in some things, you ought to have been a man." "I am very glad I am a woman," was my reply, "for I want to prove that women can do just as strong things as men, and just as brave things if occasion requires." So we arrived at the boarding-house, and Jane Mullins met us on the steps, and took us all over it. It was a curious house, and at the same time a very beautiful one. There was a certain mixture of tastes which gave some of the rooms an odd effect. Jane's common-sense and barbarous ideas with regard to colour, rather clashed with our æsthetic instincts and our more luxurious ideas. But the drawing-room at least was almost perfect. It was a drawing-room after mother's own heart. In reality it was a very much larger and handsomer room than the one we had left in Sumner Place, but it had a home-like look, and the colouring was in one harmonious scheme, which took away from any undue effect of size, and at the same time gave a delicious sense of space. The old pictures, too, stood on the walls, and the old lovely curtains adorned the windows; and the little easy chairs that mother loved, stood about here and there, and all the nicknacks and articles of vertu were to be found in their accustomed places; and there were flowers and large palms, and we both looked around us with a queer sense of wonder. "Why, mother," I said, "this is like coming home." "So it is," said mother, "it is extraordinary." "But Miss Mullins," I continued, "you told me you had no taste. How is it possible that you were able to decorate a room like this, and, you dear old thing, the carpet on the floor has quite a Liberty tone, and what a lovely carpet, too!" Jane absolutely blushed. When she blushed it was always the tip of her nose that blushed--it blushed a fiery red now. She looked down, and then she looked up, and said after a pause-- "I guessed that, just what I would not like you would adore, so I did the furnishing of this room on that principle. I am glad you are pleased. I don't hold myself with cut flowers, nor nicknacks, nor rubbish of that sort, but you do; and when people hold with them, and believe in them, the more they have of them round, the better pleased they are. Oh, and there's a big box of Fuller's sweetmeats on that little table. I thought you would eat those if you had no appetite for anything else." "But I have an excellent appetite," I answered; "all the same, I am delighted to see my favourite sweets. Come, mother, we will have a feast, both of us; you shall enjoy your favourite bon-bon this minute." Mother got quite merry over the box, and Jane disappeared, and in five minutes or so, a stylishly dressed parlour-maid came in with a _récherché_ tea, which we both enjoyed. Mother's bedroom was on the first floor, a small room, but a very dainty one; and this had been papered with a lovely shade of very pale gold, and the hangings and curtains were of the same colour. There was a little balcony outside the window where she could sit, and where she could keep her favourite plants, and there in its cage was her old Bully, who could pipe "Robin Adair," "Home, sweet Home," and "Charlie is my Darling." The moment he saw mother he perked himself up, and bent his little head to one side, and began piping "Charlie is my Darling" in as lively a tone as ever bullfinch possessed. I had insisted beforehand on having my room at the top of the house not far from Jane's, for of course the best bedrooms were reserved for the boarders, the boarders who had not yet come. "But I have sheafs of letters, with inquiries about the house," said Jane, "and after dinner to-night, my dear Miss Wickham, you and I must go into these matters." "And mother, too," I said. "Just as she pleases," replied Jane, "but would not the dear lady like her little reading-lamp and her new novel? I have a subscription at Mudie's, and some new books have arrived. Would it not be best for her?" "No," I said with firmness, "mother must have a voice in everything; she must not drop the reins, it would not be good for her at all." Accordingly after dinner we all sat in the drawing-room, and Jane produced the letters. Mother and I were dressed as we were accustomed to dress for the evening. Mother wore black velvet, slightly, very slightly, open at the throat, and the lace ruffles round her throat and wrists were of Brussels, and she had a figment of Brussels lace arranged with velvet and a small feather on her head. She looked charming, and very much as she might have looked if she had been going to the Duchess's for an evening reception, or to Lady Thesiger's for dinner. As to me, I wore one of the frocks I had worn last season, when I had not stepped down from society, but was in the thick of it, midst of all the gaiety and fun. Jane Mullins, however, scorned to dress for the evening. Jane wore in the morning a kind of black bombazine. I had never seen that material worn by anybody but Jane, but she adhered to it. It shone and it rustled, and was aggravating to the last degree. This was Jane's morning dress, made very plainly, and fitting close to her sturdy little figure, and her evening dress was that harsh silk which I have already mentioned. This was also worn tight and plain, and round her neck she had a white linen collar, and round her wrists immaculate white cuffs, and no cap or ornament of any kind over her thin light hair. Jane was certainly not beautiful to look at, but by this time mother and I had discovered the homely steadfastness of her abilities, and the immense good nature which seemed to radiate out of her kind eyes, and we had forgotten whether she was, strictly speaking, good-looking or not. Well, we three sat together on this first evening, and Jane produced her letters. "Here is one from a lady in the country," she began; "she wishes to come to London for the winter, and she wishes to bring a daughter with her; the daughter requires lessons in something or other, some useless accomplishment, no doubt--anyhow that is their own affair. They wish to come to London, and they want to know what we will take them for as permanent boarders. The lady's name is Mrs. Armstrong. Her letter of inquiry arrived yesterday, and ought to be answered at once. She adds in a postscript--'I hope you will do me cheap.' I don't like that postscript; it has a low, mean sort of sound about it, and I doubt if we will put up with her long, but, as she is the very first to apply for apartments, we cannot tell her that the house is full up. Now I propose that we give Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter the large front attic next to my room. If the young lady happens to be musical, and wishes to rattle away on a piano, she can have one there, and play to her heart's content without anybody being disturbed. She cannot play anywhere else that I can see, for your lady mother, my dear Miss Wickham, cannot be worried and fretted with piano tunes jingling in her ears." "West's mother must learn to put up with disagreeables," was my mother's very soft reply. But I did not want her to have any disagreeables, so I said-- "Perhaps we had better not have Mrs. Armstrong at all." "Oh, my dear," was Jane's reply, "why should my spite at that postscript turn the poor woman from a comfortable home? She shall come. We will charge three guineas a week for the two." "But that is awfully little," I replied. "It is quite as much as they will pay for the attic, and they will be awfully worrying, both of them. I feel it in my bones beforehand. They'll be much more particular than the people who pay five guineas a head for rooms on the first floor. Mark my words, Miss Wickham, it is the attic boarders who will give the trouble, but we cannot help that, for they are sure and certain, and are the backbone of the establishment. I'll write to Mrs. Armstrong, and say that if they can give us suitable references they can come for a week, in order that both parties may see if they are pleased with the other." "Shall I write, or will you?" I asked. "Well, my dear, after a bit I shall be very pleased if you will take the correspondence, which is sure to be a large item, but just at first I believe that I can put things on a more business-like footing." "Thank you very much," I said in a relieved tone. "That letter goes to-night," said Jane. She took a Swan fountain pen from its place by her waist, scribbled a word or two on the envelope of Mrs. Armstrong's letter, and laid it aside. "Now I have inquiries from a most genteel party, a Captain and Mrs. Furlong: he is a retired army man, and they are willing to pay five guineas a week between them for a comfortable bedroom." "But surely that is very little," I said again. "It is a very fair sum out of their pockets, Miss Wickham, and I think we can afford to give them a nice room looking south on the third floor, not on the second floor, and, of course, not on the first; but on the third floor we can give them that large room which is decorated with the sickly green. It will turn them bilious, poor things, if they are of my way of thinking." Accordingly Captain and Mrs. Furlong were also written to that evening, to the effect that they might enter the sacred precincts of 17 Graham Square as soon as they pleased. Two or three other people had also made inquiries, and having talked their letters over and arranged what replies were to be sent, Miss Mullins, after a certain hesitation which caused me some small astonishment, took up her final letter. "A gentleman has written who wishes to come," she said, "and I think he would be a desirable inmate." "A gentleman!" cried mother, "a gentleman alone?" "Yes, madam, an unmarried gentleman." I looked at mother. Mother's face turned a little pale. We had neither of us said anything of the possibility of there being unmarried gentlemen in the house, and I think mother had a sort of dim understanding that the entire establishment was to be filled with women and married couples. Now she glanced at Jane, and said in a hesitating voice-- "I always felt that something unpleasant would come of this." Jane stared back at her. "What do you mean, Mrs. Wickham? The gentleman to whom I allude is a real gentleman, and it would be extremely difficult for me to refuse him, because he happens to be a friend of the friend who lent me the seven thousand pounds capital." "There is a secret about that," I exclaimed, "and I think you ought to tell us." Jane looked at me out of her honest twinkling eyes, and her resolute mouth shut into a perfectly straight line; then nodding her head she said-- "We cannot refuse this gentleman; his name is Randolph. He signs himself James Randolph, and specially mentions the friend who lent the money, so I do not see, as the house is almost empty at present, how we can keep him out. I should say he must be a nice man from the way he writes. You have no objection to his coming, have you, Mrs. Wickham?" Still mother made no answer, but I saw a hot spot coming into both her cheeks. "Didn't I tell you, Westenra," she said after a pause, "that matters might be made very disagreeable and complicated? To be frank with you, Miss Mullins," she continued, "I would much rather have only married couples and ladies in the house." "Then, my dear madam, we had better close within the week," said Jane Mullins in a voice of some indignation. "You ought to have arranged for this at the time, and if you had mentioned your views I would certainly not have joined partnership with you. What we want are ladies _and_ gentlemen, and so many of them that the commonplace and the vulgar will not be able to come, because there will not be room to receive them. As to this gentleman, he has something to do in the city, and likes to live in Bloomsbury, as he considers it the most healthy part of London." Here Miss Mullins began to talk very vigorously, and the tip of her nose became suspiciously red once more. "I propose," she continued, "as he is quite indifferent to what he pays, charging Mr. Randolph five guineas a week, and giving him the small bedroom on the drawing-room floor. It is a little room, but nicely furnished. He will be a great acquisition." "May I see his letter?" asked mother. "I am sorry, Madam, but I would rather no one saw it. It mentions my friend, and of course my friend would not like his name to get out, so I must keep the letter private, but if Mr. Randolph makes himself in any way disagreeable to you ladies I am sure he will go immediately, but my impression is that you will find him a great acquisition. I will write to him to-night, and say that he can have the accommodation he requires, and ask him to name the day when he will arrive." After this we had a great deal of talk on other matters, and finally Jane retired to her premises, and mother and I sat together in the beautiful drawing-room. "Well, Westenra," said mother, "it is done. What do you think of it?" "It has only begun, mother dear. Up to the present I am charmed. What a treasure we have secured in Jane." "It is all very queer," said mother. "Why would not she show us Mr., Mr.----what was his name, Westenra?" "Randolph," I interrupted. "Why would she not show us Mr. Randolph's letter? I must say frankly that I do not like it. The fact is, West, we are not in the position we were in at Sumner Place, and we must be exceedingly circumspect. You, for instance, must be distant and cold to all the men who come here. You must be careful not to allow any one to take liberties with you. Ah, my child, did we do wrong to come? Did we do wrong? It is terrible for me to feel that you are in such an equivocal position." "Oh but, mother, I am not. I assure you I can look after myself; and then I have you with me, and Jane Mullins is such a sturdy little body. I am sure she will guide our ship, our new, delightful ship, with a flowing sail into a prosperous harbour; and I cannot see, mother, why we should not receive a man who is a real gentleman. It is the men who are not gentlemen who will be difficult to deal with. Mr. Randolph will probably be a great help to us, and for my part I am glad he is coming." "Things are exactly as I feared," said mother, and I saw her anxious eyes look across the room as though she were gazing at a vision which gave her the greatest disquietude. Early the next day I hung father's picture in such a position in the drawing-room that mother could have the eyes following her wherever she turned. She often said that she was never comfortable, nor quite at home, unless under the gaze of those eyes, and we made up our minds not to mind the fact of our new boarders asking questions about the picture, for we were intensely proud of my father, and felt that we could say in a few dignified words all that was necessary, and that my dear father would in a measure protect us in our new career. Early the next week the first boarders arrived. Three or four families came the same day. Jane said that that was best. Jane was the one who received them. She went into the hall and welcomed them in her brusque tone and took them immediately to their rooms, in each of which printed rules of the establishment were pinned up, and mother and I did not appear until just before dinner, when the different boarders had assembled in the drawing-room. "Dress for dinner and make yourself look as nice as you possibly can," was Jane's parting shot to me, and I took her advice in my own way. CHAPTER VIII THE FLOUR IN THE CAKE "Put on the least becoming dress you have got, Westenra," said mother. "And what is that?" I asked, pausing with my hand on the handle of mother's door. "Well," said my mother, considering, "it is a little difficult, for all your dresses are perfectly sweet; but I think if there is one that suits you rather less than another it is that cloudy blue with the silver gauze over it." "O mother! that is a great deal too dressy," I exclaimed. "Well, there is the pale primrose." "Too dressy again." "One of your many white dresses--but then you look exquisite in white, darling." "You had better leave it to me, mother," I said. "I promise to make myself look as plain and uninteresting and unpretentious as possible." And then I shut the door quickly and left her. The stepping down had been exciting, but the first firm footfall on our new _terra firma_ was more exciting still. The boarders and I were to meet at dinner. For the first time I was to be known to the world as Miss Wickham, who kept a boarding-house in company with her mother and a certain Miss Jane Mullins. It was not a high position according to that set in which I was born. But never mind. Just because my father had won the Victoria Cross would his daughter think nothing degrading which meant an honourable and honest livelihood. So I hastily donned a black net dress which was not too fashionable, and without any ornament whatsoever, not even a string of pearls round my neck, ran downstairs. But the dress was low and the sleeves were short, and I could not keep the crimson of excitement out of my cheeks, nor the fire of excitement out of my eyes. I ran into the drawing-room, exclaiming "Mother! mother!" and forgot for the moment that the drawing-room no longer belonged to mother and me, but was the property of our paying guests, and our house was no longer ours. Mrs. and Miss Armstrong were standing near the hearth. Mrs. Armstrong was a thin, meagre little woman, of about forty years of age. Country was written all over her--provincial country. She had faded hair and a faded complexion, and at times, and when not greatly excited, a faded manner. When she was thinking of herself she was painfully affected; when she was not thinking of herself she was hopelessly vulgar. Her daughter was a downright buxom young person, who quite held her own. Neither Mrs. nor Miss Armstrong were in evening dress, and they stared with amazement and indignation at me. Miss Armstrong's cheeks became flushed with an ugly red, but I tripped up to them just as if there were no such thing as dress in the world, and held out my hand. "How do you do?" I said. "I am glad to see you. Won't you both sit down? I hope you have found everything comfortable in your room." Then, as Mrs. Armstrong still stared at me, her eyes growing big with amazement, I said in a low voice-- "My name is Wickham. I am one of the owners of this house." "Oh, Miss Wickham," said Mrs. Armstrong, and there was a perceptible tone of relief in her voice. It did not matter how stylish Miss Wickham looked, she was still only Miss Wickham, a person of no importance whatsoever. "Come here, Marion," said Mrs. Armstrong, relapsing at once into her commonest manner. "You must not sit too near the fire, for you will get your nose red, and that is not becoming." Marion, however, drew nearer to the fire, and did not take the least notice of her mother's remark. "So you keep this boarding-house," said Mrs. Armstrong, turning to me again. "Well, I am surprised. Do you mind my making a blunt remark?" I did not answer, but I looked quietly back at her. I think something in my steady gaze disquieted her, for she uttered a nervous laugh, and then said abruptly-- "You don't look the thing, you know. You're one of the most stylish young ladies I have ever seen. Isn't she, Marion?" "She is indeed," answered Miss Marion. "I thought she was a duchess at least when she came into the room." "Come over here, Marion, and don't stare into the flames," was Mrs. Armstrong's next remark. "I didn't know," she added, "we were coming to a place of this kind. It is very gratifying to me. I suppose the bulk of the guests here will be quite up to your standard, Miss Wickham?" "I hope so," I replied. I was spared any more of my new boarders' intolerable remarks, for at that moment Mrs. and Captain Furlong appeared. He was a gentleman, and she was a lady. She was an everyday sort of little body to look at, but had the kindest heart in the world. She was neither young nor old, neither handsome nor the reverse. She was just like thousands of other women, but there was a rest and peace about her very refreshing. She was dressed suitably, and her husband wore semi-evening dress. I went up to them, talked a little, and showed them some of the most comfortable chairs in the room. We chatted on everyday matters, and then mother appeared. Dear, dear mother! Had I done right to put her in this position? She looked nervous, and yet she looked stately as I had never seen her look before. I introduced her not only to the Furlongs, who knew instinctively how to treat her, but also to Mrs. and Miss Armstrong, and then to a Mr. and Mrs. Cousins who appeared, and the three Miss Frosts, and some other people, who were all taking possession of us and our house. Oh, it was confusing on that first night. I could scarcely bear it myself. I had never guessed that the very boarders would look down on us, that just because we were ladies they would consider our position an equivocal one, and treat us accordingly. I hoped that by-and-by it might be all right, but now I knew that mother and I were passing through the most trying period of this undertaking. Some of our guests were people of refinement, who would know how to act and what to do under any circumstances, and some again were of the Armstrong type, who would be pushing and disagreeable wherever they went. Marion Armstrong, in particular, intended to make her presence felt. She had a short conversation with her mother, and then pushed her way across the room to where my own mother sat, and stood before her and began to talk in a loud, brusque, penetrating voice. "I have not been introduced to you, Madam; my name is Marion Armstrong. I have come up to London to study Art. I was rather taken aback when I saw you. You and Miss Wickham are the people who are our landladies, so to speak, and you are so different from most landladies that mother and I feel a little confused about it. Oh, thank you; you wish to know if we are comfortable. We are fairly so, all things considered; we don't _mind_ our attic room, but it's likely we'll have to say a few words to your housekeeper--Miss Mullins, I think you call her--in the morning. You doubtless, Madam, do not care to interfere with the more sordid part of your duties." At that moment, and before my really angry mother could answer, the door was opened, and there entered Jane Mullins in her usual sensible, downright silken gown, and a tall man. I glanced at him for a puzzled moment, feeling sure that I had seen him before, and yet not being quite certain. He had good features, was above the medium height, had a quiet manner and a sort of distant bearing which would make it impossible for any one to take liberties with him. Miss Mullins brought him straight across the room to mother and introduced him. I caught the name, Randolph. Mother bowed, and so did he, and then he stood close to her, talking very quietly, but so effectively, that Miss Armstrong, after staring for a moment, had to vanish nonplussed into a distant corner of the drawing-room. I saw by the way that young lady's eyes blazed that she was now intensely excited. Mother and I had startled and confused her a good deal, and Mr. Randolph finished the dazzling impression her new home was giving her. Certainly she had not expected to see a person of his type here. She admired him, I saw at a glance, immensely, and now stood near her own mother, shaking her head now and then in an ominous manner, and whispering audibly. Suddenly Jane, who was here, there, and everywhere, whisked sharply round. "Don't you know Mr. Randolph, Miss Wickham?" she said. I shook my head. She took my hand and brought me up to mother's side. "Mr. Randolph," she said, "this is our youngest hostess, Miss Westenra Wickham." Mr. Randolph bowed, said something in a cold, courteous tone, scarcely glanced at me, and then resumed his conversation with mother. CHAPTER IX THE ARTIST'S EYE During dinner I found myself seated next Miss Armstrong. Miss Armstrong was on one side of me, and her mother was at the other. I don't really know how I got placed between two such uncongenial people, but perhaps it was good for me, showing me the worst as well as the best of our position at once. I was having a cold douche with a vengeance. As we were taking our soup (I may as well say that the ménu was excellent, quite as good as many a grand West End dinner which I had attended in my palmy days), Miss Armstrong bent towards me, spilling a little of her soup as she did so, and said, in a somewhat audible whisper-- "I wish you would give me a hint about him." "About whom?" I asked in return. "Mr. Randolph; he is one of the most stylish people I have ever met. What are his tastes? Don't you know anything at all about him? Is he married, for instance?" "I never saw Mr. Randolph before, and I know nothing about him," I answered in a low, steady voice, which was in marked contrast to Miss Armstrong's buzzing, noisy whisper. "Oh my!" said that young lady, returning again to the contemplation of her soup. Her plate was taken away, and in the interval she once more led the attack. "He _is_ distingué," she said, "quite one of the upper ten. I wish you _would_ tell me where you met him before. You must have met him before, you know; he would not come to a house like this if he was not interested in you and your mother. He is a very good-looking man; I admire him myself immensely." "I don't care to make personal remarks at dinner," I said, looking steadily at the young lady. "Oh my!" she answered again to this; but as some delicious turbot was now facing her, she began to eat it, and tried to cover her mortification. Presently my neighbour to my right began to speak, and Mrs. Armstrong's manners were only a shade more intolerable than her daughter's. "Marion has come up to London to study h'Art," she said. She uttered the last word in a most emphatic tone. "Marion has a great taste for h'Art, and she wants to attend one of the schools and become an h'artist. Do you think you could give us any advice on the subject, Miss Wickham?" I answered gently that I had never studied Art myself, having no leaning in that direction. "Oh dear: now I should have said you had the h'artist's h'eye," said Mrs. Armstrong, glancing at my dress and at the way my hair was arranged as she spoke. "You are very stylish, you know; you are a good-looking girl, too, very good-looking. You don't mind me giving you a plain compliment, do you, my dear?" I made no reply, but my cheeks had never felt more hot, nor I myself more uncomfortable. Mrs. Armstrong looked me all over again, then she nodded across my back at Miss Armstrong, and said, still in her buzzing half-whisper, for the benefit of her daughter-- "Miss Wickham has got the h'artist's h'eye, and she'll help us fine, after she's got over her first amazement. She's new to this business any one can see; but, Marion, by-and-by you might ask her if she would lend you that bodice to take the pattern. I like the way it is cut so much. You have got a good plump neck, and would look well in one made like it." Marion's answer to this was, "O mother, do hush;" and thus the miserable meal proceeded. I was wondering how my own mother was getting on, and at last I ventured to glance in her direction. She was seated at the head of the table, really doing nothing in the way of carving, for the dishes, except the joints, were all handed round, and the joints Jane Mullins managed, standing up to them and carving away with a rapidity and _savoir faire_ which could not but arouse my admiration. The upper part of the table seemed to be in a very peaceful condition, and I presently perceived that Mr. Randolph led the conversation. He was having an argument on a subject of public interest with Captain Furlong, and Captain Furlong was replying, and Mr. Randolph was distinctly but in very firm language showing the worthy captain that he was in the wrong, and Mrs. Furlong was laughing, and mother was listening with a pleased flush on her cheeks. After all the dear mother was happy, she was not in the thick of the storm, she was not assailed by two of the most terrible women it had ever been my lot to encounter. The meal came to an end, and at last we left the room. "Stay one minute behind, dear," said Jane Mullins to me. I did so. She took me into her tiny little parlour on the ground floor. "Now then, Miss Wickham, what's the matter? You just look as if you were ready to burst into tears. What's up? Don't you think our first dinner was very successful--a good long table all surrounded with people pleased with their dinner, and in high good humour, and you were the cause of the success, let me tell you, dear. They will talk of you right and left. This boarding-house will never be empty from this night out, mark my words; and I never was wrong yet in a matter of plain common-sense." "But oh, dear!" I cried, and I sank into a chair, and I am sure the tears filled my eyes; "the company are so mixed, Miss Mullins, so terribly mixed." "It takes a lot of mixing to make a good cake," was Jane's somewhat ambiguous answer. "Now, what do you mean?" "Well, any one can see with half an eye that you object to Mrs. and Miss Armstrong, and I will own they are not the sort of folks a young lady like yourself is accustomed to associate with; but all the same, if we stay here and turn this house into a good commercial success, we must put up with those sort of people, they are, so to speak, the support of an establishment of this sort. I call them the flour of the cake. Now, flour is not interesting stuff, at least uncombined with other things; but you cannot make a cake without it. People of that sort will go to the attics, and if we don't let the attics, my dear Miss Wickham, the thing won't pay. Every attic in the place must be let, and to people who will pay their weekly accounts regularly, and not run up bills. It's not folks like your grand Captain Furlong, nor even like Mr. Randolph, who make these sort of places 'hum,' so to speak. This establishment shall _hum_, my dear, and hum right merrily, and be one of the most popular boarding-houses in London. But you leave people like the Armstrongs to me. To-morrow you shall sit right away from them." "No, I will not," I said stoutly, "why should you have all the burden, and mother and I all the pleasure? You are brave, Miss Mullins." "If you love me, dear, call me Jane, I can't bear the name of Mullins. From the time I could speak I hated it, and three times in my youth I hoped to change it, and three times was I disappointed. The first man jilted me, dear, and the second died, and the third went into an asylum. I'm Mullins now, and Mullins I'll be to the end. I never had much looks to boast of, and what I had have gone, so don't fret me with the knowledge that I am an old maid, but call me Jane." "Jane you shall be," I said. She really was a darling, and I loved her. I found after my interview with Jane that the time in the drawing-room passed off extremely well, and this I quickly discovered was owing to Mr. Randolph, who, without making the smallest effort to conciliate the Armstrongs, or the Cousinses, or any of the other _attic strata_, as Jane called them, kept them all more or less in order. He told a few good stories for the benefit of the company, and then he sat down to the piano and sang one or two songs. He had a nice voice, not brilliant, but sweet and a real tenor, and he pronounced his words distinctly, and every one could listen, and every one did listen with pleasure. As to Mrs. and Miss Armstrong they held their lips apart in their amazement and delight. Altogether, I felt that Mr. Randolph had made the evening a success, and that without him, notwithstanding Jane's cheery words, the thing would have been an absolute failure. Just towards the close of the evening he came up to my side. "I must congratulate you," he said. "On what?" I answered somewhat bitterly. "On your delightful home, on your bravery." He gave me a quick glance, which I could not understand, which I did not understand until many months afterwards. I was not sure at that moment whether he was laughing at me or whether he was in earnest. "I have something to thank you for," I said after a moment, "it was good of you to entertain our guests, but you must not feel that you are obliged to do so." He looked at me then again with a grave and not easily comprehended glance. "I assure you," he said slowly, "I never do anything I don't like. Pray don't thank me for exactly following my own inclinations. I was in the humour to sing, I sing most nights wherever I am. If you object to my singing pray say so, but do not condemn me to silence in the future, particularly as you have a very nice piano." "You look dreadfully out of place in this house," was my next remark; and then I said boldly, "I cannot imagine why you came." "I wonder if that is a compliment, or if it is not," said Mr. Randolph. "I do not believe I look more out of place here than you do, but it seems to me that neither of us are out of place, and that the house suits us very well. I like it; I expect I shall be extremely comfortable. Jane Mullins is an old friend of mine. I always told her, that whenever she set up a boarding-house I would live with her. For instance, did you ever eat a better dinner than you had to-night?" "I don't know," I answered, "I don't care much about dinners, but it seemed good, at least it satisfied every one." "Now I am a hopeless epicure," he said slowly. "I would not go anywhere if I was not sure that the food would be of the very best. No, Miss Wickham, I am afraid, whether you like it or not, you cannot get rid of me at present; but I must not stand talking any longer. I promised to lend your mother a book, it is one of Whittier's, I will fetch it." He left the room, came back with the book in question, and sat down by mother's side. He was decidedly good-looking, and most people would have thought him charming, but his manner to me puzzled me a good deal, and I was by no means sure that I liked him. He had grey eyes, quite ordinary in shape and colour, but they had a wonderfully quizzical glance, and I felt a sort of fear, that when he seemed to sympathise he was laughing at me; I also felt certain that I had seen him before. Who was he? How was it possible that a man of his standing should have anything to do with Jane Mullins, and yet they were excellent friends. The little woman went up to him constantly in the course of the evening, and asked his advice on all sorts of matters. What did it mean? I could not understand it! We took a few days settling down, and during that time the house became full. It was quite true that Mrs. Armstrong talked of us to her friends. The next day, indeed, she took a complete survey of the house accompanied by Jane; making frank comments on all she saw, complaining of the high prices, but never for a moment vouchsafing to give up her large front attic, which was indeed a bedroom quite comfortable enough for any lady. She must have written to her friends in the country, for other girls somewhat in appearance like Marion Armstrong joined our family circle, sat in the drawing-room in the evening, talked _at_ Mr. Randolph, and looked at him with eager, covetous eyes. Mr. Randolph was perfectly polite to these young ladies, without ever for a single moment stepping down from his own pedestal. Marion Armstrong, poke as she would, could not discover what his special tastes were. When she questioned him, he declared that he liked everything. Music?--certainly, he adored music. Art?--yes, he did sketch a little. The drama?--he went to every piece worth seeing, and generally on first nights. The opera?--he owned that a friend of his had a box for the season, and that he sometimes gave him a seat in it. Miss Armstrong grew more and more excited. She perfectly worried me with questions about this man. Where did he come from? Who was he? What was his profession? Did I think he was married! Had he a secret care? Was he laughing at us? Ah, when she asked me the last question, I found myself turning red. "You know something about him, and you don't choose to tell it," said Marion Armstrong then, and she turned to Mrs. Cousins' daughter, who had come up to town with a view of studying music, and they put their heads together, and looked unutterable things. Before we had been a fortnight in the place, all the other girls vied with me as to their dinner dress. They wore low dresses, with short sleeves, and gay colours, and their hair was fantastically curled, and they all glanced in the direction where Mr. Randolph sat. What hopes they entertained with regard to him I could never divine, but he seemed to be having the effect which Jane desired, and the attics were filling delightfully. Jane whispered to me at the end of the second week, that she feared she had made a great mistake. "Had I known that Mr. Randolph would have the effect he seems to be having," she said, "I might have doubled our prices from the very beginning, but it is quite too late now." "But why should it be necessary for us to make so much money?" I said. Jane looked at me with a queer expression. "So _much_!" she said. "Oh, we shall do, I am certain we shall do; but I am particularly anxious not to touch that seven thousand pounds capital; at least not much of it. I want the house to pay, and although it is a delightful house, and there are many guests coming and going, and it promises soon to be quite full, yet it must remain full all through the year, except just, of course, in the dull season, if it is to pay well. We might have charged more from the beginning; I see it now, but it is too late." She paused, gazed straight before her, and then continued. "We must get more people of the Captain Furlong type," she said. "I shall advertise in the _Morning Post_, and the _Standard_; I will also advertise in the _Guardian_. Advertisements in that paper are always regarded as eminently respectable. We ought to have some clergymen in the house, and some nice unmarried ladies, who will take rooms and settle down, and give a sort of religious respectable tone. We cannot have too many Miss Armstrongs about; there were six to dinner last night, and they rather overweighted the scale. Our cake will be heavy if we put so much flour into it." I laughed, and counselled Jane to advertise as soon as possible, and then ran away to my own room. I felt if this sort of thing went on much longer, if the girls of the Armstrong type came in greater and greater numbers, and if they insisted on wearing all the colours of the rainbow at dinner, and very low dresses and very short sleeves, I must take to putting on a high dress without any ornaments whatsoever, and must request mother to do likewise. Miss Armstrong was already attending an Art school, where, I cannot remember, I know it was not the Slade; and on bringing back some of her drawings, she first of all exhibited them to her friends, and then left them lying on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, evidently in the hopes of catching Mr. Randolph's eye. She did this every evening for a week without any result, but at the end of that time he caught sight of a frightfully out-of-drawing charcoal study. It was the sort of thing which made you feel rubbed the wrong way the moment you glanced at it. It evidently rubbed him the wrong way, but he stopped before it as if fascinated, raised his eyebrows slightly, and looked full into Miss Armstrong's blushing face. "You are the artist?" he said. "I am," she replied; "it is a little study." Her voice shook with emotion. "I thought so," he said again; "may I congratulate you?" He took up the drawing, looked at it with that half-quizzical, half-earnest glance, which puzzled not only Miss Armstrong and her friends but also myself, and then put it quietly back on the mantelpiece. "If you leave it there, it will get dusty and be spoiled," he said. "Is it for sale?" he continued, as if it were an after-thought. "Oh no, sir," cried Miss Armstrong, half abashed and delighted. "It is not worth any money--at least I fear it is not." "But I am so glad you like it, Mr. Randolph," said Mrs. Armstrong, now pushing vigorously to the front; "I always did say that Marion had the h'artist's soul. It shines out of her eyes, at least I am proud to think so; and Marion, my dear, if the good gentleman would _like_ the little sketch, I am sure you would be pleased to give it to him." "But I could not think of depriving Miss Armstrong of her drawing," said Mr. Randolph, immediately putting on his coldest manner. He crossed the room and seated himself near mother. "There now, ma, you have offended him," said Marion, nearly crying with vexation. CHAPTER X HER GRACE OF WILMOT On a certain morning, between twelve and one o'clock, the inhabitants of Graham Square must have felt some slight astonishment as a carriage and pair of horses dashed up to No. 17. On the panels of the carriage were seen the coronet, with the eight strawberries, which denotes the ducal rank. The coachman and footman were also in the well-known livery of the Duke of Wilmot. One of the servants got down, rang the bell, and a moment later the Duchess swept gracefully into the drawing-room, where mother and I happened to be alone. She came up to us with both hands outstretched. "My dears," she said, glancing round, "are they all out?" "I am so glad to see you, Victoria," replied mother; "but whom do you mean? Sit down, won't you?" The Duchess sank into the nearest chair. She really looked quite nervous. "Are the boarders out?" she said again; "I could not encounter them. I considered the whole question, and thought that at this hour they would, in all probability, be shopping or diverting themselves in some way. Ah, Westenra, let me look at you." "But do you really want to look at me, Duchess?" I asked somewhat audaciously. "I see you have lost none of your spirit," said the Duchess, and she patted me playfully with a large fan which she wore at her side. "There, sit down in that little chair opposite, and tell me all about everything. How is this--this curious concern going?" "You can see for yourself," I answered; "this room is not exactly an attic, is it?" "No, it is a very nice reception-room," said the Duchess, glancing approvingly around her. "It has, my dear Mary--forgive me for the remark--a little of the Mayfair look; a large room, too, nearly as large as our rooms in Grosvenor Place." "Not quite as large," I replied, "and it is not like your rooms, Duchess, but it does very well for us, and it is certainly better and more stimulating than a cottage in the country." "Ah, Westenra, you are as terribly independent as ever," said the Duchess. "What the girls of the present day are coming to!" She sighed as she spoke. "But you are a very pretty girl all the same," she continued, giving me an approving nod. "Yes, yes, and this phase will pass, of course it will pass." "Why have you come to see us to-day, Victoria?" asked my mother. "My dear friend," replied the Duchess, dropping her voice, "I have come to-day because I am devoured with curiosity. I mean to drop in occasionally. Just at present, and while the whole incident is fresh in the minds of our friends, you would scarcely like me to ask you to my receptions, but by-and-by I doubt not it can be managed. The fact is, I admire you both, and very often think of you. The Duke also is greatly tickled at the whole concern; I never saw him laugh so heartily about anything. He says that, as to Westenra, she is downright refreshing; he never heard of a girl of her stamp doing this sort of thing before. He thinks that she will make a sort of meeting-place, a sort of bond between the West and the--the--no, not the East, but this sort of neutral ground where the middle-class people live." The Duchess looked round the big room, and then glanced out at the Square. "Harrison had some difficulty in finding the place," she said, "but the British Museum guided him; it is a landmark. Even we people of Mayfair go to the British Museum sometimes. It is colossal and national, and you live close to it. Do you often study there, Westenra? Don't go too often, for stooping over those old books gives girls such a poke. But you really look quite comfortable here." "We are delightfully comfortable," I said. "We enjoy our lives immensely." "It is very nice to see you, Victoria," said mother. Then I saw by the look on mother's face that while I had supposed her to be perfectly happy, all this time she had been more or less suffering. She had missed the people of her own kind. The Duchess looked her all over. "You are out of your element here, Mary," she said, "and so is this child. It is a preposterous idea, a sort of freak of nature. I never thought Westenra would become odd; she bids fair to be very odd. I don't agree with the Duke. I don't care for odd people, they don't marry well as a rule. Of course there are exceptions. I said so to the Duke when----" "When what?" I said, seeing that she paused. "Nothing, my love, nothing. I have come here, Westenra, to let you and your mother know that whenever you like to step up again I will give you a helping hand." "Oh, we are never going back to the old life," I said. "We could not afford it, and I don't know either that we should care to live as we did--should we, Mummy? We know our true friends now." "That is unkind, my child. The fact is, it is the idea of the _boarding-house_ that all your friends shrink from. If you and your mother had taken a nice house in the country, not a large and expensive house, but a fairly respectable one, with a little ground round, I and other people I know might have got ladies to live with you and to pay you well. Our special friends who wanted change and quiet might have been very glad to go to you for two or three weeks, but you must see for yourselves, both of you, that this sort of thing is impossible. Nevertheless, I came here to-day to say that whenever, Westenra, you step up, you will find your old friend----" "And godmother," I said. "And godmother," she repeated, "willing to give you a helping hand." "When you became my godmother," I said slowly (oh, I know I was very rude, but I could not quite help myself), "you promised for me, did you not, that I should not love the world?" The Duchess gazed at me out of her round, good-humoured brown eyes. "We all know just what that means," she said. "No, we do not," I answered. "I think very few people do know or realise it in the very least. Now stepping back again might mean the world; perhaps mother and I would rather stay where we are." As I spoke I got up impatiently and walked to one of the windows, and just then I saw Mr. Randolph coming up the steps. As a rule he was seldom in to lunch; he was an erratic individual, always sleeping in the house, and generally some time during the day having a little chat with mother, but for the rest he was seldom present at any of our meals except late dinner. Why was he coming to lunch to-day? I heard his step on the stairs, he had a light, springy step, the drawing-room door opened and he came in. "Ah, Jim," said the Duchess, "I scarcely expected to see you here." She got up and held out her hand; he grasped it. I thought his face wore a peculiar expression. I am not quite certain about this, for I could not see him very well from where I was standing, but I did notice that the Duchess immediately became on her guard. She dropped his hand and turned to mother. "I met Mr. Randolph last year in Italy," she said. Mother now entered into conversation with them both, and I stood by the window looking out into the square, and wondering why the Duchess had coloured when she saw him. Why had she called him Jim? If she only met him last year abroad it was scarcely likely that she would be intimate enough to speak to him by his Christian name. A moment later she rose. "You may take me down to my carriage, Jim," she said. "Good-bye, Westenra; you are a naughty girl, full of defiance, and you think your old godmother very unkind, but whenever you step up I shall be waiting to help you. Good-bye, good-bye. Oh hurry, please, Mr. Randolph, some of those creatures may be coming in. Good-bye, dear, good-bye." She nodded to mother, laid her hand lightly on Mr. Randolph's arm, who took her down and put her into her carriage. They spoke together for a moment, I watched them from behind the drawing-room curtains, then the carriage rolled away, and the square was left to its usual solid respectability. Doctors' carriages did occasionally drive through it, and flourishing doctors drove a pair of horses as often as not, but the strawberry on the panels showed itself no more for many a long day in that region. At lunch the boarders were in a perfect state of ferment. Even Captain and Mrs. Furlong were inclined to be subservient. Did we really know the Duchess of Wilmot? Captain Furlong was quite up in the annals of the nobility. This was one of his little weaknesses, for he was quite in every sense of the word a gentleman; but he did rather air his knowledge of this smart lady and of that whom he had happened to meet in the course of his wanderings. "There are few women I admire more than the Duchess of Wilmot," he said to mother, "she is so charitable, so good. She was a Silchester, you know, she comes of a long and noble line. For my part, I believe strongly in heredity. Have you known the Duchess long, Mrs. Wickham?" "All my life," answered mother simply. "Really! All your life?" "Yes," she replied, "we were brought up in the same village." The servant came up with vegetables, and mother helped herself. Captain Furlong looked a little more satisfied. Mrs. Armstrong gave me a violent nudge in the side. "I suppose your mother was the clergyman's daughter?" she said. "The great people generally patronise the daughters of the clergy in the places where they live. I have often noticed it. I said so to Marion last night. I said, if only, Marion, you could get into that set, you would begin to know the upper ten, clergymen are so respectable; but Marion, if you'll believe it, will have nothing to do with them. She says she would not be a curate's wife for the world. What I say is this, she wouldn't always be a curate's wife, for he would be sure to get a living, and if he were a smart preacher, he might be a dean by-and-by, or even a bishop, just think of it. But Marion shuts her eyes to all these possibilities, and says that nothing would give her greater torture than teaching in Sunday-school and having mothers' meetings. With her h'artistic soul I suppose it is scarcely to be expected that she should take to that kind of employment. And your mother was the clergyman's daughter, was she not?" "No," I answered. I did not add any more. I did not repeat either that the Duchess happened to be my godmother. I turned the conversation. Mr. Randolph sat near mother and talked to her, and soon other things occupied the attention of the boarders, and the Duchess's visit ceased to be the topic of conversation. On the next evening but one, Mr. Randolph came to my side. "I heard your mother say, Miss Wickham, that you are both fond of the theatre. Now I happen to have secured, through a friend, three tickets for the first night of Macbeth. I should be so glad if you would allow me to take you and Mrs. Wickham to the Lyceum." "And I should like it, Westenra," said mother--she came up while he was speaking. Miss Armstrong happened to be standing near, and I am sure she overheard. Her face turned a dull red, she walked a step or two away. I thought for a moment. I should have greatly preferred to refuse; I was beginning, I could not tell why, to have an uneasy feeling with regard to Mr. Randolph--there was a sort of mystery about his staying in the house, and why did the Duchess know him, and why did she call him Jim. But my mother's gentle face and the longing in her eyes made me reply-- "If mother likes it, of course I shall like it. Thank you very much for asking us." "I hope you will enjoy it," was his reply, "I am glad you will come." He did not allude again to the matter, but talked on indifferent subjects. We were to go to the Lyceum on the following evening. The next day early I went into mother's room. Mother was not at all as strong as I could have wished. She had a slight cough, and there was a faded, fagged sort of look about her, a look I had never seen when we lived in Mayfair. She was subject to palpitations of the heart too, and often turned quite faint when she went through any additional exertion. These symptoms had begun soon after our arrival at 17 Graham Square. She had never had them in the bygone days, when her friends came to see her and she went to see them. Was mother too old for this transplanting? Was it a little rough on her? Thoughts like these made me very gentle whenever I was in my dear mother's presence, and I was willing and longing to forget myself, if only she might be happy. "What kind of day is it, Westenra?" she said the moment I put in an appearance. She was not up yet, she was lying in bed supported by pillows. Her dear, fragile beautiful face looked something like the most delicate old porcelain. She was sipping a cup of strong soup, which Jane Mullins had just sent up to her. "O Mummy!" I said, kissing her frantically, "are you ill? What is the matter?" "No, my darling, I am quite as well as usual," she answered, "a little weak, but that is nothing. I am tired sometimes, Westenra." "Tired, but you don't do a great deal," I said. "That's just it, my love, I do too little. If I had more to do I should be better." "More visiting, I suppose, and that sort of thing?" I said. "Yes," she answered very gently, "more visiting, more variety, more exchange of ideas--if it were not for Mr. Randolph." "You like him?" I said. "Don't you, my darling?" "I don't know, mother, I am not sure about him. Who is he?" "A nice gentlemanly fellow." "Mother, I sometimes think he is other than what he seems, we know nothing whatever about him." "He is a friend of Jane Mullins's," said mother. "But, mother, how can that be? He is not really a friend of Jane Mullins's. Honest little Jane belongs essentially to the people. You have only to look from one face to the other to see what a wide gulf there is between them. He is accustomed to good society; he is a man of the world. Mother, I am certain he is keeping something to himself. I cannot understand why he lives here. Why should he live here?" "He likes it," answered mother. "He enjoys his many conversations with me. He likes the neighbourhood. He says Bloomsbury is far more healthy than Mayfair." "Mother, dear, is it likely that such a man would think much about his health." "I am sorry you are prejudiced against him," said mother, and a fretful quaver came into her voice. "Well," she added, "I am glad the day is fine, we shall enjoy our little expedition this evening." "But are you sure it won't be too much for you?" "Too much! I am so wanting to go," said mother. "Then that is right, and I am delighted." "By the way," continued mother, "I had a note this morning from Mr. Randolph; he wants us to dine with him first at the Hotel Cecil." "Mother!" "Yes, darling; is there any objection?" "Oh, I don't like it," I continued; "why should we put ourselves under an obligation to him?" "I do not think, Westenra, you need be afraid; if I think it right to go you need have no scruples." "Of course I understand that," I answered, "and if it were any one else I should not think twice about it. If the Duchess, for instance, asked us to dine with her, and if she took us afterwards to the theatre I should quite rejoice, but I am puzzled about Mr. Randolph." "Prejudiced, you mean, dear; but never mind, you are young. As long as you have me with you, you need have no scruples. I have written a line to him to say that we will be pleased to dine with him. He is to meet us at the hotel, and is sending a carriage for us here. I own I shall be very glad once in a way to eat at a table where Mrs. Armstrong is not." "I have always tried to keep Mrs. Armstrong out of your way, mother." "Yes, darling; but she irritates me all the same. However, she is a good soul, and I must learn to put up with her. Now then, West, what will you wear to-night?" "Something very quiet," I answered. "One of your white dresses." "I have only white silk, that is too much." "You can make it simpler; you can take away ornaments and flowers. I want to see you in white again. I am perfectly tired of that black dress which you put on every evening." I left mother soon afterwards, and the rest of the day proceeded in the usual routine. I would not confess even to myself that I was glad I was going to the Lyceum with Mr. Randolph and mother, but when I saw a new interest in her face and a brightness in her voice, I tried to be pleased on her account. After all, she was the one to be considered. If it gave her pleasure it was all as it should be. When I went upstairs finally to dress for this occasion, which seemed in the eyes of Jane Mullins to be a very great occasion, she (Jane) followed me to my door. I heard her knock on the panels, and told her to come in with some impatience in my voice. "Now that is right," she said; "I was hoping you would not put on that dismal black. Young things should be in white." "Jane," I said, turning suddenly round and speaking with great abruptness, "what part of the cake do you suppose Mr. Randolph represents?" Jane paused for a moment; there came a twinkle into her eyes. "Well, now," she said, "I should like to ask you that question myself, say in a year's time." "I have asked it of you now," I said; "answer, please." "Let's call him the nutmeg," said Jane. "We put nutmeg into some kinds of rich cake. It strikes me that the cake of this establishment is becoming very rich and complicated now. It gives a rare flavour, does nutmeg, used judiciously." "I know nothing about it," I answered with impatience. "What part of the cake is mother?" "Oh, the ornamental icing," said Jane at once; "it gives tone to the whole." "And I, Jane, I?" "A dash of spirit, which we put in at the end to give the subtle flavour," was Jane's immediate response. "Thank you, Jane, you are very complimentary." "To return to your dress, dear, I am glad you are wearing white." "I am putting on white to please mother," I replied, "otherwise I should not wear it. To tell the truth, I never felt less disposed for an evening's amusement in my life." "Then that is extremely wrong of you, Westenra. They are all envying you downstairs. As to poor Miss Armstrong, she would give her eyes to go. They are every one of them in the drawing-room, and dressed in their showiest, and it has leaked out that you won't be there, nor Mrs. Wickham, nor--nor Mr. Randolph, and that I'll be the only one to keep the place in order to-night. I do trust those attic boarders won't get the better of me, for I have a spice of temper in me when I am roused, and those attics do rouse me sometimes almost beyond endurance. As I said before, we get too much of the attic element in the house, and if we don't look sharp the cake will be too heavy." "That would never do," I replied. I was hurriedly fastening on my white dress as I spoke. It was of a creamy shade, and hung in graceful folds, and I felt something like the Westenra of old times as I gathered up my fan and white gloves, and wrapped my opera cloak round me. I was ready. My dress was simplicity itself, but it suited me. I noticed how slim and tall I looked, and then ran downstairs, determined to forget myself and to devote the whole evening to making mother as happy as woman could be. Mother was seated in the drawing-room, looking stately, a little nervous, and very beautiful. The ladies of the establishment were fussing round her. They had already made her into a sort of queen, and she certainly looked regal to-night. The servant came up and announced that the carriage was waiting. We went downstairs. It was a little brougham, dull chocolate in colour. A coachman in quiet livery sat on the box; a footman opened the door for us. The brougham was drawn by a pair of chestnuts. "Most unsuitable," I murmured to myself. "What sort of man is Mr. Randolph?" Mother, however, looked quite at home and happy in the little brougham. She got in, and we drove off. It was now the middle of November, and I am sure several faces were pressed against the glass of the drawing-room windows as we were whirled rapidly out of the Square. CHAPTER XI WHY DID HE DO IT? Mr. Randolph had engaged a private room at the hotel. We sat down three to dinner. During the first pause I bent towards him and said in a semi-whisper-- "Why did you send that grand carriage for us?" "Did it annoy you?" he asked, slightly raising his brows, and that quizzical and yet fascinating light coming into his eyes. "Yes," I replied. "It was unsuitable." "I do not agree with you, Westenra," said mother. "It was unsuitable," I continued. "When we stepped into our present position we meant to stay in it. Mr. Randolph humiliates us when he sends unsuitable carriages for us." "It happened to be my friend's carriage," he answered simply. "He lent it to me--the friend who has also given me tickets for the Lyceum. I am sorry. I won't transgress again in the same way." His tone did not show a trace of annoyance, and he continued to speak in his usual tranquil fashion. As to mother, she was leaning back in her chair and eating a little, a very little, of the many good things provided, and looking simply radiant. She was quite at home. I saw by the expression on her face that she had absolutely forgotten the boarding-house; the attics were as if they had never existed; the third floor and the second floor boarders had vanished completely from her memory. Even Jane Mullins was not. She and I were as we used to be; our old house in Sumner Place was still our home. We had our own carriage, we had our own friends. We belonged to Mayfair. Mother had forgotten Bloomsbury, and what I feared she considered its many trials. Mr. Randolph talked as pleasantly and cheerfully as man could talk, keeping clear of shoals, and conducting us into the smoothest and pleasantest waters. When dinner was over he led us to the same unsuitable carriage and we drove to the Lyceum. We had a very nice box on the first tier, and saw the magnificent play to perfection. Mr. Randolph made me take one of the front chairs, and I saw many of my old friends. Lady Thesiger kissed her hand to me two or three times, and at the first curtain paid us both a brief visit. "Ah," she said, "this is nice; your trial scheme is over, Westenra, and you are back again." "Nothing of the kind," I answered, colouring with vexation. "Introduce me to your friend, won't you?" she continued, looking at Mr. Randolph with a queer half amused gaze. I introduced him. Lady Thesiger entered into conversation. Presently she beckoned me out of the box. "Come and sit with me in my box during the next act," she said, "I have a great deal to say to you." "But I don't want to leave mother," I replied. "Nonsense! that cavalier of hers, that delightful young man, how handsome and distinguished looking he is! will take care of her. What do you say his name is--Randolph, Randolph--let me think, it is a good name. Do you know anything about him?" "Nothing whatever, he happens to be one of our boarders," I replied. "He has taken a fancy to mother, and gave us tickets and brought us to this box to-night." Jasmine looked me all over. "I must say you have not at all the appearance of a young woman who has stepped down in the social scale," she remarked. "What a pretty dress that is, and you have a nicer colour than ever in your cheeks. Do you know that you are a very handsome girl?" "You have told me so before, but I detest compliments," was my brusque rejoinder. "Oh! I can see that you are as queer and eccentric as ever. Now I tell you what it is, it is my opinion that you're not poor at all, and that you are doing all this for a freak." "And suppose that were the case, what difference would it make?" I inquired. "Oh! in that case," answered Lady Thesiger, "your friends would simply think you eccentric, and love you more than ever. It is the fashion to be eccentric now, it is poverty that crushes, you must know that." "Yes," I answered with bitterness, "it is poverty that crushes. Well, then, from that point of view we are crushed, for we are desperately poor. But in our present nice comfortable house, even contaminated as we are by our paying guests, we do not feel our poverty, for we have all the good things of life around us, and the whole place seems very flourishing. Why don't you come to see us, Jasmine?" "I am afraid you will want me to recommend my friends to go to you, and I really cannot, Westenra, I cannot." "But why should you not recommend them?" "They will get to know that you were, that you belonged, that you"--Jasmine stopped and coloured high. "I cannot do it," she said, "you must not expect it." "I won't," I replied with some pride. "But all the same, I will come some morning," she continued. "You look so nice, and Mr. Randolph is so--by the way, what Randolph is he? I must find out all about him. Do question him about the county he comes from." I did not answer, and having said good-bye to Jasmine, returned to our own box. The play came to an end, and we went home. Mother had gone up to her room. Mr. Randolph and I found ourselves for a moment alone. "This evening has done her good," he said, glancing at me in an interrogative fashion. "Are you talking of mother?" I replied. "Yes, you must see how much brighter she appeared. Do you think it did really help her?" "I do not understand you," I replied; "help her? She enjoyed it, of course." "But can't you see for yourself," he continued, and his voice was emphatic and his eyes shone with suppressed indignation, "that your mother is starving. She will not complain; she is one of the best and sweetest women I have ever met, but all the same, I am anxious about her, this life does not suit her--not at all." "I am sure you are mistaken; I do not think mother is as miserable as you make her out to be," I replied. "I know, of course, she enjoyed this evening." "She must have more evenings like this," he continued; "many more, and you must not be angry if I try to make things pleasant for her." "Mr. Randolph," I said impulsively, "you puzzle me dreadfully. I cannot imagine why you live with us; you do not belong to the class of men who live in boarding-houses." "Nor do you belong to the class of girls who keep boarding-houses," he replied. "No, but circumstances have forced mother and me to do what we do. Circumstances have not forced you. It was my whim that we should earn money in this way. You don't think that I was cruel to mother. She certainly did not want to come here, it was I who insisted." "You are so young and so ignorant," he replied. "Ignorant!" I cried. "Yes, and very young." He spoke sadly. "You cannot see all that this means to an older person," he continued. "Now, do not be angry, but I have noticed for some time that your mother wants change. Will you try to accept any little amusements I may be able to procure for her in a friendly spirit? I can do much for her if it does not worry you, but if you will not enjoy her pleasures, she will not be happy either. Can you not understand?" I looked at him again, and saw that his face was honest and his eyes kind. "May I give your mother these little pleasures?" he continued; "she interests me profoundly. Some day I will tell you why I have a special reason for being interested in your mother. I cannot tell you at present, but I do not want you to misunderstand me. May I make up to her in a little measure for much that she has lost, may I?" "You may," I answered; "you are kind, I am greatly obliged to you. I will own that I was cross for a moment--you hurt my pride; but you may do what you like in future, my pride shall not rise in a hurry again." I held out my hand, he took it and wrung it. I ran upstairs, mother was sitting before her fire. She looked sweet, and her eyes were bright, and there was a new strength in her voice. "We have had a delightful evening," she said. "I hope you are not tired, my darling." "I am quite fresh," I answered. "I am so pleased you enjoyed it." "I did, dearest; did you?" "Yes, and no," I answered; "but if you are happy I am." "Sit down by me, Westenra. Let us talk a little of what has just happened." I humoured her, of course. Mr. Randolph's words had rather alarmed me. Did he see more ill-health about mother than I had noticed? was he seriously anxious about her? But now as she sat there she seemed well, very well, not at all tired, quite cheerful, and like her own self. She took my hand. Jane--dear, active, industrious Jane--had gone early to bed, but a little supper had been left ready for mother. She tasted some of the jelly, then laid the spoon down by her plate. "You were rude to Mr. Randolph at dinner, West," she said. "I am sorry if I vexed you," I answered. "But what had he done to annoy you?" "I could not bear him to send that carriage. It was so unsuitable, servants in livery and those splendid horses; and all the boarders did stare so. It seemed quite out of keeping with our present lot. But never mind, Mummy, he may bring any carriage--the Lord Mayor's, if you like--only don't look so unhappy." I felt the tears had come into my voice, but I took good care they should not reach my eyes. I bent and kissed mother on her cheek. "You want your old life, your dear old life," I said, "and your old comforts. I am very happy, and I want you to be the same. If I have made a mistake, and you are injured by this, it will break my heart." "I am not injured at all, I am happy," she said. "You like Mr. Randolph?" "I do. He belongs to the old life." "Then he is no mystery to you?" "I take him quite simply, as a good-natured fellow, who has plenty of money, and is attracted by our rather queer position," she answered, "that is all. I don't make mysteries where none may exist." "Then I will do likewise," I said cheerfully. The next morning when I awoke it seemed like a dream that we had dined at the Cecil and enjoyed the luxury of a box at the Lyceum, that we had for a brief time stepped back into our old existence. The morning was a foggy one, one of the first bad fogs of the season. The boarders were cross--breakfast was not quite as luxurious as usual; even Jane was a little late and a little put out. The boarders were very fond of porridge, and it happened to be slightly burnt that morning. There were discontented looks, and even discontented words, from more than one uninteresting individual. Then Mr. Randolph came in, looking very fresh and neat and pleasant, and sat down boldly in the vacant seat near me, and began to talk about last night. Mother never got up until after breakfast. Mrs. Armstrong gazed at me, and Miss Armstrong tossed her food about, and the other boarders, even the Furlongs, cast curious glances in our direction; but I had determined to take him at his word, and to enjoy all the pleasures he could give us; and as to Mr. Randolph himself, I don't believe any one could upset his composure. He talked a good deal about our last night's entertainment, and said that he hoped to be able to take us to the theatre again soon. Just at that moment a shrill voice sounded in his ears. "Did I hear you say, Mr. Randolph," called out Mrs. Armstrong from her place at the opposite side of the board, "that you have a large connection with the theatrical managers?" "No, you did not, Mrs. Armstrong," was his very quiet rejoinder. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure." Mrs Armstrong flushed. Miss Armstrong touched her on her arm. "Lor! mother, how queer of you," she said; "I am sure Mr. Randolph said nothing of the kind. Why, these play managers are quite a low sort of people; I'm ashamed of you, mother." "I happen to know Irving very well," said Mr. Randolph, "and also Beerbohm Tree and Wilson Barrett, and I do not think any of these distinguished men of genius are a low sort of people." "It is the exception that proves the rule," said Mrs. Armstrong, glancing at her daughter and bridling. "You should not take me up so sharp, Marion. What I was going to say was this, Mr. Randolph--can you or can you not get us tickets cheap for one of the plays. We have a great hankering to go, both me and Marion, and seeing that we are all in this house--one family, so to speak--it don't seem fair, do it, that _all_ the favour should go to one?"--here she cast a withering glance at me. Mr. Randolph turned and looked at me, and that quizzical laughing light was very bright in his eyes, then he turned towards Mrs. Armstrong, and, after a brief pause, said gently-- "What day would suit you best to go to the Lyceum?" "Oh, Mr. Randolph!" said Marion Armstrong in a voice of rapture. "Because if to-morrow night would be convenient to you two ladies," he continued, "I think I can promise you stalls. I will let you know at lunch-time." Here he rose, gave a slight bow in the direction of the Armstrongs, and left the room. "Now I have done it, and I am glad," said Mrs. Armstrong. "I do hope, ma," continued Marion, "that he means to come with us. I want to go just as Mrs. Wickham and Miss Wickham went, in the brougham with the coachman and the footman, and to have dinner at the Cecil. It must be delightful dining at the Cecil, Miss Wickham. They say that most dinners there cost five pounds, is that true?" "I cannot tell you," I replied. "Mother and I were Mr. Randolph's guests." Mrs. Armstrong looked me up and down. She thought it best at that moment to put on a very knowing look, and the expression of her face was most annoying. "Don't you ask impertinent questions, Marion," she said; "you and me must be thankful for small mercies, and for those two stalls, even if we do go as lone females. But I hope to goodness Mr. Randolph won't forget about it. If he does, I'll take the liberty to remind him. Now be off with you, Marion, your h'Art awaits you. What you may become if you take pains, goodness only knows. You may be giving tickets yourself for the theatre some day--that is, if you develop your talents to the utmost." Amongst other matters which Jane Mullins took upon her own broad shoulders was the interviewing of all strangers who came to inquire about the house. She said frankly that it would never do for me to undertake this office, and that mother was not to be worried. She was the person to do it, and she accordingly conducted this part of the business as well as--I began dimly to perceive--almost every other, for mother had next to nothing to do, and I had still less. I almost resented my position--it was not what I had dreamed about. I ought to help Jane, I ought to throw myself into the work, I ought to make things go smoothly. Dear Jane's fagged face began to appeal less to me than it had at first. Was I getting hardened? Was I getting injured? I put these questions to myself now and then, but I think without any great seriousness--I was sure that my plan was, on the whole, sensible, and I would not reproach myself for what I had done. On the evening of the day which followed our visit to the Lyceum a new inmate appeared in the drawing-room. He was a tall man, considerably over six feet in height, very lanky and thin, with a somewhat German cast of face, pale-blue eyes, a bald forehead, hair slightly inclined to be sandy, an ugly mouth with broken teeth, and a long moustache which, with all his efforts, did not conceal this defect. The new boarder was introduced to my mother and me by Jane Mullins as Mr. Albert Fanning. He bowed profoundly when the introduction was made, and gave me a bold glance. At dinner I found, rather to my annoyance, that he was placed next to me. Jane usually put strangers next to me at the table, as she said that it gave general satisfaction, and helped to keep the house full. "What sort of man is Mr. Fanning?" I asked as we were going down to dinner. "I don't know anything about him, dear," was her reply. "He pays well, generously, in fact--no less than five guineas a week. He has a room on the first floor, but not one of our largest. It is a very good thing to have him, for we don't often let the first floor rooms. It's the attics and third floors that go off so quickly. I don't know anything about him, but he seems to be somewhat of a character." I made no reply to this, but the moment we seated ourselves at table Mr. Fanning bent towards me, and said in a low voice-- "I think myself extremely honoured to have made your acquaintance, Miss Wickham." "Indeed," I answered in some surprise. "And why, may I ask?" "I have often seen you in the Park. I saw you there last season and the season before. When I heard that you and Mrs. Wickham had taken this boarding-house, I made a point of securing rooms here as quickly as possible." As he said this I felt myself shrinking away from him. I glanced in the direction of the upper part of the table, where Mr. Randolph was talking to mother. Mr. Fanning bent again towards me. "I do not wish to say anything specially personal," he remarked, "but just for once I should like to say, if I never repeat it again, that I think you are a most enterprising, and, let me repeat, most charming young lady." The servant was helping me just then to some bread. I turned my face away from Mr. Fanning, but when I looked round again he must have seen my flushed cheeks. "I am a publisher," he said, lowering his voice, which was one of his most trying characteristics whenever he addressed me. "Most girls like to hear about publishers and about books. Has the writing mania seized you yet, Miss Wickham?" "No," I replied, "I have not the slightest taste for writing. I am not the least bit imaginative." "Now, what a pity that is; but there is a great deal of writing besides the imaginative type. What I was going to say was this, that if at any time a small manuscript of yours were put in my way, it would receive the most prompt and business-like attention. I am a very business-like person. I have an enormous connection. My place of business is in Paternoster Row. The Row is devoted to books, as you know. All my books are of a go-ahead stamp; they sell by thousands. Did you ever see a publisher's office, Miss Wickham?" "No," I said. "I should be most pleased to conduct you over mine, if you liked to call some day at the Row. I could take you there immediately after luncheon, and show you the premises any day you liked. Eh! Did you speak?" "I am very much occupied with my mother, and seldom or never go anywhere without her," was my reply to this audacious proposal. I then turned my shoulder upon my aggressive neighbour, and began to talk frantically to a lady at my other side. She was a dull little woman, and I could scarcely get a word out of her. Her name was Mrs. Sampson; she was slightly deaf, and said "Eh, eh!" to each remark of mine. But she was a refuge from the intolerable Mr. Fanning, and I roused myself to be most polite to her during the remainder of the meal. CHAPTER XII TWO EXTREMES Mr. Fanning followed us upstairs after dinner. I greatly hoped that he was the sort of man who would not often frequent the drawing-room, but I soon perceived my mistake. He not only entered that apartment, but attached himself as soon as possible to my side. He was beyond doubt the most disagreeable boarder we had yet secured. Indeed, Mrs. and Miss Armstrong were delightful compared to him. I now saw Miss Armstrong glance two or three times both at him and me, and rising deliberately, I crossed the room, and with a motion of my hand, asked him to accompany me. I then introduced him to that young lady. She blushed when I did so, and bridled a little. She did not evidently think him at all objectionable. I went back immediately to my seat near mother, and could scarcely suppress a feeling of pleasure at Mr. Fanning's too evident discomfiture. I generally sang a couple of songs in the evening, and I was asked, as usual, to do so to-night. My voice was a rather sweet mezzo soprano, and I had been well taught. I sat down before the piano, as usual. When Mr. Randolph was in the room he always came and turned the pages of my music for me, but he was not present this evening, although he had dined with us; he had evidently gone out immediately afterwards. Now a voice sounded in my ears. I turned, and saw the objectionable and irrepressible Mr. Fanning. "Why did you play me that trick?" he said. "What trick?" I asked. "I do not play tricks; I do not understand you." "You do understand me perfectly well. Oh, pray do sing this song; I am sure it is charming. It is an old English ditty, is it not?--'Begone, Dull Care, You and I will Never Agree.' Now, that is just my way of thinking. I hate dismal people, and as to care, I never bother with it. To hear such a sprightly song from your lips will be indeed what I may call a pick-me-up." I almost rose from the piano, but knowing that such a proceeding would call public attention to Mr. Fanning's most unpleasant remarks, I said in a low, emphatic voice-- "I will not play for you, nor allow you to turn my music, if you talk to me as you are now doing. You must address me as you would any other lady, and I will not permit what you consider compliments." "Oh, I am sure I have no wish to offend. Sorry I spoke," he said. He did not blush--I do not think he could--but he passed his hand across his rather ugly mouth, and gave me a peculiar glance out of his queer blue eyes. He then said in a low voice-- "Believe me, it will be my utmost endeavour to make myself agreeable. I quite see what you mean. You do not want folks to remark; that's it, and I absolutely understand. But you must not play me those sort of tricks again, you know. I really cannot be introduced to ladies of the sort you just gave me an introduction to." "Miss Armstrong is an excellent girl," I said, "and I shall ask her to sing when I leave the piano. She is very talented, and has a love both for music and art." I then sang my one song, enduring the odious proximity of this most unpleasant man. I fancied I saw a conscious expression on the faces of several of our guests, and resolved that whatever happened, Mr. Fanning must leave on the following day. Such a man could not be permitted to remain in the place. Later on, as I was going to bed, there came a tap at my door. I opened it, half hoping, half fearing, that Jane herself might have come to see me. On the contrary, somewhat to my surprise, I saw Mrs. Furlong. She asked me if she might come in. I eagerly begged of her to do so, and drew a comfortable chair forward for her acceptance. "What is the matter?" I said. "Do you want to say anything special?" "I do, my dear Miss Wickham," replied the lady. "I have come for the purpose." "Yes?" I said in a slight tone of query. "How did that objectionable man, Mr. Fanning, get here?" "I suppose he came because he wanted to," I replied. "The house is open to any one who will pay, and who bears a respectable character." "The house ought only to be open to those who bear agreeable characters, and know how to act as gentlemen," replied Mrs. Furlong stoutly. "Now my husband and I dislike that person extremely, but after all the fact of whether we like him or not matters but little; it is because he tries to annoy you that we are really concerned. Would you not rather at dinner come and sit at our end of the table? It always seems very hard to us that you should sit with your housekeeper, Miss Mullins, and amongst the least nice members of the establishment." "But you must please remember," I said, "that Jane is not a housekeeper, she is one of the partners in this concern. It is kind of you to think of me, but I cannot do what you propose. I must help Jane in every way in my power. You do not know how good and true she is, and how little I really do for her. If I sat with you we should have a regular clique in the place, and by degrees the boarders would go, at least those boarders who were not included in our set." "I see," answered Mrs. Furlong. "It is all most unsuitable," she added, and she stared straight before her. After a moment's pause she looked at me again. "It is the queerest arrangement I ever heard of in all my life. Don't you think you are peculiarly unsuited to your present life?" "I don't know; I hope not." "You are a lady." "That is my birthright. The boarding-house cannot deprive me of it," I answered. "Oh, I know all that, but the life is not suitable. You will find it less and less suitable as time goes on. At present you have got your mother to protect you, but----" "What do you mean by at present I have got my mother?" I cried. "My mother is young, comparatively young; she is not more than three and forty. What do you mean, Mrs. Furlong?" "Oh nothing, dear," she said, colouring, "nothing at all. One always has, you know, in this uncertain world to contemplate the possibility of loss, but don't think again of what I have said. The fact is the life is quite as unsuitable for her as for you. You are put in a position which you cannot possibly maintain, my dear Miss Wickham. That awful man felt to-night that he had a right to pay you disagreeable attentions. Now is this thing to go on? I assure you Captain Furlong and I were quite distressed when we saw how he behaved to you when you were at the piano." The tears rushed to my eyes. "It is kind of you to sympathise with me," I said. "I am going to speak to Jane Mullins to-morrow. If possible Mr. Fanning must go." "But there is another thing," began Mrs. Furlong. She paused, and I saw that she was about to say something, even more disagreeable than anything she had yet uttered. "You have your mother, of course," she continued slowly, "but you yourself are very young, and--now I don't want to compliment you--but you are much nicer looking than many girls; you have quite a different air and appearance from any other girl in this house. Oh, I hate interfering, but your mother, Miss Wickham, must be a particularly innocent woman." "What do you mean?" I asked. "I mean Mr. Randolph," she answered, and she raised her eyes and fixed them on my face. "Mr. Randolph?" I said. "Surely you must admit that he at least is a gentleman?" "He is not only a gentleman, but he is more highly born and has more money than any one else in the house; he does not belong to the set who fill this house at all. Why does he come? This is no place for him. In one way it is quite as unsuitable to have him here as it is to have a man like Mr. Fanning here. Those two men represent opposite extremes. People will talk." "What about?" I asked. "About you, dear." "They cannot. I will not permit it." Then I said abruptly, standing up in my excitement, "After all, I don't care whether they talk or not; I was prepared for misunderstandings when I came here. Mother likes Mr. Randolph; he at least shall stay." "But, my child, it is not nice to be talked about; it is never nice for a young girl. People like my husband and myself quite understand. We know well that you and your mother are at present out of your right position, but others will not be so considerate. Mr. Randolph is always here." "You think," I said, stammering, "that he comes because----" She smiled, got up and kissed me. "What else could he come for, Westenra?" she said softly. "He comes because--because of mother," I answered. "He likes her; he told me so. He is anxious about her, for he thinks she misses her old life very much; he wants to make things easier for her. He is a very good man, and I respect him. I don't mind what any one says, I know in my heart he comes here because----" "No, you do not," said Mrs. Furlong, and she looked me full in the eyes, and I found myself colouring and stammering. "Believe me I have not intruded upon you this evening without cause," said the little woman. "I talked the matter over with my husband. I would rather Mr. Fanning were here than Mr. Randolph. Mr. Fanning is impossible, Mr. Randolph is not. He does not come here on account of your mother, he comes here because he likes you. I am very sorry; I felt I must speak; my husband agrees with me." "Do not say another word now," I said. "I am sure you mean all this kindly, but please do not say any more now. I will think over what you have said." "I will leave you then, dear," she said. She went as far as the door; she was a very kindly little woman, she was a real lady, and she meant well, but she had hurt me so indescribably that at that moment I almost hated her. When she reached the door she turned and said-- "If ever my husband and I can help you, Miss Wickham (but we are poor people), if ever we can help you, we will be glad to do so. I know you are angry with me now, but your anger won't remain, you will see who are your true friends by-and-by." She closed the door softly, and I heard her gentle steps going downstairs. I will frankly say that I did not go to bed for some time, that I paced indignantly up and down my room. I hated Jane, I hated Mr. Fanning, I still more cordially hated Mr. Randolph at that moment. Mr. Fanning must go, Mr. Randolph must go. I could not allow myself to be spoken about. How intolerable of Mr. Randolph to have come as he had done, to have forced himself upon us, to have invited us to go out with him, to have----and then I stopped, and a great lump rose in my throat, and I burst into tears, for in my heart of hearts I knew well that I did not think what he did intolerable at all, that I respected him, and--but I did not dare to allow my thoughts to go any further. I even hated myself for being good-looking, until I suddenly remembered that I had the same features as my father had. He had conquered in all the battles in which he had borne part through his life. My face must be a good one if it was like his. I would try to live up to the character which my face seemed to express, and I would immediately endeavour to get things on a different footing. Accordingly, the next day at breakfast I studiously avoided Mr. Randolph, and I equally studiously avoided Mr. Fanning. The consequence was that, being as it were between two fires, I had a most uncomfortable time, for Mr. Randolph showed me by certain glances which he threw in my direction that he was most anxious to consult me about something, and Mr. Fanning seemed to intercept these glances, and to make his own most unpleasant comments about them; and if Mr. Fanning intercepted them, so did Mrs. and Miss Armstrong. Miss Armstrong had now given up Mr. Randolph as almost hopeless with regard to a flirtation, and was turning her attention in the direction of Mr. Fanning. She talked Art _at_ Mr. Fanning assiduously all during breakfast, and having learned by some accident that he was a publisher, boldly demanded from him if he would not like her to illustrate some of his books. In reply to this he gave a profound bow, and told her, with a certain awkward jerk of his body, that he never gave orders in advance, that he never gave orders on the score of friendliness, that when it came to the relations between publisher and artist he was brutal. "That's the word for it, Miss Armstrong," he said, "I am brutal when it comes to a bargain. I try to make the very best I can for myself. I never think of the artist at all. I want all the _£ s d_ to go into my own pocket"--and here he slapped his waistcoat loudly, and uttered a harsh laugh, which showed all his broken teeth in a most disagreeable manner. Miss Armstrong and her mother seemed to think he was excellent fun, and Mrs. Armstrong said, with a quick glance first at Mr. Randolph and then at me, that it was refreshing to hear any man so frank, and that for her part she respected people who gave themselves no h'airs. Breakfast came to an end, and I sought Jane in her sanctum. "Now, Jane," I said, "you must put away your accounts, you must cease to think of housekeeping. You must listen to me." "What is it, Westenra?" she said. "Has anything vexed you?" she continued; "sit down and tell me all about it." "Several things vex me," I answered. "Jane, we must come to an understanding." "What about?" she asked in some alarm; "an understanding! I thought that was all arranged when our legal agreement was drawn up." "Oh, I know nothing about lawyers nor about legal agreements," I answered; "but, Jane, there are some things I cannot put up with, and one of them is----" "I know," she answered; "Mr. Fanning." "He is horrible, hateful; he is going to make himself most hateful to me. Jane, dear Jane, he must go." Jane looked puzzled and distressed. I expected her to say-- "He shall certainly go, my dear, I will tell him that his room is required, and that he must leave at the end of the week." But on the contrary she sighed. After a long pause she said-- "You want this house to be a success, I presume." "I certainly do, but we cannot have it a success on the present arrangement. Mr. Fanning must go, and also Mr. Randolph." "Mr. Randolph, Mr. James Randolph!" said Jane, now colouring high, and a sparkle of something, which seemed to be a curious mixture of fear and indignation, filling her eyes. "And why should he go? You do not know what you are talking about." "I do. He must go. Ask--ask Mrs. Furlong. They talk about him here, these hateful people; they put false constructions on his kindness; I know he is kind and he is a gentleman, but he does me harm, Jane, even as much harm as that horrible Mr. Fanning." "Now, look here, Westenra Wickham," said Jane Mullins. "Are you going to throw up the sponge, or are you not?" "Throw up the sponge! I certainly don't mean to fail." "You will do so if you send those two men out of the house. If you cannot hold your own, whatever men come here, you are not the girl I took you for. As to Mr. Randolph, be quite assured that he will never do anything to annoy you. If people talk let them talk. When they see nothing comes of their idle silly gossip, they will soon cease to utter it. And as to Mr. Fanning, they will equally cease to worry about him. If he pays he must stay, for as it is, it is difficult to let the first-floor rooms. People don't want to pay five guineas a week to live in Bloomsbury, and he has a small room; and it is a great relief to me that he should be here and pay so good a sum for his room. The thing must be met commercially, or I for one give it up." "You, Jane, you! then indeed we shall be ruined." "I don't really mean to, my dear child, I don't mean for a single moment to desert you; but I must say that if 17 Graham Square is to go on, it must go on commercial principles; and we cannot send our best boarders away. You ask me coolly, just because things are a little uncomfortable for you, you ask me to dismiss ten guineas a week, for Mr. Randolph pays five guineas for his room, and Mr. Fanning five guineas for his, and I don't know any other gentleman who would pay an equal sum, and we must have it to balance matters. What is to meet the rent, my dear? What is to meet the taxes? What is to meet the butcher's, the baker's, the grocer's, the fishmonger's bills if we dismissed our tenants. I often have a terrible fear that we were rash to take a great expensive house like this, and unless it is full from attic to drawing-room floor, we have not the slightest chance of meeting our expenses. Even then I fear!--but there I won't croak before the time; only, Westenra, you have to make up your mind. You can go away on a visit if you wish to, I do not counsel this for a moment, for I know you are a great attraction here. It is because you are pretty and wear nice dresses, and look different from the other boarders, that you attract them; and--yes, I will say it--Mr. Randolph also attracts them. They can get no small change out of Mr. James Randolph, so they need not try it on, but once for all we cannot decline the people who are willing to pay us good money, that is a foregone conclusion. Now you have got to accept the agreeables with the disagreeables, or this whole great scheme of yours will tumble about our heads like a pack of cards." CHAPTER XIII THE UGLY DRESS On that very day I searched through mother's wardrobe and found a piece of brown barége. It was a harsh and by no means pretty material. I held it up to the light, and asked her what she was going to do with it. "Nothing," she answered, "I bought it ten years ago at a sale of remnants, and why it has stuck to me all these years is more than I can tell." "May I have it?" was my next query. "Certainly," replied mother, "but you surely are not going to have a dress made of that ugly thing?" "May I have it?" I asked again. "Yes, dear, yes." I did not say any more with regard to the barége. I turned the conversation to indifferent matters, but when I left the room I took it with me. I made it into a parcel and took it out. I went to a little dressmaker in a street near by. I asked her if she would make the ugly brown barége into an evening dress. She measured the material, and said it was somewhat scanty. "That does not matter," I said, "I _want_ an ugly dress--can you manage to make a really ugly dress for me out of it?" "Well, Miss Wickham," she replied, fixing her pale brown eyes on my face, "I never do go in for making ugly dresses, it would be against my profession. You don't mean it, do you, Miss Wickham?" "Put your best work into it," I said, suddenly changing my tone. "Make it according to your own ideas of the fashion. Picture a young girl going to a play, or a ball, in that dress, and make it according to your own ideas." "May I trim it with golden yellow chiffon and turquoise blue silk bows?" she asked eagerly, her eyes shining. "You may," I replied, suppressing an internal shudder. I gave her a few further directions; she named a day when I should come to be fitted, and I went home. In less than a week's time the brown barége arrived back, ready for me to wear. It was made according to Annie Starr's ideas of a fashionable evening gown. It was the sort of garment which would have sent the Duchess or Lady Thesiger into fits on the spot. In the first place, the bodice was full of wrinkles, it was too wide in the waist, and too narrow across the chest, but this was a small matter to complain of. It was the irritating air of vulgarity all over the dress which was so hard to bear. But, notwithstanding all these defects, it pleased me. It would, I hoped, answer my purpose, and succeed in making me appear very unattractive in the eyes of Mr. Randolph. That evening I put on the brown barége for dinner. The yellow chiffon and the turquoise blue bows were much in evidence, and I did really feel that I was a martyr when I went downstairs in that dress with its _outré_ trimmings. When I entered the drawing-room, mother glanced up at me as if she did not know me; she then started, the colour came into her face, and she motioned me imperatively to her side. "Go upstairs at once and take that off," she said. "Oh no, mother," I answered, "there is no time now, besides I--I chose it, I admire it." "Take it off immediately, Westenra." "But it is your dear barége that you have kept for ten years," I said, trying to be playful; "I must wear it, at least to-night." I knew that I had never looked worse, and I quite gloried in the fact. I saw Mr. Randolph from his seat near mother glance at me several times in a puzzled way, and Mr. Fanning, after one or two astonished glances, during which he took in the _tout ensemble_ of the ugly robe, began to enter into a playful bear-like flirtation with Miss Armstrong. Dear brown barége, what service it was doing me! I secretly determined that it should be my dinner dress every evening until it wore itself to rags. When the turquoise blue bows became too shabby, I might substitute them for magenta ones. I felt that I had suddenly found an opening out of my difficulty. If I ceased to appear attractive, Mr. Randolph and Mr. Fanning would cease to worry me, the rest of the boarders would accept me for what I was, and my Gordian knot would be cut. Little did I guess! It was by no means so easy to carry out my fixed determination as I had hoped. In the first place, poor darling mother nearly fretted herself into an illness on account of my evening dress. She absolutely cried when she saw me in it, and said that if I was determined to deteriorate in that way, she would give up the boarding-house and go to the cottage in the country without a moment's hesitation. After wearing the dress for three or four days I was forced, very much against my will, to put on one of my pretty black dresses, and the barége made by Annie Starr resumed its place in my wardrobe. I determined to wear it now and then, however--it had already done me good service. I began to hope that neither Mr. Randolph nor Mr. Fanning thought me worth looking at when I appeared in it. On this evening, as I was dressing for dinner, I heard a wonderful bumping going on in the stairs. It was the noise made by very heavy trunks, trunks so large that they seemed scarcely able to be brought upstairs. They were arriving at the attics, too--they were entering the attic next to mine. Now that special attic had up to the present remained untenanted. It was the most disagreeable room in the house. Most of the attics were quite excellent, but this room had a decidedly sloping roof, and rather small windows, and the paper on the walls was ugly, and the accommodation scanty, and what those huge boxes were going to do there was more than I could tell. The boxes, however, entered that special attic, and then a bodily presence followed them briskly, a loud hearty voice was heard to speak. It said in cheerful tones-- "Thank you, that will do nicely. A large can of hot water, please, and a couple more candles. Thanks. What hour did you say the company dined?" The reply was made in a low tone which I could not catch, and the attic door was shut. I was down in the drawing-room in my black dress--(how comfortable I felt in it, how hateful that brown barége was, after all)--when the door was opened, and a large, stoutly-made woman, most richly dressed, came in. She had a quantity of grizzly grey hair, which was turned back from her expansive forehead; a cap of almost every colour in the rainbow bedizened her head, she wore diamond pendants in her ears, and had a flashing diamond brooch fastening the front of her dress. Her complexion was high, she had a broad mouth and a constant smile. She walked straight up to Jane Mullins. "Well," she said, "here I am. I have not unpacked my big trunk, as your servant said there was very little time before dinner. Please can you tell me when Albert will be in?" "Mr. Fanning generally comes home about now," I heard Jane say. "Mrs. Fanning, may I introduce you to my dear young friend, Miss Wickham--Mrs. Wickham has not yet appeared." To my horror I saw Miss Mullins advancing across the drawing-room, accompanied by the stout woman; they approached to my side. "May I introduce Mrs. Fanning," said Miss Mullins--"Mr. Fanning's mother." "The mother of dear, godly Albert," said the stout lady. "I am proud to say I am the mother of one of the best of sons. I am right pleased to meet you, Miss Wickham. I may as well say at once that Albert Fanning, my dear and only son, has mentioned your name to me, and with an approval which would make your young cheeks blush. Yes, I am the last person to encourage vanity in the young, but I must repeat that if you knew all that Albert has said, you would feel that flutter of the heart which only joy brings forth. Now, shall we both sit in a cosy corner and enjoy ourselves, and talk about Albert until dinner is ready?" This treat was certainly not likely to cause my young cheeks to blush. On the contrary, I felt myself turning pale, and I looked round with a desperate intention of flying to Jane for protection, when the stout lady took one of my hands. "Ah," she said, "quite up to date, a slim young hand, and a slim young figure, and a slim young face, too, for that matter. All that Albert says is true, you are a _very_ nice-looking girl. I should not say that you had much durance in you, that remains to be proved. But come, here's a cosy corner, I have a great deal to say." That hand of Mrs. Fanning's had a wonderfully clinging effect; it seemed to encircle my fingers something like an octopus, and she pulled me gently towards the corner she had in view, and presently had pinned me there, seating herself well in front of me, so that there was no possible escape. The rest of the boarders now entered the drawing-room. Mother amongst others made her appearance; she went to her accustomed corner, glanced at me, saw that I was in one of my black dresses, nodded approval, concluding in her dear mind that I had probably met some old friend in the extraordinary person who was shutting me into the corner, and took no further notice. Captain and Mrs. Furlong were well pleased to see that I was only talking to a woman, it did not matter at all to them who that woman was. And as to me I sat perfectly silent while Mrs. Fanning discoursed on Albert. She never for a single moment, I will say for her, turned the conversation into another channel. Albert was her theme, and she stuck to him with the pertinacity which would have done any leader of a debate credit. The debate was Albert. She intended before dinner was announced to give me a true insight into that remarkable man's most remarkable character. "Yes," she said, "what Albert thinks is always to the point. Since a child he never gave me what you would call a real heartache. Determined, self-willed he is; you look, the next time you see him, at his chin, you observe the cleft in the middle; there never was a chin like that yet without a mind according--a mind, so to speak, set on the duty ahead of it--a mind that is determined to conquer. That is Albert, that is my only, godly son. You observe, when you have an opportunity, Albert's eyes. Did you ever see anything more open than the way they look at you? He don't mind whether it hurts your feelings or not; if he wants to look at you, look he will." When she said this I nodded my head emphatically, for I had found this most disagreeable trait in Albert's eyes from the first moment I had been unfortunate enough to make his acquaintance. But Mrs. Fanning took my nod in high good humour. "Ah, you have observed it," she said, "and no wonder, no wonder. Now, when you get an opportunity, do pull him to pieces, feature by feature; notice his brow, how lofty it is; there's talent there, and t'aint what you would call a fly-away talent, such as those art talents that make me quite sick. He has no talent, thank Heaven, for painting or for poetry, or for any fal-lal of that kind, his talent lies in a sound business direction. Oh, he has made me roar, the way he talks of young authors and young artists, how they come to him with their wares, and how he beats them down. It's in Albert's brow where his talent for business lies. You mark his nose too, it's somewhat long and a little pointed, but it's the nose of a man who will make his mark; yes, he'll make his mark some day, and I have told him so over and over." Having gone through all Albert's features, she next proceeded to describe Albert's character, and then went on to Albert's future. From this it was an easy step to Albert's wife, and Albert's wife took up a great deal of the good woman's attention. "It is because I am thinking he'll soon be falling into the snares of matrimony that I have come to stay at 17 Graham Square," continued Mrs. Fanning. "And it's because I want my dear and godly son to get a wife who will be on the pattern of Solomon's virtuous woman that I have given up my home and broken up my establishment and come here. Now, Miss Wickham, my dear young lady, did you or did you not hear the noise of my boxes being brought upstairs?" "I certainly did," I replied. "Then you happen to occupy the bedroom next to mine?" "I do," I said. "That is very nice indeed, for often of an evening we will keep each other company and discourse on Albert, to the joy of both our hearts. The boxes are receptacles for my household gods, dear, those dear mementoes of the past, that I could not quite part with. Don't suppose for a moment that they are full of dresses, for although my taste is light and festive, Albert likes gay colours, he says they remind him of the sales of remnants in the autumn. Dear fellow, it was the most poetical thing he ever uttered, but he has said it once or twice. I can show you my household treasures when you feel disposed to have an evening's real recreation. The burden of this house, and with so delicate a mother as your good Ma, must be heavy upon a young lass like you, but Albert tells me--but there! I won't say any more just now, for you'll blush, and I don't want you to blush, and I don't want to encourage those hopes that may never be realised. I may as well whisper, though, that Albert is looking out for a wife who will be a pattern of Solomon's virtuous woman, and when he finds her, why she'll be lucky, that's all I can say." Just then the pretty silver gong sounded, and people began to stand up preparatory to going down to dinner. It was difficult even then to move Mrs. Fanning, and for a wild moment I had a fear that I might be imprisoned behind her in the drawing-room all during dinner, while she still discoursed upon Albert and his attractions. Miss Mullins, however, came to the rescue. "Come, Miss Wickham," she cried, "we must lead the way," and accordingly Jane, my mother, and I went down first, and the different boarders followed us. To my infinite distress Mrs. Fanning, being a complete stranger, had her seat next mine. I had one comfort, however, she was better than Albert; and Albert, who arrived presently himself, found that he was seated next Miss Armstrong. He nodded across at his mother. "How do, old lady," he said, "glad to find you cosily established; everything all right, eh?" "Yes, Albert, my son," replied the good woman, "everything is all right, and I have been having a long conversation about you with my interesting young friend here, Miss Westenra Wickham. By-the-by, dear, would you kindly tell me how you got that outlandish name, I never heard it before, and I do not believe it belongs to the Christian religion." "I did not know there was anything heathenish about it," I could not help answering; "it happens to be my name, and I was fully baptized by it." "I will see presently whether I can take to it," responded the old lady. "Soup? Yes, please. I will trouble you, my good girl, for (turning to the maid) a table-spoon; I never take soup with a dessert spoon. Thanks; that's better." Mrs. Fanning now gave me a few moments peace, and I found, to my great satisfaction, that she had an excellent appetite, and was also extremely critical with regard to her food. I introduced her to her next door neighbour, who happened to be a fat little woman, something like herself in build. They were both gourmands, and criticised adversely the meal to their mutual pleasure. Thus I had time to look around me, and to consider this new aspect of affairs. Things were scarcely likely to be more comfortable if Albert had now got his mother to plead his cause with me. He glanced at me several times during the meal, and once even favoured me with a broad wink--he was really intolerable. Meanwhile Miss Armstrong was all blushes and smirks. I heard her suggest to Mr. Fanning that she should go the next day to see him, and bring some of her drawings with her, and I heard him tell her in what he was pleased to call his brutal manner that he would not be at home, and if he were and she came would certainly not see her. This seemed to be considered a tremendous joke by Miss Armstrong, and her mother also joined in it, and gave Mr. Fanning a dig in the ribs, and told him that he was the soul of wit, and had the true spirit of heart. Meanwhile, Mr. Randolph, my mother, Captain and Mrs. Furlong, and the more refined portion of the establishment enjoyed themselves at the other end of the table. I saw Mr. Randolph glance down in my direction once or twice, and I am sure, although he was not able to judge of the difference, the fact of seeing me once more in my properly made black evening dress relieved his mind, for he looked quite contented, and turned in a cheerful manner to my mother, and when dinner was over, and we returned to the drawing-room, I was lucky enough to be able to escape Mrs. Fanning and to go up to the other end of the room, where I seated myself close to mother, took hold of her hand, leant against her chair, and indulged in the luxury of talking to Mr. Randolph. He was in a very good humour, and suggested that we should make a party on the following evening to another play, which was then very much in vogue. "But not in the chocolate-coloured brougham with the pair of horses," I said. "We will have a cab from the nearest stand, if you prefer it," was his instant response. "I should much," I answered. "And we will not dine at the Cecil," he continued; "we can have a sort of high tea here before we start." "That I should also like infinitely better," I answered. "It shall be as you please," was his response. Then he began to tell us something of the play which we were about to see, and I forgot all about my discomforts, and enjoyed myself well. I was putting things in order in the drawing-room that night, for this was always one of my special duties, when Mr. Fanning, who had left the room a long time ago, came back. He came up to me holding his lighted candle in his hand. I started when I saw him. "Good night," I said coldly. "Pray don't go for a moment," he said. "I have come back here on the express chance of seeing you." "I cannot wait now, Mr. Fanning," I replied. "But I really must have an interview with you, it is of the highest importance,--when can I see you alone? When can you give me an hour of your time quite undisturbed?" "Never," I answered brusquely. "Now you will forgive me for saying that that is pure nonsense. If you will not promise me an hour of your own free will I shall take the present opportunity of speaking to you." "But I shall not stay," I answered with spirit, "and you cannot keep me here against my will. Mr. Fanning, I also will take the present opportunity of telling you that you and I have nothing in common, that I dislike your singling me out for special conversations of any kind, and that I hope in the future you will clearly understand that I do not wish you to do so." "Oh, that is all very fine," he said, "but come now; what have I done to make myself obnoxious? There is the old lady upstairs, she has taken no end of a fancy to you, she says you are the most charming and the prettiest girl she has ever seen, and what have you to say against my mother? Let me tell you that she has come to this house on purpose to make your acquaintance." "I have nothing whatever to say against your mother, Mr. Fanning, but I object to the subject of conversation which she chooses to occupy her time with while talking to me. I am not in the least interested in you, and I wish you and your mother clearly to understand this fact as quickly as possible." I do not think it was in the nature of Mr. Fanning ever to look crestfallen, or my present speech might have made him do so. He did not even change colour, but he looked at me out of those eyes which his mother had so vividly described, and after a moment said softly-- "There will come a day when you will regret this. An honest heart is offered to you and you trample it in the dust, but there will come a day when you will be sorry. How do you think this establishment is working?" I was so astonished and relieved at his change of conversation that I said-- "It seems to be going very well, don't you think so?" "It is going well for my purpose," he replied, and then he added, "it is working itself out in a way that will only spell one word--RUIN. Now you ponder on that. Take it as your night-cap, and see what sort of sleep you'll have, and when next I ask for a few moments' conversation perhaps you'll not say no. I will not keep you any longer for the present." He left the room, I heard his footsteps dying down the corridor, and the next instant he had slammed his bedroom door. CHAPTER XIV ANXIETY After he had left me, and I was quite certain that I should not see him again that night, I went straight to Jane Mullins' room. Jane was generally up the last in the house, and I had not the slightest doubt I should still find her in her dinner dress, and ready for conversation. I had bidden mother good night long ago, and hoped she was sound asleep, but I did not mind disturbing Jane. I opened the door now and went in. As I expected, Jane was up; she was seated by the fire, she was looking into its depths, and did not turn round at once when I entered. The first thing she did when she became aware of the fact that there was some one else in the room besides herself, was to sigh somewhat deeply. Then she said in a low voice-- "What if it all turns out a mistake?" and then she jumped to her feet and confronted me. "Yes, dear, yes," she said. "Oh, my dear Westenra, why aren't you in bed? It is very bad indeed for young people to be up so late. You will get quite worn and wrinkled. Let me tell you, my love, that we can never get youth back again, and we ought to prize it while we have it. How old are you, Westenra, my love?" "I shall be twenty-two my next birthday," was my answer. "Ah, yes, yes, quite young, in the beautiful prime of youth. Nevertheless, the bloom can be rubbed off, and then--well, it never comes back, dear. But go to bed, Westenra, don't stay up bothering your head. I see by that frown between your brows that you are going to say something which I would rather not listen to. Don't tell me to-night, Westenra, love." "I must tell you," I answered. "I have come to see you for the purpose. You are old enough, Jane, to bear the little disagreeable things I tell you now and then. You are our mainstay, our prop, in this establishment. I cannot go on without confiding in you, and you must listen to me." "Well, child, sit down, here is a comfortable chair." Jane got up and offered me her own chair. I did not take it. "What nonsense," I said, "sit down again. Here, this little hassock at your feet will suit me far better." I seated myself as I spoke, and laid my hand across Jane's knee. "Now, that is cosy," I said. She touched my arm as though she loved to touch it, and then she laid her firm, weather-beaten hand on my shoulder, and then, as if impelled by an unwonted impulse, she bent forward and kissed me on my cheek. "You are a very nice girl. Since I knew you life has been far pleasanter to me," said Jane Mullins. "I thank you for giving me a bit of love. Whatever happens I want you to remember that." "I do," I answered; "you have very little idea how much I care for you, Jane, and how immensely I respect you. There are, I think, very few women who would have acted as you have done. I am fully convinced there is a mystery in all your actions which has not yet been explained to me, but I have not come here to-night to talk about that. I have come here to ask you one or two questions, and to tell you one or two things, and my first question is this--Why were you sighing when I came in, and why did you murmur to yourself, 'What if it all turns out a mistake?' Will you explain those words, Jane." "No," replied Jane stoutly, "for you were eavesdropping when you heard them, and there is no reason why I should explain what you had no right to listen to." "Thank you; you have answered me very sensibly, and I won't say another word on the subject of your sigh and your remarkable speech. But now to turn to the matter which has brought me to your room so late in the evening." "Well, dear, it is past midnight, and you know how early I am up. It is a little unreasonable of you; what has brought you, darling?" "Mr. Fanning has brought me." "Oh dear, oh dear, that tiresome man again," said Miss Mullins. "You don't like him yourself, do you, Jane?" "It is a great pity he is not different," said Jane, "for he is extremely well off." "O Jane! pray don't talk nonsense. Do you suppose that a person with the name of Fanning could have any interest whatever for me? Now, please, get that silly idea out of your head once for all." "Oh, as far as any use that there is in it, I have long ago got it out of my head," replied Jane; "but the thing to be considered is this, that he has not got it out of his head--nor has his mother--and that between them they can make things intensely disagreeable. Now, if Mr. Randolph was going to stay here, I should not have an anxious moment." "What do you mean?" I cried; "is Mr. Randolph going away?" A deep depression seemed suddenly to come over me; I could not quite account for it. "He is, dear; and it is because he must be absent for two or three months that I am really anxious. He will come back again; but sudden and important news obliges him to go to Australia. He is going in a fortnight, and it is that that frets him. You will be left to the tender mercies of Mr. Fanning and Mrs. Fanning, and you have got so much spirit you are sure to offend them both mortally, and then they will leave, and--oh dear, I do think that things are dark. My dear Westenra, I often wonder if we shall pull through after all." "That is what I want to speak to you about," I answered. "Mr. Fanning came into the drawing-room just now, and was very rude and very unlike a gentleman. I was alone there, and he said he had something to say to me in private, and, of course, I refused to listen. He wanted to insist on my granting him an interview, and said that he could compel me to listen if he chose. Think of any gentleman speaking like that!" "They don't mind what they say, nor what they do, when they're in love," muttered Jane. "I won't allow you to say that," I answered, springing to my feet; "the man is intolerable. Jane, he must go; there is no help for it." "He must stay, dear, and I cannot disclose all my reasons now." I stood clasping and unclasping my hands, and staring at Jane. "You knew beforehand, did you not, Westenra, that there would be disagreeables connected with this scheme?" "Of course I knew it; but I never did think that the disagreeables would resolve themselves into Mr. Fanning." "We never know beforehand where the shoe is going to pinch," remarked Jane in a sententious voice. "Well, I have something else to say," I continued. "Mr. Fanning was not only very unpleasant to me, but he told me something which I can scarcely believe. He said that our boarding-house, which seemed to be going so well, was not going well at all. He said there was only one word to spell how it was going, and that word was RUIN. O Jane! it can't be true?" "Let us hope not," said Jane, but she turned very white. "I will tell you one thing, Westenra," she continued. "If you don't want to have utter ruin you must go on behaving as nicely as ever you can, bearing with every one, being gentle and considerate, and trying to make every one happy. And in especial, you must bear with Mr. Fanning and with Mrs. Fanning; you must be particularly civil to them both, for if they go others will go; and whatever happens, Westenra, remember your mother is not to be worried. I know what I am saying, your mother is not to be worried. Your mother must never guess that things are not as right as they should be. When Mr. Randolph comes back everything will be right, but during his absence we will have to go through rather a tight place; and Albert Fanning is the sort of person who might take advantage of us, and what you must do, my dear girl, is to be guileful." "Guileful!" I cried; "never." "But you must, my love, you must be guileful and wary; you need not give him a single straw to go upon, but at the same time you must be civil. There now, that is all I can tell you for the present. Go to bed, child, for I have to do the daily accounts, and must be up at six in the morning. It's that new cook, she frets me more than I can say, she don't do things proper; and I noticed that Mrs. Fanning sniffed at her soup instead of eating it this evening, and the turbot was not as fresh as it ought to be. Go to bed, Westenra, go to bed." I left the room. There was no use in staying any longer with Jane. She certainly had not reassured me. She seemed puzzled and anxious about the establishment; and why were not things going well? And what had Mr. Fanning to do with it; and why, why was Mr. Randolph going away? The next morning after breakfast I went into the drawing-room for my usual task of dusting and arranging the furniture and refilling the vases with fresh flowers, when Mr. Randolph suddenly came in. "It will be best for you and Mrs. Wickham to meet me at the Criterion to-night," he said. "As you won't give me the opportunity of offering you dinner at the Cecil, that seems the next best thing to do. I have got a box in a good part of the house, so we need not be there more than a few minutes before it commences. I shall meet you at the entrance and conduct you to your seats." His manner showed some excitement, quite out of keeping with his ordinary demeanour, and I noticed that he scarcely glanced at me. His face was somewhat worn, too, in expression, and although he generally had himself in complete control, he now looked nearly as anxious and worried as Jane herself. He scarcely waited for my compliance with the arrangement he had proposed, but glancing at the door, spoke abruptly-- "Something unexpected and very grievous has occurred, and I am obliged to leave England by the _Smyrna_, which sails on Saturday week." "Miss Mullins told me last night that you were going away," I replied. I also now avoided looking at him. I was playing with some large sprays of mimosa which had been sent in from the market. To my dying day I shall never forget how that mimosa seemed to slip about, and would not get into the best position in the vase in which I was placing it. "Effective," he said, as he watched my movements, "but it withers quickly; it wants its native air." "I suppose so," I answered. "Have you ever seen it growing?" "No; I have never been to the South." "You have a good deal to see. I hope some day----" He broke off. "Where are you going when you do go away?" I asked. "To Sydney first, perhaps to Melbourne." "It will be nice for you to leave England during our unpleasant winter weather." "There is nothing nice about my visit," he said; "I dislike going more than I have any words to express. In particular, I am sorry to leave your mother; but before I go I want"--he dropped his voice and came a step nearer. "What?" I asked. "I am anxious that your mother should see a doctor--a specialist, I mean. I am not satisfied with her condition." "But mother is really quite well," I said impulsively. "You have not known her long, Mr. Randolph; she never was really strong. She is quite as well as she ever was." "A specialist could assure us on that point, could he not?" was his reply. "I want Dr. Reade to give me a diagnosis of her case." "Dr. Reade," I cried. "Yes; I should like her to see him between now and the day when I must leave England. I cannot possibly be back under from four to five months, and if my mind can be relieved of a very pressing anxiety, you would not deny me the satisfaction, would you?" "But why should your mind be anxious?" I asked boldly. I looked full into his face as I spoke, and then I met a look which caused me to turn faint, and yet to feel happy, as I had never felt happy before. I lowered my eyes and looked out of the window. He gave a quick sigh, and then said suddenly-- "How like your father you are." "My father? But you never knew him." "I never knew him, but I have often looked at his picture. Can you tell me how he won his V.C.?" "Saving a comrade, bringing one of his brother officers out of the thick of the fight; he received his own fatal wound in doing so. He did not survive the action two months." "A fine fellow! A splendid action," said Mr. Randolph, enthusiasm in his voice. "You will think over what I have said, and I will not keep you now. We shall meet at the Criterion this evening. Good-bye for the present." CHAPTER XV DR. READE I cannot recall anything about the play. I only know that we had excellent seats and a good view of the house, and that mother seemed to enjoy everything. As to Mr. Randolph, I doubt if he did enjoy that play. He was too much a man of the world to show any of his emotions, but I saw by a certain pallor round his mouth, and a rather dragged look about his eyes, that he was suffering, and I could not imagine why. I had always in my own mind made up a sort of story about Jim Randolph. He was one of the fortunate people of the earth; the good things of the world had fallen abundantly to his share. He was nice to look at and pleasant to talk to, and of course he had plenty of money. He could do what he pleased with his life. I had never associated him with sorrow or trial of any sort, and to see that look now in his eyes and round the corners of his somewhat sensitive and yet beautifully-cut mouth, gave me a new sensation with regard to him. The interest I felt in him immediately became accelerated tenfold. I found myself thinking of him instead of the play. I found myself anxious to watch his face. I even found, when once our eyes met (his grave and dark, mine, I daresay, bold enough and determined enough), that my heart beat fast, and the colour flew into my face; then, strange to say, the colour came into his face, dying his swarthy cheek just for a moment, but leaving it the next paler than ever. He came a little nearer to me, however, and bending forward so that mother should not hear, said in a semi-whisper-- "You have thought about what I said this morning?" "I have thought it over a good deal," I replied. "You think it can be managed?" "Dr. Anderson, mother's family physician, would do what you require, Mr. Randolph." "That is a good idea," he said. "Anderson can arrange a consultation. I will see him to-morrow, and suggest it." I did not say any more, for just then mother turned and said something to Mr. Randolph, and Mr. Randolph bent forward and talked to mother in that worshipping son-like way with which he generally addressed her. If mother had ever been blessed with a son, he could not have been more attentive nor sweeter than Jim Randolph was, and I found myself liking him more than ever, just because he was so good to mother, and my heart ached at the prospect of his enforced and long absence. So much did this thought worry me, that I could not help saying to him as we were leaving the theatre-- "I am very sorry that you are going." "Is that true?" he said. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled; all the tired expression left his eyes and mouth. "Are you saying what you mean?" he asked. "I am most truly sorry. You have become indispensable to mother; she will miss you sorely." "And you--will you miss me?" I tried to say "For mother's sake I will," but I did not utter the words. Mr. Randolph gave me a quick glance. "I have not told your mother yet that I am going," he said. "I wondered if you had," I replied. "I thought of telling her myself to-day." "Do not say anything until nearer the time," was his somewhat guarded response. "Ah! here comes the carriage." "So you did order the carriage after all," I said, seeing that the same neat brougham which he had used on the last occasion stopped the way. "You never forbade me to see you both home in the carriage," he said with a laugh. "Now then, Mrs. Wickham." Mother had been standing a little back out of the crowd. He went to her, gave her his arm, and she stepped into the carriage, just as if it belonged to her. Mother had always that way with Mr. Randolph's possessions, and sometimes her manner towards him almost annoyed me. What could it mean. Did she know something about him which I had never heard of nor guessed? The next day about noon Mr. Randolph entered Jane's sitting-room, where I often spent the mornings. "I have just come from Anderson's," he said. "He will make an appointment with Dr. Reade to see your mother to-morrow." "But on what plea?" I asked. "Mother is somewhat nervous. I am sure it would not be at all good for her to think that her indisposition was so great that two doctors must see her." "Anderson will arrange that," replied Mr. Randolph. "He has told your mother once or twice lately that he thinks her very weak, and would like her to try a new system of diet. Now Reade is a great specialist for diseases of the digestion. Both doctors will guard against any possible shock to your mother." "Well," I said somewhat petulantly, "I cannot imagine why you are nervous about her. She is quite as well as she ever was." He looked at me as if he meant to say something more, and I felt certain that he strangled a sigh which never came to the surface. The next moment he left the room, I looked round me in a state of bewilderment. In Jane's room was a bookcase, and the bookcase contained a heterogeneous mass of books of all sorts. Amongst others was a medical directory. I took it up now, and scarcely knowing why I did so, turned to the name of Reade. Dr. Reade's name was entered in the following way:-- "Reade, Henry, M.D., F.R.C.P., consulting physician to the Brompton Hospital for Consumption, London, and to the Royal Hospital for Diseases of the Chest, Ventnor." I read these qualifications over slowly, and put the book back in its place. There was nothing whatever said of Dr. Reade's qualifications for treating that vast field of indigestion to which so many sufferers were victims. I resolved to say something to Jane. "What is it?" said Jane, as she came into the room. "What is fretting you now?" "Oh, nothing," I answered. "Dr. Reade must be a very clever physician." "First-class, of course. I am so pleased your mother is going to see him." "But I thought mother was suffering very much from weakness and want of appetite." "So she is, poor dear, and I am inventing quite a new sort of soup, which is partly digested beforehand, that I think she will fancy." "But I have been looking up Dr. Reade's name. He seems to be a great doctor for consumption and other diseases of the chest. There is no allusion to his extraordinary powers of treating people for indigestion." "Well, my dear, consumptives suffer more than most folks from indigestion. Now, don't you worry your head; never meet troubles half-way. I am extremely pleased that your mother is to see Dr. Reade." On the following morning mother herself told me that Dr. Reade was coming. "It is most unnecessary," she said, "and I told Dr. Anderson so. I was only telling him yesterday that I thought his own visits need not be quite so frequent. He is such a dear, kind man, that I do not like to hurt his feelings; but really, Westenra, he charges me so little that it quite goes to my heart. And now we have not our old income, this very expensive consulting physician is not required. I told Dr. Anderson so, but he has made up his mind. He says there is no use in working in the dark, and that he believes I should be much stronger if I ate more." Dr. Reade called in the course of the morning, and Dr. Anderson came with him. They stayed in mother's room for some little time, and then they both went out, and Jane Mullins had an interview with them first, and then she sent for me. "Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you, Westenra," she said. She rushed past me as she spoke, and I could not catch sight of her face, so I went into her little sitting-room, where both the doctors were waiting for me, and closed the door behind me. I was not at all anxious. I quite believed that mother's ailment was simply want of appetite and weakness, and I had never heard of any one dying just from those causes. "Let me introduce you to Dr. Reade," said Dr. Anderson. I looked then towards the great consulting physician. He was standing with his back to the light--he was a little man, younger looking than Dr. Anderson. His hair was only beginning to turn grey, and was falling away a trifle from his temples, and he was very upright, and very thin, and had keen eyes, the keenest eyes I had ever looked at, small, grey and bright, and those eyes seemed to look through you, as though they were forcing a gimlet into the very secrets of your soul. His face was so peculiar, so intellectual, so sharp and keen, and his glance so vivid, that I became absorbed in looking at it, and forgot for the moment Dr. Anderson. Then I glanced round and found that he had vanished, and I was alone with Dr. Reade. "Won't you sit down, Miss Wickham?" he said kindly. I seated myself, and then seeing that his eyes were still on me, my heart began to beat a little more quickly, and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, and then I knew that I must brace myself up to listen to something which would be hard to bear. "I was called in to-day," said Dr. Reade, "to see your mother. I have examined her carefully--Dr. Anderson thinks that it may be best for you Miss Wickham--you seem to be a very brave sort of girl--to know the truth." "Yes, I should like to know the truth," I answered. I found these words coming out of my lips slowly, and I found I had difficulty in saying them, and my eyes seemed not to see quite so clearly as usual; and Dr. Reade's keen face seemed to vanish as if behind a mist, but then the mist cleared off, and I remembered that I was father's daughter and that it behoved me to act gallantly if occasion should require, so I got up and went towards the little doctor, and said in a quiet voice-- "You need not mind breaking it to me; I see by your face that you have bad news, but I assure you I am not going to cry nor be hysterical. Please tell me the truth quickly." "I knew you were a brave girl," he said with admiration, "and I have bad news, your mother's case is----" "What?" I asked. "A matter of time," he replied gravely; "she may live for a few months or a year--a year is the outside limit." "A few months or a year," I said. I repeated the words vaguely; and then I turned my eyes towards the window and looked past it and out into the Square. I saw a carriage drawn by a spirited pair of bays, it passed within sight of the window, and I noticed a girl seated by herself in the carriage. She had on a fashionable hat, and her hair was arranged in a very pretty way, and she had laughing eyes. I was attracted by her appearance, and I even said to myself in an uncertain sort of fashion, "I believe I could copy that hat," but then I turned away from the window and faced the doctor. "You are very brave," he repeated; "I did not think any girl would be quite so brave." "My father was a brave man," I said then; "he won his Victoria Cross." "Ah," replied Dr. Reade, "women often do just as brave actions. Their battles are silent, but none the less magnificent for that." "I always meant to get the Victoria Cross if I could," was my reply. "Well," he answered cheerfully, "I know now how to deal with things; I am very glad that you are that sort. You know that Jim Randolph is a friend of mine." It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Who is Jim Randolph? why should he be a friend of everybody worth knowing? but I did not ask the question. I put it aside and said gravely-- "The person I want to talk about is mother. In the first place, what is the matter with her?" "A very acute form of heart disease. The aortic valve is affected. She may not, and probably will not, suffer much; but at any moment, Miss Wickham, at any moment, any shock may"--he raised his hand emphatically. "You mean that any shock may kill her?" "That is what I mean." "Then she ought to be kept without anxiety?" "That is precisely what I intend." "And if this is done how long will her most precious life be prolonged?" "As I have just said, a year is about the limit." "One year," I answered. "Does she know?" "No, she has not the slightest idea, nor do I want her to be told. She is ready--would to God we were all as ready--why distress her unnecessarily? She would be anxious about you if she thought she was leaving you. It must be your province to give her no anxiety, to guard her. That is an excellent woman, Miss Mullins, she will assist you in every way. I am truly sorry that Jim Randolph has to leave England. However, there is not the slightest doubt that he will hurry home, and when he does come back, will be time sufficient to let your mother know the truth." I did not answer. Dr. Reade looked at his watch. "I must be off," he said. "I can only spare one more moment. I have made certain suggestions to my old friend Anderson, and he will propose certain arrangements which may add to your mother's comfort. I do not want her to go up and down stairs much, but at the same time she must be entertained and kept cheerful. Be assured of one thing, that in no case will she suffer. Now, I have told you all. If you should be perplexed or in any difficulty come to me at once. Come to me as your friend, and remember I am a very special friend of Jim Randolph's. Now, good-bye." He left the room. I sat after he had gone for a moment without stirring; I was not suffering exactly. We do not suffer most when the heavy blows fall, it is afterwards that the terrible agony of pain comes on. Of course I believed Dr. Reade--who could doubt him who looked into his face? I guessed him to be what he was, one of the strongest, most faithful, bravest men who ever lived--a man whose whole life was given up to the alleviation of the suffering of others. He was always warding off death, or doing all that man could do to ward it off, and in many many cases death was afraid of him, and retired from his prey, vanquished by that knowledge, that genius, that sympathy, that love for humanity, which overflowed the little doctor's personality. Just then a hand touched me, and I turned and saw Jim Randolph. "You know?" he said. I nodded. Mr. Randolph looked at me very gravely. "My suspicions have been confirmed," he said; "I always guessed that your mother's state of health was most precarious. I can scarcely explain to you the intense pain I feel in leaving her now. A girl like you ought to have some man at hand to help her, but I must go, there is no help for it. It is a terrible trial to me. I know, Miss Wickham, that you will guard your mother from all sorrows and anxieties, and so cheer her passage from this world to the next. Her death may come suddenly or gradually, there is just a possibility that she may know when she is dying, and at such a time, to know also that you are unprovided for, will give her great and terrible anxiety." Here he looked at me as if he were anxious to say more, but he restrained himself. "I cannot remove her anxiety, I must trust for the very best, and you must wait and--and _trust me_. I will come back as soon as ever I can." "But why do you go away?" I asked, "you have been kind--more than kind--to her. O Mr. Randolph! do you think I have made a mistake, a great mistake, in coming here?" "No," he said emphatically, "do not let that thought ever worry you, you have done a singularly brave thing, you can little guess what I--but there, I said I would not speak, not yet." He shut his lips, and I noticed that drawn look round his eyes and mouth. "I must go and return as fast as I can," he said abruptly. "I set myself a task, and I must carry it through to the bitter end. Only unexpected calamity drives me from England just now." "You are keeping a secret from me," I said. "I am," he replied. "Won't you tell me--is it fair to keep me in the dark?" "It is perfectly fair." "Does Jane know?" "Certainly." "And she won't tell?" "No, she won't tell." "Does mother know?" "Yes, and no. She knows something but not all, by no means all." "It puzzles me more than I can describe," I continued. "Why do you live in a place like this, why are you so interested in mother and in me? Then, too, you are a special friend of the Duchess of Wilmot's, who is also one of our oldest friends. You do not belong to the set of people who live in boarding-houses. I wish, I do wish, you would be open. It is unfair on me to keep me in the dark." "I will tell you when I return," he said, and his face was very white. "Trust me until I return." CHAPTER XVI GIVE ME YOUR PROMISE That afternoon I went out late to do some commissions for Jane. I was glad to be out and to be moving, for Dr. Reade's words kept ringing in my ears, and by degrees they were beginning to hurt. I did not want them to hurt badly until night, for nothing would induce me to break down. I had talked to mother more cheerfully than ever that afternoon, and made her laugh heartily, and put her into excellent spirits, and I bought some lovely flowers for her while I was out, and a little special dainty for her dinner. Oh, it would never do for mother to guess that I was unhappy, but I could not have kept up with that growing pain at my heart if it were not for the thought of night and solitude, the long blessed hours when I might give way, when I might let my grief, the first great grief of my life, overpower me. I was returning home, when suddenly, just before I entered the Square, I came face to face with Mr. Randolph. He was hurrying as if to meet me. When he saw me he slackened his steps and walked by my side. "This is very fortunate," he said. "I want to talk to you. Where can we go?" "But it is nearly dinner-time," I answered. "That does not matter," he replied. "I have but a very few more days in England. I have something I must say to you. Ah, here is the Square garden open; we will go in." He seemed to take my assent for granted, and I did not at all mind accompanying him. We went into the little garden in the middle of the Square. In the midst of summer, or at most in early spring, it might possibly have been a pleasant place, but now few words could explain its dreariness. The damp leaves of late autumn were lying in sodden masses on the paths. There was very little light too; once I slipped and almost fell. My companion put out his hand and caught mine. He steadied me and then dropped my hand. After a moment of silence he spoke. "You asked me to-day not to go." "For mother's sake," I replied. "I want to tell you now that if I could stay I would; that it is very great pain to me to go away. I think it is due to you that I should give you some slight explanation. I am leaving England thus suddenly because the friend who has helped Jane Mullins with a certain sum of money, in order to enable her to start this boarding-house, has suddenly heard that the capital, which he hoped was absolutely secure, is in great danger of being lost. My friend has commissioned me to see this matter through, for if his worst surmises are fulfilled Miss Mullins, and you also, Miss Wickham, and of course your mother, may find yourselves in an uncomfortable position. You remember doubtless that Mr. Hardcastle would not let you the house if there had not been some capital at the back of your proposal. Miss Mullins, who had long wished for such an opportunity, was delighted to find that she could join forces with you in the matter. Thus 17 Graham Square was started on its present lines. Now there is a possibility that the capital which Jane Mullins was to have as her share in this business may not be forthcoming. It is in jeopardy, and I am going to Australia in order to put things straight; I have every hope that I shall succeed. You may rest assured that I shall remain away for as short a time as possible. I know what grief you are in, but I hope to be back in England soon." "Is that all you have to say to me?" I asked. "Not quite all. I am most anxious that while I am away, although you are still kept in the dark, you should believe in me; I want you to trust me and also my friend. Believe that his intentions are honourable, are kind, are just, and that we are acting as we are doing both for your sake and for your mother's and for Miss Mullins'. I know that I ask quite a big thing, Miss Wickham; it is this--I ask you to trust me in the dark." "It is a big thing and difficult," I replied. "Your mother does." "That is true, but mother would trust any one who had been as kind to her as you have been." "Then will you trust me because your mother does? will you believe that when I come back I shall be in a position to set all her fears and yours also absolutely at rest? I am certain of this, I go away with a hope which I dare not express more fully; I shall come back trusting that that hope may be fulfilled in all its magnificence for myself. I cannot say more at present. I long to, but I dare not. Will you trust me? will you try to understand? Why, what is the matter?" He turned and looked at me abruptly. Quick sobs were coming from my lips. I suddenly and unexpectedly lost my self-control. "I shall be all right in a minute," I said. "I have gone through much to-day; it is--it is on account of mother. Don't--don't speak for a moment." He did not, he stood near me. When I had recovered he said gently-- "Give me your promise. I wish I could say more, much, much more, but will you trust me in the dark?" "I will," I replied. "I am sorry you are going. Thank you for being kind to mother; come back when you can." "You may be certain on that point," he replied. "I leave England with extreme unwillingness. Thank you for what you have promised." He held out his hand and I gave him mine. I felt my heart beat as my hand lay for a moment in his, his fingers closed firmly over it, then he slowly dropped it. We went back to the house. A few days afterwards Mr. Randolph went away. He went quite quietly, without making the slightest commotion. He just entered the drawing-room quickly one morning after breakfast, and shook hands with mother and shook hands with me, and said that he would be back again before either of us had missed him, and then went downstairs, and I watched behind the curtain as his luggage was put on the roof of the cab. I watched him get in. Jane Mullins was standing near. He shook hands with her. He did not once glance up at our windows, the cab rolled out of the Square and was lost to view. Then I turned round. There were tears in mother's eyes. "He is the nicest fellow I have ever met," she said, "I am so very sorry that he has gone." "Well, Mummy darling," I answered, "you are more my care than ever now." "Oh, I am not thinking of myself," said mother. She looked up at me rather uneasily. It seemed to me as if her eyes wanted to read me through, and I felt that I did not want her to read me through; I did not want any one to read what my feelings were that day. Jane Mullins came bustling up. "It is a lovely morning, and your mother must have a drive," she said. "I have ordered a carriage. It will be round in half-an-hour. You and she are to drive in the Park and be back in time for lunch, and see here, Mrs. Wickham, I want you to taste this. I have made it from a receipt in the new invalid cookery book. I think you will say that you never tasted such soup before." "Oh, you quite spoil me, Jane," said mother, but she took the soup which Jane had prepared so delicately for her, and I ran off, glad to be by myself for a few moments. At dinner that day Mrs. Fanning and Mrs. Armstrong sat side by side. Mrs. Fanning had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Armstrong, and they usually during the meal sat with their heads bent towards one another, talking eagerly, and often glancing in the direction of Albert Fanning and Miss Armstrong and me. Mrs. Fanning had an emphatic way of bobbing her head whenever she looked at me, and after giving me a steady glance, her eyes involuntarily rolled round in the direction of Mr. Fanning. I was so well aware of these glances that I now never pretended to see them, but not one of them really escaped my notice. After dinner that evening the good lady came up to my side. "Well, my dear, well," she said, "and how are you bearing up?" "Bearing up?" I answered, "I don't quite understand." Now of course no one in the boarding-house was supposed to know anything whatever with regard to mother's health. The consultation of the doctors had been so contrived that the principal boarders had been out when it took place, therefore I knew that Mrs. Fanning was not alluding to the doctors. She sat down near me. "Ah," she said, "I thought, and I told my dear son Albert, that a man of that sort would not stay very long. You are bearing up, for you are a plucky sort of girl, but you must be feeling it a good bit. I am sorry for you, you have been a silly girl, casting your eyes at places too high for you, and never seeing those good things which are laid so to speak at your very feet. You are like all the rest of the world, but if you think that my Albert will put up with other people's leavings, you are finely mistaken." "Really, Mrs. Fanning," I answered, "I am completely at a loss to know what you are talking about." Here I heard Mrs. Armstrong's hearty and coarse laugh in my ear. "Ha! ha!" said Mrs. Armstrong, "so she says she doesn't know. Well now then, we won't allude any further to the subject. Of course it ain't likely that she would give herself away. Few young ladies of the Miss Westenra Wickham type do. Whatever else they don't hold with, they hold on to their sinful pride, they quite forget that they are worms of the dust, that their fall will come, and when it comes it's bitter, that's what I say; that's what I have said to Marion, when Marion has been a little put out, poor dear, with the marked and silly attentions of one who never meant anything at all. It was only before dinner I said to Marion, 'You wouldn't like to be in Miss Wickham's shoes to-night, would you, Marion? You wouldn't like to be wearing the willow, would you, my girl?' And she said no, she wouldn't, but then she added, 'With my soul full of Art, mother, I always can have my resources,' and that is where Marion believes, that if she were so unlucky as to be crossed in love, she would have the advantage of you, Miss Wickham, for you have plainly said that you have no soul for h'Art." "All that talk of Art makes me downright sick," here interrupted Mrs. Fanning. "That's where I admire you, Miss Wickham. You are very nice to look at, and you have no nonsense about you, and it's my belief that you never cared twopence about that high-falutin' young man, and that now he has gone, you'll just know where your bread is buttered. Sit along side of me, dear, and we will have a little discourse about Albert, it's some time since we had a good round talk about my dear and godly son." CHAPTER XVII A DASH OF ONIONS It was about a fortnight later that one afternoon, soon after lunch, Mrs. Fanning came into the drawing-room. She was somewhat short-sighted, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking round her. After a time, to my great horror, she caught sight of me. If I had a moment to spare, I should have got behind the curtain, in order to avoid her, but I had not that moment; she discovered her prey, and made for me as fast as an arrow from a bow. "Ah," she said, "here you are; I am going out driving in Albert's brougham this afternoon. You didn't know, perhaps, that Albert had a brougham of his own?" "I did not," I answered. "It is a recent acquisition of his; he is becoming a wealthy man is Albert, and he started the brougham a short time ago. He had the body painted red and the wheels dark brown--I was for having the wheels yellow, because I like something distinct, but Albert said, 'No, _she_ would rather have dark brown.' Who do you think he meant by _she_, now? That's the puzzle I am putting to you. Who do you think _she_ is?" "You, of course," I answered boldly. Mrs. Fanning favoured me with a broad wink. "Ah now, that's very nice of you," she said, "but the old mother doesn't come in anywhere when the young girl appears on the horizon. It is about time for Albert to be meeting the young girl, and meet her he will. Indeed, it is my opinion that he has met her, and that the brougham which she likes is standing at the door. It is for the sake of that young girl he has had those wheels painted brown, it is not the wish of his old mother. But come for a drive with me, will you, dear?" "I am sorry," I began. "Oh no, I am not going to take any refusal. Ah, there is your precious dear mother coming into the room." Before I could interrupt her, Mrs. Fanning had gone to meet my mother. She never walked in the ordinary sense of the word, she waddled. She waddled now in her stiff brown satin across the drawing-room, and stood before mother. "And how are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Wickham?" she said; "ah! but poorly, I can tell by the look of your face, you are dreadfully blue round the lips, it's the effect of indigestion, isn't it, now?" "I have suffered a good deal lately from indigestion," replied mother in her gentle tones. "And a bad thing it is, a very bad thing," said Mrs. Fanning. "I cured myself with Williams' Pink Pills for Pale People. Did you ever try 'em, Mrs. Wickham?" "No," replied mother gravely. "Well, well, they pulled me round. Albert was terribly concerned about me a year ago. I couldn't fancy the greatest dainties you could give me, I turned against my food, and as to going upstairs, why, if you'll believe me, I could have no more taken possession of that attic next to your young daughter than I could have fled. Now there ain't a stair in Britain would daunt me; I'd be good for climbing the Monument any fine morning, and it's all owing to Williams' Pink Pills. They're a grand medicine. But what I wanted to say to you now was this: May Miss Wickham come for a drive with me in my son's own brougham? I am anxious to have an outing with her, and I see by her face she is desirous to come; may she? Say yes, madam; if you are wise, you will." I saw that mother was becoming a little excited and a little agitated, and I knew that that would never do, so I said hastily-- "Don't worry mother, please, Mrs. Fanning; I will certainly come with you for an hour or so." "We won't be back in an hour, dear," said Mrs. Fanning, "nor for two hours; we are going to enjoy ourselves with a tea out. You'll spare your daughter until she comes back, won't you, madam? I mean you won't fret about her." I was just about absolutely to refuse, when Miss Mullins came into the room. To my astonishment and disgust she came straight over to where we were talking, and immediately took Mrs. Fanning's part. "Oh yes," she said, "you must not disappoint dear Mrs. Fanning, Westenra; she was so looking forward to having a time out with you. Go with her. As to your mother, I will look after her. I have nothing at all to do this afternoon, and mean to go and sit with her in the drawing-room, or rather to bring her into my private room, where we will have a cosy tea to ourselves." There was no help for it. After Jane's treachery in siding with Mrs. Fanning, I could only have refused by making a fuss, which would have been extremely bad for mother, so I went upstairs and spent a little time considering in which of my hats I looked worst, and which of my jackets presented the most dowdy appearance. Alack and alas! I had no dowdy jackets and no unbecoming hats. I put on, however, the quietest I could find, and ran downstairs. Mrs. Fanning was waiting for me in the hall. One of the servants of the establishment was standing near with a heavy fur rug over her arm. Mrs. Fanning was attired in a huge sealskin cape, which went down below her knees, and a bonnet with a large bird of paradise perched on one side of the brim. She had a veil, with huge spots on it, covering her broad face, and she was drawing on a pair of gloves a great deal too small for her fat hands. "Here you are, Miss Wickham," she said; "now, then, we'll go. Open the door, please, Emma." Emma did so, and we entered the carriage. "Spread the rug, Emma," said Mrs. Fanning in a lordly tone. This was also accomplished, and the next moment we were whirling away. Mrs. Fanning laid her fat hand on my lap. "Now, this is pleasant," she said; "I have been looking forward to this. Do you know where I am going to take you?" "I am sure I cannot tell," I answered; "but as we are out, I hope you will let me look at the shops; I want to tell mother something about the latest fashions; it often entertains her." "Well, I am glad to hear you speak in that strain, it sounds so human and womanly. Your tastes and mine coincide to a nicety. There's no one loves shop-gazing better than I do; I have flattened my nose against shop windows times and again, as long as I can remember. Before my dear Albert became so wealthy, I used to get into my bus, and do my hour of shop-gazing a-most every afternoon, but now it fidgets the coachman if I ask him to pull up the horses too often. You like the swing of the carriage, don't you, my dear? It's very comfortable, isn't it? nearly as nice as if it had the yellow wheels that Albert would not gratify his old mother by allowing. Ah, SHE has a deal to answer for--a deal to answer for--however nice she may be in herself." Here Mrs. Fanning favoured me with one of her broadest winks. "The carriage is very nice," I replied. "I fancied somehow that it would suit you, and I was most anxious to see how you looked in it. Some people don't look as if they were born to a carriage, others take to it like a duck takes to the water. Now, you look very nice in it; you and your mother in this carriage would look as genteel as two ladies could look. You don't know what a great admiration I have for your mother. She is one of the most beautiful women on God's earth." "And one of the best," I said impulsively, and as I thought of all that was going to happen to that most precious mother, and how soon that presence would be withdrawn from our mortal gaze, and how soon that spirit would go to the God who gave it, tears sprang to my eyes, and even Mrs. Fanning became more tolerable. "Ah, you are feeling cut to bits about her great delicacy," said that good lady. "Any one can see that; but cheer up, cheer up, the young ought to rejoice, and you of all women under the sun have the most cause for rejoicement, Miss Wickham." I did not ask her why, I did not dare, we drove on. It seemed to me that we were not going anywhere near the shops, we were steadily pursuing our way into the suburbs. After a drive of over an hour, we suddenly found ourselves in a part of Highgate quite unknown to me. We had been going uphill for some time, and we stopped now before some iron gates; a woman ran out of a lodge and opened the gates, and then we drove down a short avenue shaded by some fine trees. We drew up in front of a large, substantial red-brick house, the door of which was open, and on the steps stood Mr. Fanning. He ran down to meet us, with both his hands extended. "Ah! and you have brought the little thing," he said to his mother. "What little thing?" I said to myself. This was really the final straw. I had never, never even by my most intimate friends, been spoken of as the "little thing," for I was a tall girl and somewhat large in my ideas, and if anything rather masculine in my mind, and to be spoken of as a little thing, and by Albert Fanning, was about the final straw which broke the camel's back. My first intention was to refuse to budge from the carriage, to fiercely demand that the coachman should turn round and drive me straight back again to mother, but on second thoughts, I reflected that I should lose a good deal of dignity by this proceeding, and the best possible plan was to appear as if nothing at all extraordinary had occurred, and to follow Mrs. Fanning into the house. "Yes, I have brought her," said that good woman; "here she is. She looks slim beside your old mother, eh! Albert? but she's young; as time goes on she'll spread like all the rest of us. Well, and here we are, and she likes the brougham extremely; don't you, my dear? I could see that if you had yielded to me with regard to the yellow wheels she would not have approved. We must all humour her while she is young; it is always the way, always the way, ain't it, Albert? And I never saw a girl look nicer in a brougham than she does. She did enjoy her drive; it was lovely to see her. Well, now, she'll enjoy still more what's before her--the house and the grounds. It's a bit of a surprise we have for you, my dear," continued the old lady, turning to me. "It is not every girl would have the luck to be brought here by _his_ mother; but everything that can be made easy and pleasant for you, Miss Wickham, shall be made easy and pleasant. It was Albert's wish that you should come here with me, and he said you would much rather it was not bragged about at the boarding-house beforehand. This is my son Albert's new house, furnished according to his own taste, which is excellent, nothing showy nor gimcrack, all firm and good, bought at Maple's, dear, in Tottenham Court Road, and the very best the establishment could furnish. Everything new, shining, and _paid_ for, dear, paid for. You can see the bills, not a debt to hang over your head by-and-by, love. But come in, come in." I really felt that I could not stand much longer on the steps of the mansion, listening to this most extraordinary address made to me by Mrs. Fanning. What did it matter to me whether Albert Fanning paid for his household goods or not? and how could it concern me what shop he chose to buy them at? But I felt myself more or less in a trap, and knew the best way to prevent any crisis taking place was to put on an assumed air of absolute indifference, and to take the first possible opportunity of returning home. "Jane must get the Fannings to leave to-morrow, whatever happens," I said to myself, "and I must cling now to Mrs. Fanning for dear life. I don't suppose Albert Fanning will propose for me while she is by." But alas! I little knew the couple with whom I had to deal. Albert Fanning had willed that I was not to cling close to his mother. Turning to the old lady, he said-- "You're fagged and flustered. You have done things uncommonly well, and now you'll just have the goodness to sit with your feet on the fender in the drawing-room, and give yourself a right good toasting while Miss Wickham and I are examining the house." "Oh no," I began. "Oh yes," said Mrs. Fanning; "don't be shy, love." She gave me another wink so broad that I did not dare to expostulate further. Had I done so, Albert would probably have gone on his knees on the spot and implored of me there and then to make him the happiest of men. Accordingly we all entered the drawing-room which was furnished _à la_ Maple. It was a large room, and there were a great many tables about, and I wondered how stout Mrs. Fanning could cross the room without knocking over one or two. She looked round her with admiration. "It's amazing the taste you have," she said, gazing at her son as if he were a sort of demigod. He put her into a comfortable chair by the fire, and then he and I began to do the house. Was there ever such a dreadful business? We began at the attics, and we thoroughly explored room after room. I did not mind that. As long as I could keep Albert Fanning off dangerous ground I was quite ready to talk to him. I was ready to poke at the mattresses on the new beds, and to admire the chain springs, and to examine the ventilators in the walls of every single room. I said "Yes" to all his remarks, and he evidently thought he was making a most favourable impression. We took a long time going over the house, but I did not mind that, for Mr. Fanning was in his element, and was so pleased with his own consummate common sense and his own skill in getting the right things into the right corners, and in showing me what a mind he had for contriving and for making money go as far as possible, that I allowed him to talk to his heart's content. The brougham must soon be ordered again, and we must get back to town, and the awful time would be at an end. But when at last even the kitchens had been inspected, and the action of the new range explained to me, Albert said that he must now show me the grounds. There was no escaping this infliction, and accordingly into the grounds we went. These were fairly spacious. There was a large fruit garden, and a kitchen garden behind it, and Albert Fanning told me exactly what he was going to plant in the kitchen garden in the spring--a certain bed in particular was to be devoted to spring onions. He told me that he hated salad without a good dash of onion in it, and as he spoke he looked at me as much as to say, "Don't you ever give me salad without onion," and I began to feel the queerest sensation, as if I was being mastered, creeping over me. I wondered if the man really intended to take me from the garden to the church, where the priest would be waiting to perform the ceremony which would tie us together for life. The whole proceeding was most extraordinary, but just at the crucial moment, just when I was feeling that I could bear things no longer, I heard Mrs. Fanning's cheery voice. How I loved the old lady at that moment! "Albert! Albert!" she called out, "the tea is cooling. I don't approve of tea being drawn too long, and it has been in the teapot for ten minutes. Come in this minute, you naughty young folks, come in and enjoy your tea." "I am coming," I answered, "I am very hungry and thirsty." "Are you?" said Mr. Fanning, looking at me. "Coming, mother, coming." I turned to run after the old lady, but he suddenly put out his hand and caught one of mine, I pulled it away from him. "Don't," I said. "Don't!" he replied; "but I certainly shall. I mean often to touch you in the future, so what does it matter my taking your hand now. I hope to have you near me all day long and every day in the future. You must have guessed why I brought you out here." "I have guessed nothing, except that I am thirsty and want my tea," I replied. "I cannot talk to you any longer." "Oh yes, you can," he replied, "and you don't stir from here until I have had my say. You thought to escape me that time in the drawing-room a few weeks back, but you won't now. Don't be angry; don't look so frightened. I mean well, I mean--I cannot tell you what I _quite_ mean when I look at you, but there, you like the house?" "Yes," I said, "very well." "Very well indeed; let me tell you, Miss Wickham, there isn't a more comfortable house nor a better furnished house, nor a better paid-for house in the length and breadth of the county. And you like these gardens, eh?" "Certainly," I said. "I thought so. Well, now, the fruit garden, and the kitchen garden, and the pleasure garden, and the house, and the furniture, and the master of the house are all at your disposal. There! I have spoken. You are the one I am wishing to wed; you are the one I intend to wed. I am wanting you, and I mean to have you for better, for worse. I have not the slightest doubt that you have faults, but I am willing to run the risk of finding them out; and I have no doubt that I have faults too, but I do not think that they are too prominent, and, at any rate, I am a real, downright son of Britain, an honest, good-hearted, well-meaning man. I believe in the roast beef of Old England and the beer of Old England, and the ways of Old England, and I want an English girl like yourself to be my wife, and I will treat you well, my dear, and love you well--yes, I will love you right well." Here his voice broke, and a pathetic look came into his eyes, and I turned away more embarrassed, and more distressed than ever I was in my life. "You will have all that heart can desire, little girl, and your poor, delicate mother, shall come and live with you in this house; and she and my mother can have a sitting-room between them. We shall be a happy quartette, and you shall come to me as soon as ever you like, the sooner the better. Now you need not give me your answer yet. We know, of course, what it will be; it is a great chance for you, and I am not denying it, but come and enjoy your tea." "But I must and will give you my answer now," I replied. "How can you for a single moment imagine that I can seriously consider your offer? It is kind of you; yes, it is kind of any man to give his whole heart to a girl; and, I believe, you are sincere, but I can only give you one answer, Mr. Fanning." "And that?" he said. "It is quite--quite absolutely impossible! I could never love you; I could never, never marry you. I am sorry, of course, but I have nothing--nothing more to say." "You mean," said Albert Fanning, turning pale, and a queer, half angry, half wild look coming and going on his face, "that you _refuse_ me--me, and my house, and my brougham, and my gardens, and my paid-for furniture! Is it true?" "I refuse you, and all that you want to confer upon me," I answered. "I know you mean well, and I am--oh, yes, I _am_ obliged to you. Any girl ought to be obliged to a man who offers her the best he has; but I could never under any circumstances marry you. Now, you know." "You will rue it, and I do not think you mean it," he said. His face turned red, then purple, he turned on his heel, and allowed me to walk back to the house alone. My head was swimming. My eyes were full of smarting tears which I dared not shed. I entered the drawing-room where Mrs. Fanning was waiting for me. "Ah! here you are," she cried, rubbing her hands, and speaking in a very cheerful tone; "and where is Albert? Has he--has he?--why, what is the matter, my love?" "I must tell you the truth," I answered, "for I know you will guess it. Your son has been kind enough to ask me to marry him. You knew he meant to ask me, did you not? but I--I have refused him. No, I don't want any tea; I don't want even to go back in the brougham. I can never, never marry your son, Mrs. Fanning; and you must have known it--and it was very unkind of you to bring me here without saying anything about it." And then I sank on the nearest chair, and sobbed as if my heart would break. CHAPTER XVIII BUTTERED BREAD Mrs. Fanning let me cry for a moment or two without interrupting me. I think in her way she had plenty of heart; for once when I raised my head, feeling relieved from the bitter flow of those tears, I found that she was looking at me with a quizzical, but by no means unkindly glance. "We'll say nothing about this at present," she exclaimed; "you shan't be plagued, my dear. I'll talk to Albert, and say that you are not to be worried; but whether you take him in the long run or not, you want your tea now. Come, child, drink up this nice cup of hot tea." As she spoke she squeezed herself on to the sofa by my side; and gave me tea according to her taste, and insisted on my drinking it; and I could not refuse her, although my sobs were still coming heavily. "Ah, you're a proud young girl," she said, "you're one of those who do not know which side their bread is buttered; but you will some day, the knowledge will come to you, and soon, I'm thinking, soon." Here she looked intensely mysterious, and nodded her head emphatically. "And there's not a better fellow in the length and breadth of England than my son, Albert," she continued; "there's no one who would give his wife a better time. Kind, he would be to her; firm, he would be no doubt too. He would make her obey him, but he would make her love him too. You will know all about it by-and-by, my dear, all about it by-and-by. For the present we'll say nothing more. Albert shan't drive with us back in the brougham, although I know he meant to do so. Poor fellow! could love go further; his legs cramped up on that little seat at the back, but love feels no pain, dear; no more than pride feels pain. It's a bit of a shock to you, I know. Proposals always are; that is, to modest girls. I felt terribly flustered when Albert's father asked me to marry him. I assure you, my love, I could not bear the sight of him for the next fortnight. I used to say, whenever he entered a room, 'I'm going out, Albert, if you're coming in. Get right away now, if you don't want me to hate you for ever,' but, in the end, my dear love, I was head over ears in love with him. There never was a better husband. He would be masterful as a good man should; but, dear, I worshipped the ground he trod on, and it was he who made the beginning of that fortune which Albert has turned into so big a thing. Well, my love, you have seen the house, and you have gone over the grounds, and you have done something else. You have looked into the great good heart of my son, Albert; and after a time, I have no doubt, you will creep into that heart, and take refuge; but mum's the word at present, mum's the word." The idea of my creeping into Albert's heart as a final cave of refuge was so funny, that I could scarcely keep back my smiles; and I almost became hysterical between laughing and crying, so much so, that Mrs. Fanning had to put her arms round me and hug me, and call me her dear little girl. I was very glad she did not say, "dear little thing." By-and-by she ordered the carriage, and we went back to town. She was most affectionate to me. She assured me many times that she quite understood; that she had gone through precisely the same phases with regard to Albert Fanning the first but that it had all come right, and that her passion for the godly man had been very strong by-and-by. I should feel just the same with regard to Albert the second. It was the way of girls; that is, nice girls. "Don't talk to me about that Miss Marion Armstrong," she said. "The ways of that girl turn me sick. It is the contrast you make to Marion Armstrong which has done the business more than anything else, my dear Miss Wickham. But there, dear, there we'll turn the conversation." "I earnestly wish you would," I said "Ah," she said, "how history repeats itself. I used to feel as if I would like to box any one in the face who talked to me about my dear Albert long ago. But oh, how I loved him before all was over, how I loved him!" She almost shed tears at the recollection. In short, I had a most unpleasant drive home. At last it was over. I got out of the brougham, with its red body and chocolate wheels, and staggered rather than walked into the house. I did not dare to see mother until all traces of emotion had left my face, but I made straight for Jane's sanctum. "Jane," I said the moment I found myself there, "the Fannings must go away; they must, Jane, they must." "Why so?" asked Jane. "I will tell you what has just happened. Mother must never know, but I must tell some one. Mrs. Fanning took me into the country in their new brougham. We went to Highgate; they have a house there. Mr. Fanning was there to meet us. He called me a little thing, and he took me over the house and over the grounds, and told me, on pain of his direst displeasure, that I was never to give him salad without onions, and then he asked me to _marry him_. O Jane! what is to be done?" "But didn't you always know that he was going to ask you?" inquired Jane in a low voice. "Ask me to marry him! How could I suppose anything so preposterous?" I exclaimed. "Well, dear, I know it goes very sore with you, and I hope, with all my heart and soul, that it may not be necessary." "Necessary!" I said, "what do you mean? O Jane! don't talk in that way, you'll drive me mad. I cannot stay in the house with the Fannings any more." "Let me think for a moment," answered Jane. She looked very careworn and distressed, her face had grown thin and haggard. She looked years older than before we had started the boarding-house. I was quite sorry to see the change in her face. "Our life does not suit you," I said. "Oh, it suits me well enough," she replied, "and I never leave a sinking ship." "But why should this ship be sinking? I thought we were doing so well, the house is almost always full." "It is just this," said Jane: "we charged too little when we started. If the house was choke-full, all the attics and the three different floors let, we could not make the thing pay, that's the awful fact, and you ought to know it, Westenra. We should have begun by charging more." "Then why didn't we?" I said. "I left all those matters to you, Jane. I was very ignorant, and you came and----" "I am not blaming you, my dear Westenra," said Jane; "only it is very, very hard to go on toiling, toiling all day and almost all night, and to feel at the same time that the thing cannot pay, that it can never pay." "But why didn't we begin by charging more, and why can't we charge more now?" "Because people who live in Bloomsbury never pay more," answered Miss Mullins, "that is it, dear. If we meant this thing to succeed we should have started our boarding-house in Mayfair, and then perhaps we might have had a chance of managing. Perhaps with a connection like yours we could have made it pay." "Never," I said, "none of our friends would come to us, they would have been scandalised. It would never have done, Jane." "Well, well, we have got ourselves into a trap, and we must get out the best way we can," was Jane's lugubrious answer. "Oh, never mind about our being in money difficulties now," I cried, "do think of me, Jane, just for a moment, do make things possible for me. Remember that I am very young, and I was never accustomed to people of the Fanning type. Do, I beseech of you, ask them to go. Mr. Fanning's action to-day will make your request possible. Jane, if I went on my knees and stayed there all my life, I could not marry him, and the sooner he knows it the better." "I will think things over," said Jane. I never saw anything like the look of despair which was creeping over her face. "Things are coming to a crisis," she continued, "and I must confide in you fully, but not just now, we must get dinner over first. Your mother was ill while you were away, she won't come to dinner to-night." "Mother ill! Anything serious?" I cried in alarm. "Only a little faintness. I have got her comfortably to bed." "Well, of course, I shan't dine to-night, I shall stay with mother." "But you must, my love, it is absolutely necessary that you should appear at dinner, and you must be quite cheerful too in her room. She is quite herself now, and is looking over a new book, and when you go to her you will see that she has had a nice dinner, nourishing and suitable. Now go and change your dress, and make yourself look smart. Now that Mr. Randolph is gone, and your mother is too ill to be often in the drawing-room and dining-room, the affairs of the household rest upon you. You must make yourself smart; you must make yourself attractive. It must be done, Westenra, it must, and for your mother's sake." Jane spoke with such determination that she stimulated my courage, and I went away to my own room determined to act on her advice. At the other side of the wall I heard Mrs. Fanning's heavy steps as she walked about. She did not seem to be at all depressed at my refusal of her son Albert. On the contrary, she was in very good spirits. She had been in excellent spirits all the way back, and had kept on assuring me that I was only going on the usual tack of the modest maiden, the maiden who was worthy of such a man as her godly son Albert. Had not she herself hated Albert's father for a whole fortnight after his proposal, and had she not been glad, very glad, in the end to creep into his great heart for shelter? Did she suppose that I also would be glad to creep into Albert the second's great heart for shelter? Oh, it was all unbearable. But, nevertheless, there was a spirit of defiance in me. I had tried my ugly dresses in vain, I had tried being grave and distant in vain. I had tried everything, but nothing had availed; Mr. Fanning was determined to have me for his wife. I wondered if the man cared for me, perhaps he did after his fashion, but as no self-denials on my part had the effect of repulsing him, I would give way to my fancy and dress properly for dinner. I put on a very pretty pink dress which I had not yet worn, and ran downstairs. At dinner I sat opposite Mr. Fanning. Mother's place was empty, and Mrs. Fanning called across the table to know what was the matter with her. I said that she was tired and had gone to bed, whereupon Mrs. Armstrong immediately remarked, that it was a very good thing we had such an excellent housekeeper as Miss Mullins to look after things in my mother's serious state of health, otherwise the house would go to wreck and ruin, she said. Mrs. Armstrong looked daggers at me for wearing my pink dress. She had never seen anything so stylish as that soft, graceful robe before, and between her jealousy at seeing me so attired, and her earnest wish to copy it for Marion, she scarcely knew what to do with herself. She darted angry glances at my face, and then tried to measure with her eye the amount of ribbon on the bodice, and the quantity of chiffon round the neck. But Mr. Fanning, to my great relief and delight, did not appear to take the slightest interest in me. I do not think he once glanced at my pretty evening frock. He absorbed himself altogether with Marion Armstrong. He talked to her all during dinner, and invited her in a loud voice to come and see him at his office on the following day. "I told you, Miss Armstrong," he said, "that as a rule I am brutal to the people who come to me trying to sell their wares. Those silly folks who bring their useless manuscripts and their poor little amateur drawings to my office find that I make short work with them. "'If you like to leave your manuscript or your drawings,' I say to them, 'you can do so, but as to the chance of their being accepted, well, look for yourselves. Do you see that pile? all that pile of manuscripts has to be read before yours. If you leave your manuscripts they go under the pile at the bottom; there will be nearly a ton of stuff on top of them. You take your chance. You had best go away at once with what you have brought, for I am not likely to require it.' They mostly do go away, Miss Armstrong, for I am brutal in my words and brutal in my tone. There is no use in buoying people up with false hopes." Here he gave a loud guffaw, which reached my ears at the further end of the table. Captain Furlong bent across at that moment to say something to me, and I saw that he was much displeased at Mr. Fanning's loud, aggressive words. But Mr. Fanning, after all, was nothing to Mrs. Fanning. It was quite pleasant to me to see that he should turn his attentions to Miss Marion Armstrong, but Mrs. Fanning's winks were more than I could endure. They were just as much as to say, "Listen to him now; he is only doing that to draw you on." So plainly did her speaking eyes announce this fact, that I dreaded each moment her saying the awful words aloud, but fortunately she did not go quite so far as that. When dinner was over Mrs. Armstrong came and sat near me. "Have you seen any of Marion's drawings lately?" she asked. "No," I replied; "is she getting on well?" "Is she getting on well!" retorted Mrs. Armstrong. "The girl is a genius. I told you before that her whole soul was devoted to h'Art. Well, I may as well say now that she has sold a little set of drawings to Mr. Fanning. He means to bring them out in his Christmas number of the _Lady's Handbag_. Have you ever seen the _Lady's Handbag_, Miss Wickham?" "No," I answered; "I cannot say that I have." "I am surprised to hear it. The _Lady's Handbag_ is one of the most striking and widely read periodicals of the day. It contains information on every single thing that a lady ought to know, and there is nothing in it for those low-down common sort of people who want wild excitement and sickening adventures. But you shall see it for yourself. Marion! Come here, dear Marion." Marion, behind whose chair Mr. Fanning was standing, rose reluctantly and crossed the room with a frown between her brows. "You will scarcely believe it, Marion, but Miss Wickham has not seen the _Lady's Handbag_. I was just telling her that you are to illustrate an article for the Christmas number. Perhaps you could oblige me by bringing a number here. I know Miss Wickham would like to see any of Mr. Fanning's publications." Miss Armstrong left the room and returned with a copy of the _Lady's Handbag_. It was handed to me and I turned the pages. It was exactly the sort of fifth-rate production which I should expect a man of Mr. Fanning's calibre to initiate. I gave it back to Mrs. Armstrong. "I am so glad that Miss Armstrong is having her first success," I said then, and I thought what a suitable and admirable wife she would make for Mr. Fanning, and hoped that he might by-and-by think so himself. As I was entering my own room that night, Mrs. Fanning popped her head out of her own door near by. "One word, Miss Wickham," she said. She looked very funny. She had divested herself of her gay dress and was wearing a night-cap. Her night-cap had large frills which partly encircled her wide face. "I know you're fretted by the way Albert has gone on this evening," she said, "but he's only doing it on purpose. I am sorry for that poor girl, though. You had better be quick and make up your mind, or Marion Armstrong will fall over head and ears in love with him, but if you imagine for a single moment that he thinks sincerely of her you are greatly mistaken. It's you he wants, and you he'll have. Go to bed now, dear, and dream of him, but I understand your ways perfectly. I felt just the same about Albert the first." CHAPTER XIX YOU USED TO LOVE US Mother was very ill for the next few days, and I was so much occupied with her that I had no time to think of either Mr. or Mrs. Fanning. When I was in the drawing-room my heart was full of her; when I forced myself to go to meals, I could only think of her dear face. Was she going to be taken away from me before the year was up? Oh, surely God would at least leave me my one treasure for that short time. In those days I used to go away by myself and struggle to pray to God, but my heart was heavy, and I wondered if He heard my restless and broken words. I used to creep out sometimes and go into a church alone, and try to picture what my future would be when mother was gone; but I could not picture it. It always rose before me as a great blank, and I could not see anything distinctly. It seemed to me that I could see everything when mother was present, and nothing without her. And then I would go back again to her room and rouse myself to be cheerful, and to talk in a pleasant tone. I was doing the utmost that duty required of me just then. I determined that nothing would induce me to look further afield. Life without mother I did not dare to contemplate. But there were moments when the thought of one person came to my heart with a thrill of strength and comfort. I missed Jim Randolph, and longed for him to come back. As the winter passed away and the spring approached, I began to hope for his return. I began to feel that when once he was back things would be right, anxiety would be removed from Jane's face, the strain would be removed. Mother would have her friend near her, and I also should not be friendless when my time of terrible trouble came, for of course mother was dying. The doctor was right. It was a question perhaps of days, of months at most, but if Mr. Randolph came back I thought that I could bear it. When mother and I were alone I noticed that she liked to talk of Jim, and I was more than willing to listen to her, and to draw her out, and to ask her questions, for it seemed to me that she knew him a great deal better than I did. "There always seems to be a mystery surrounding him," I said on one occasion. "You know much more than I do. I like him, of course, and I am sure you like him, mother." "Except your dear father, West," replied mother, "he is the best fellow I ever met, and he will come back again, dearest. I shall be very glad when he comes back. We ought to hear from him soon now." The winter was now passing away and the spring coming, and the spring that year happened to be a mild and gracious one, without much east wind, and with many soft westerly breezes, and the trees in the Square garden put on their delicate fragile green clothing, and hope came back to my heart once more. One day I had gone to do some messages for mother in Regent Street. She had asked me to buy some lace for a new fichu, and one or two other little things. I went off to fulfil my messages with my heart comparatively light. I went to Dickins & Jones', and was turning over some delicate laces at the lace counter when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned with a start to encounter the kind old face of the Duchess of Wilmot. "My dear Westenra," she said, "this is lucky. How are you? I have heard nothing of you for a long time." Now, I had always loved the Duchess, not at all because she was a duchess, but because she was a woman with a very womanly heart and a very sweet way, and my whole heart went out to her now--to her gracious appearance, to her gentle, refined tone of voice, to the look in her eyes. I felt that I belonged to her set, and her set were delightful to me just then. "Where are you going," inquired the Duchess, "after you have made your purchases?" "Home again," I answered. "My carriage is at the door; you shall come with me. You shall come and have tea with me." "I have not time," I said. "Mother is not well, and I must hurry back to her." "Your mother not well! Mary Wickham not well! I have heard nothing for months. I have written two or three times, but my letters have not been replied to. It is impossible to keep up a friendship of this sort, all on one side, Westenra. And you don't look as well as you did, and oh! my dear child, is that your spring hat?" "It is; it will do very well," I answered. I spoke almost brusquely; I felt hurt at her remarking it. "But it is not fresh. It is not the sort of hat I should like my god-daughter to wear. They have some pretty things here. I must get you a suitable hat." "No, no," I said with passion. "It cannot be." "You are so ridiculously proud and so ridiculously socialistic in all your ideas. But if you were a true Socialist you would take a present from your old friend without making any fuss over the matter." As the Duchess spoke she looked at me, and I saw tears in her eyes. "And I am your godmother," she continued. "I do not like to see you looking as you do. You want a new hat and jacket; may I get them for you?" At first I felt that I must refuse, but then I reflected that it would please mother to see me in the hat and jacket which the Duchess would purchase. I knew that the buying of such things were a mere bagatelle to her, and the little pleasure which the new smart things would give mother were not a bagatelle. My own feelings must be crushed out of sight. I said humbly, "Just as you like." So the Duchess hurried me into another room, and a hat that suited me was tried on and paid for, and then a new jacket was purchased, and the Duchess made me put on both hat and jacket immediately, and gave the address of 17 Graham Square to have my old things sent to. The next moment we were bowling away in her carriage. "Ah," she cried, "now you look more like yourself. Pray give that old hat to the housemaid. Don't put it on again. I mean to drive you home now, Westenra." "Thank you," I answered. "I mean to see your mother also. Is she seriously ill?" "She is," I replied. I lowered my eyes and dropped my voice. "But what is the matter, my poor child? You seem very sad." "I have a great deal to make me sad, but I cannot tell you too much now, and you must not question me." "And Jim has gone, really?" "Mr. Randolph has gone." The Duchess seemed about to speak, but she closed her lips. "He wrote and told me he had to go, but he will come back again. When did you say he went, Westenra?" "I did not say, Duchess." "But give me the date, dear, please, and be quick." I thought for a moment. "He left England on the 30th of November," I said. "Ah, and this is the 15th of March. What a nice genial spring we are having. He will be home soon; I am sure of that." "Have you heard from him?" I asked abruptly. "Just a line _en route_. I think it was dated from Colombo. Have you heard?" "I believe mother had a letter, and I think Jane had." "He has not written to you?" "No." I felt the colour leap into my cheeks like an angry flame. I was ashamed of myself for blushing. The Duchess looked at me attentively, and I saw a pleased expression in her eyes. That look made me still more uncomfortable. She bent towards me, took my hand, and pressed it. "You like Jim, do you not?" she said. "Yes," I answered very slowly. "I do not know Mr. Randolph well, but what little I have seen of him I like. He is courteous, and he thinks of others; he is very unselfish; he has much sympathy and tact, too. I think he is very fond of mother." The Duchess gave the queerest, most inexplicable of smiles. "He is a dear fellow," she said. "Westenra, when you come back to us we will all rejoice." "I do not understand you," I answered coldly. "It is impossible for me ever to come back to you. I have stepped down." "When you come back we will rejoice," she repeated. "But I am not coming back. I do not even know that I want to. If you had come to see mother sometimes--mother, who is just as much a lady as she ever was, who is sweeter and more beautiful than she ever was--you might have done us a great service, and I could have loved you, oh! so dearly; but you have forsaken us, because we are no longer in your set. Duchess, I must speak the truth. I hate sets; I hate distinctions of rank. You used to love us; I did think your love was genuine. We lived in a nice house in Mayfair, and you were our great and kind friend. Now you do not love us, because--because we are poor." "You are mistaken, Westenra. I love you still, and I have never forgotten you. I will not come in now, but I will come and see your mother to-morrow." "That will please her," I answered, drying away the tears which had risen to my eyes. "But please do not disappoint her. I will tell her of your visit. Do not keep her waiting. She is weak; she has been very ill. At what hour will you come?" "About twelve o'clock. But she must be very bad indeed from the way you speak." "She is far from well." "Are you hiding anything from me, Westenra?" "I am," I replied stoutly. "And you cannot get my secret from me. When you see mother to-morrow perhaps you will know without my speaking. Do not say anything to agitate her." "My poor, poor child. Westenra, you ought never to have left us. You do not look well; but never mind, spring is coming, and Jim Randolph will be home before May." CHAPTER XX RUINED It was on the afternoon of that same day that Jane Mullins sent for me to go into her private sitting-room. "Shut the door," she said, "I must talk to you." Really Jane looked most queer. During the last month or two, ever since Mr. Randolph went away, she had been taking less and less pains with her dress; her hair was rough and thinner than ever; her little round figure had fallen away; she seemed to have aged by many years. She was never a pretty woman, never in any sense of the word, but now there was something grotesque about her, grotesque and at the same time intensely pathetic. "I have done all I could," she said. "Lock the door, please, Westenra." I locked the door. "Now come and sit here, or stand by the window, or do anything you like; but listen with all your might, keep your attention alert." "Yes," I said, "yes." "We are ruined, Westenra," said Jane Mullins, "we are ruined." "What!" I cried. Jane said the words almost ponderously, and then she threw her hands to her sides and gazed at me with an expression which I cannot by any possibility describe. "We are ruined," she repeated, "and it is time you should know it." "But how?" I asked. "How?" she cried with passion, "because we have debts which we cannot meet--we have debts, debts, debts on every side; debts as high as the house itself. Because we deceived our landlord, unintentionally it is true, but nevertheless we deceived him, with promises which we cannot fulfil, he can take back the lease of this house if he pleases, and take it back he will, because our paying guests don't pay, because the whole thing from first to last is a miserable failure. There, Westenra, that's about the truth. It was your thought in the first instance, child, and though I don't want to blame you, for you did it with good meaning, and in utter ignorance, yet nevertheless you must take some of the brunt of this terrible time. I cannot bear the whole weight any longer. I have kept it to myself, and it has driven me nearly mad. Yes, we are ruined." "You must explain more fully," was my answer. Her agitation was so great that by its very force it kept me quiet. I had never seen her absolutely without composure before; her usually brisk, confident manner had deserted her. "You have kept me in the dark," I continued, "and you have done wrong, very wrong. Now please explain how and why we are ruined." "Here are some of the accounts; understand them if you can," she said. She opened a drawer and pulled out a great account book. "Now look here," she said, "the house is absolutely full, there is not a single room to be let; I declined four fresh parties only this morning; Emma is perfectly tired opening the door to people who want to come here to board, the house has got a name and a good one. It is said of it that it is in Bloomsbury and yet smacks of the West End. You and your mother and Jim Randolph, bless him! have to answer for that. It's all your doing, and the people have talked. Everything has been done that could be done to make the place popular, and the place is popular, but now, you look here. Here are the takings"--she pointed to one side of the ledger--"here are the expenses"--she pointed to the other--"expenses so much, takings so much, look at the balance, Westenra. Of course you don't know much about accounts, but you can see for yourself." I did look, and I did see, and my heart seemed to stand still, for the balance on the wrong side of the ledger represented many pounds a week. "Then this means," I said, for I was sharp enough in my way, "that the longer we go on the heavier we get into debt. Every week we lose so much." "We do, dear, that's just it." "But cannot we retrench?" "Retrench! how? Do you suppose the boarders will do without their comfortable hot coffee, and the other luxuries on the board at breakfast? Do you suppose they will do without their lunch, their afternoon tea with plenty of cakes and plenty of cream, their late dinner, at which appears all the luxuries of the season?--why, the house would be empty in a week. And we cannot have fewer servants, we have only four, very much less than most people would have for an establishment of this kind, and Emma already complains of pains in her legs, and says she is worn out going up and down stairs." "But the place looks so thriving," I said. "Looks! what have looks to do with it?" said Jane. "I feel nearly mad, for I always thought I could pull the thing through; but it's going on at a loss, and nothing can go on at a loss; and then, dear, there are bad debts--one or two people have shuffled off without paying, and there are the furniture bills, they are not all met yet." "But I thought," I said, "that the seven thousand pounds----" "Ay," cried Jane, "and that is where the bitterness comes in. That money was supposed to be all right, to be as sure and safe as the Bank of England, and it is not all right, it is all wrong. But that is James Randolph's story. When he comes back he will explain the rights of it to you, my dear. If I could only hear from him that the money was safe, we could wind up honourably in the autumn and stop the concern; but I have not heard, I have not heard; there has been nothing but silence, and the silence drives me mad. Westenra, what is to be done?" "Give the whole thing up now," I said, "there is nothing else to be done. We must stop." "Stop!" answered Jane. "You talk with the ignorance of a young girl. If we stop now we will have the whole house of cards about our ears; the tradespeople will sue for their money, the bailiffs will be in and will take possession of the furniture, even the very bed your mother sleeps on will be taken from under her. The awful, terrible position is, that we can neither stop nor go on. It is fearful, fearful. Oh, if I could only borrow a thousand pounds within a week, I would not care a farthing. I would not even care if your mother was strong, but to have this crash come about her in her present state of health, why, it would kill her. Westenra, poor child, you are young and unaccustomed to these things, but I must unburden my mind. There is ruin before us; I can scarcely stave it off for another week, and I have not had a line from Mr. Randolph, and I am nearly wild." "And you think a thousand pounds would keep things going for a little longer," I answered. "Yes, we could stay on until the end of the season if I could get that money. It would pay the quarter's rent, and the tradespeople's bills, and the big furniture bills. And long before it was out Mr. Randolph must come back and put everything straight. His return is what I am hoping for more than the rising of the sun." "But oh, Jane, how--how am I to get the thousand pounds?" "I was thinking that Duchess of yours might lend it." "No," I said, "I cannot ask her; besides, I know she would not. Though she is a Duchess she has not got a lot of money to spare. The Duke manages everything, and she just has her allowance, and a great deal to do with it. I cannot ask her." "There is one other way in which ruin could be averted," said Jane slowly, "but that I suppose is not to be thought of. Well, I have told you, and I suppose it is a sort of relief. Things may go on as they are for another week or two, but that's about all." I felt that I trembled, but I would not let Jane see. "You have been very brave. You have ruined yourself for our sakes," I cried impulsively. But at the same time I could not help adding, "That friend of yours who promised you seven thousand pounds ought not to have failed you at a critical moment like the present." "I won't have him blamed," said Jane, her face turning crimson; "it is not his fault. Man could not do more." "Jane," I said, facing her, "tell me the truth now; what is the name of your friend?" "You won't get his name out of me," answered Jane. "Mr. Randolph has gone to Australia to put things straight with him. When I hear from Mr. James Randolph all will be well." "Have you never heard since he left?" "Twice during the voyage, but not since. It is wonderful why he is so silent. There, I seem to have lost hope." "Jane," I cried, "why don't you give us up and go back to your own little house?" "Bless you, child, I'm not the one to leave a sinking ship. Oh, we'll go on a little bit longer, and it has cheered me a little to confide in you. I will work the ship for another week or so, and there will be an extra nice dinner to-night, and spring asparagus, real English grown, and your mother shall have the greater portion of it. Oh dear, oh dear, if the house were twice its size we _might_ make it pay, but as it is it's too big and it's too small; it's one of the betwixt-and-betweens, and betwixt-and-between things _never_ do, never, never. Child, forgive me, I am sorry to add to your cares. If it were not for your mother I should not mind a bit." I could do nothing to comfort Jane. I went up to her and kissed her, and held her hand for a moment, and then went slowly away to my own room. I did not attempt to shed a tear, I was not going to cry just then, it behoved me to be very brave; there was a great deal to be borne, and if I gave way it seemed to me that everything must come to an end. I felt some pride in my young strength and my courage, and was resolved that they should not fail me in my hour of need. So I put away the new hat and pretty jacket and went down to mother, and I amused mother by showing her the lace I had bought, and I told her all about the Duchess, and mother was much pleased at the thought of seeing her old friend on the following morning, and she and I sat that afternoon in the drawing-room making up the pretty lace fichu, and I resolved that mother should wear it the next day when the Duchess came. There was the most awful trouble hanging over us all; my mother's days on earth were numbered, and my scheme, my lovely castle in the air, was falling to ruins about my head. But all the same mother and I laughed and were cheerful, and the visitors who came into the drawing-room that afternoon thought what a picturesque group mother and I made, and what a lovely room it was, and how much superior to most boarding-houses; and they inquired, more than one of them, when there would be a vacancy, and said they would write to Miss Mullins on the subject. Poor Jane Mullins! she was bearing the brunt of the storm. I pitied her from the depths of my heart. CHAPTER XXI MR. PATTENS The next day the Duchess called, and mother was looking so well for her, and so pleased to see her old friend again, that I do not think at first the Duchess of Wilmot half realised how ill she was. I just saw her for a moment, and then went out. I came back again at the end of an hour. Mother's cheeks were quite bright, and her eyes shining, and her hand was in the Duchess's hand, and when she looked at me her eyes grew brighter than ever, and she said to me-- "Come here, darling," and she raised her dear lips for me to kiss her. I did kiss those lips, and I thought them too hot, and I said to the Duchess-- "You are tiring mother, you have stayed with her long enough." "Oh no, let her stay; I do love so much to see her," said my mother, so I could not have the heart to say any more, and I went away to a distant part of the room, and they began whispering again just like the dearest friends which they really were, and at last the Duchess came up to me and said-- "Come downstairs with, me, West." I went with her, and wondered why she called me by mother's pet name, but I loved her very much. "Tell me the truth about your mother," said the Duchess as soon as we got into the hall. "At first I thought her fairly well, but she is feverish, quite feverish now. Have I overtired her?" "I cannot tell you anything except that she is not strong," I said; "that you have come so seldom to see her, that you have over-excited her now. Oh, I cannot wait, I must go back to her." "I will come again to-morrow or next day," said the Duchess; "I don't like her appearance at all." The Duchess went away, and I returned to mother. "It was nice to see Victoria," said my mother. "She is just the same as ever, not the least changed. She told me about all our old friends." "You are over-excited," I said, "you ought to stay quiet now." "On the contrary, I am well and hungry; only I wonder when I shall see her again." "She said she would come to-morrow or next day," I answered. In the evening mother certainly seemed by no means worse for the Duchess's visit, and the next day she said to me, "Victoria will certainly call to-morrow." But to-morrow came and the Duchess did not arrive, nor the next day, nor the next, and mother looked rather fagged, and rather sad and disappointed, and at the end of a week or fortnight she ceased to watch anxiously for the sound of wheels in the Square, and said less and less about her dear friend Victoria. But just then, the thoughts of every one in the house except mother (and the news was carefully kept from her), were full of a great and terrible catastrophe, and even I forgot all about the Duchess, for one of our largest Orient liners had foundered on some sunken rocks not far from Port Adelaide, off the coast of South Australia, and there had been a terrific shipwreck, and almost every one on board was drowned. The vessel was called the _Star of Hope_. The papers were all full of it, and the news was on every one's lips; but just at first I did not realise how all important, how paralysing this same news was for us. I read the trouble first in Jane's face. "You must not let your mother know about the shipwreck," she said. "But I cannot keep the newspapers from mother, and every newspaper is full of it," I replied; "surely, Jane, surely--oh, you cannot mean it--no person that we know was on board?" "I have a great fear over me," she answered. I clutched her arm, and looked into her face with wild eyes. My own brain seemed to reel, my heart beat almost to suffocation, then I became quiet. With a mighty effort I controlled myself. "Surely," I said, "surely." "His name is not mentioned amongst the list of passengers, that is my one comfort; but it is quite possible, on the other hand, that he may have gone on board at Adelaide," she continued, "for I know he had business close to Adelaide, he told me so. If that was the case they might not have entered his name in the ship's list of passengers, and--oh, I have a great, a terrible fear over me, his silence, and now this. Yes, child, it is true, he was, if all had gone well, to be on his way home about now; but he has never written, and now this shipwreck. I am more anxious, far more anxious than I can say." That night I did not sleep at all. Thoughts of Jim Randolph filled my mind to the exclusion of all hope of repose. Was he really drowned? Had he left the world? Was I never to see his face again? There was a cry at my heart, and an ache there which ought to have told me the truth, and yet I would not face the truth. I said over and over to myself, "If he dies, it is terrible; if he dies, it means ruin for us;" but nevertheless I knew well, although I would not face the truth, that I was not thinking of the ruin to the house in Graham Square, nor the blow to mother, nor the loss of James Randolph simply as a friend. There was a deeper cause for my grief. It was useless for me to say to my own heart Jim Randolph was nothing to me. I knew well that he was. I knew well that he was more to me than any one else in the wide world; that I--yes, although he had never spoken of his love for me, I loved him, yes, I loved him with my full heart. In the morning I made up my mind that I would go and see the Duchess. Perhaps, too, she might know something about Jim Randolph, as he was a friend of hers, a friend about whom she was always hinting, but about whom she said very little. As I was leaving the house Jane called me into her sitting-room. "Where are you going," she said. I told her. "Did you ever think over that idea of mine that you might ask the Duchess to lend us that thousand pounds?" she said. "You remember I mentioned it, and you said you would not do it; but things are very grave, very grave indeed; and if--if my fear about Mr. Randolph is true, why things are graver than ever, in fact everything is up. But I would like for _her_ sake, poor dear, for her sake to ward off the catastrophe as long as possible. She was very ill last night, and I was up with her for a couple of hours. I wouldn't disturb you; but didn't you think yourself that she looked bad this morning?" "Oh yes," I said, the tears starting to my eyes; "I thought mother looked terribly ill, and I am going to see the Duchess. She ought to call in order to make mother happy." "Shut the door, Westenra," said Jane, "I have something I must say." I shut the door, I was trembling. Jane was no longer a rock of defence, she made me more frightened than any one else in the house. "Oh, what is it?" I said; "don't be mysterious, do speak out." "Well, it is this," said Jane, "we want that thousand pounds just dreadfully. If we had it we could go on, we could go on at least till the end of the season, and there would be an excuse to take your mother to the country, and she might never know, never; but it wants two months to the end of the season, and the house is full, and every one is in the height of good humour, and yet they are all walking on the brink of a precipice; the earth is eaten away beneath us, and any moment the whole thing may topple through. Why, it was only yesterday----" "What happened yesterday?" I asked. "A man came, a Mr. Pattens." "What has Mr. Pattens to do with us?" I said. "You listen to me, my dear; things are so grave that I can scarcely smile, and you are so ignorant, Westenra." "Well," I said, "do tell me about Mr. Pattens." "He is the butcher, dear, and we owe him over a hundred pounds, and he is positively desperate. He asked to see me, and of course I saw him, and then he said he _must_ see your mother." "See mother? But mother never sees the tradespeople." "I know, love; but it was with the utmost difficulty I could keep him from not seeing her. He said that she was responsible for his account, and that if I would not let him see her he would do the other thing." "What?" I asked, "what?" "Well, my dear, it is coming, and you may as well bear it. There will be a bailiff in this house in no time. Yes, there'll be a man in possession, and how is your mother to stand that? You think whether you would rather just tell your grand friend the Duchess, and save your mother from the depths of humiliation, or whether you will let things take their course. Pattens is desperate, and he is the sort of man who will have no mercy. I have had to get the meat from another butcher--we can't hold out much longer. I have paid away the last shilling of the reserve fund I had in the bank. Oh dear, oh dear! why did Mr. Randolph go away? If he has gone down in the _Star of Hope_, why truly it is black night for us." "I will do my best, Jane, and do keep up heart; and oh, Jane, keep mother in her room, she must not know, she must not meet this terrible danger. O Jane! do your best." "I will, love. Even at the very worst day dawns but it is black night at present, that it is," said the faithful creature. As I was going out who did I see standing on the threshold but Mrs. Fanning. Mrs. Fanning had been away for over a fortnight, and I must say we greatly enjoyed her absence, and I in particular enjoyed it; but when I saw her comely, good-humoured, beaming face now, it seemed to me that my heart went out to her. She looked at me, and then she opened her arms wide. "Come to me, you dear little soul," she said; "come and have a hearty hug." She clasped me tightly, and kissed me over and over again. "I am only back an hour," she said. "And how is Albert?" "I have not seen Mr. Fanning this morning," I answered, and I tried to disengage myself from those cheery arms. "Dear, dear, you don't look at all the thing," she said; "there's the brougham outside, would not you like a drive, honey? You and I might go out by ourselves. Come, dearie." "No, thank you," I answered, "I am going on some special business for mother." "Then whatever it is, can't you make use of the brougham? It was all built and painted to suit your style, love, and why should not you make use of it? Albert would be that proud." "Oh, indeed he would not, Mrs. Fanning; but please do not speak of it, I cannot, I really cannot." "Well, if you won't, you won't," said the good woman. "I have come back, though, and I hope to see a good deal of you; I have got lots to tell you. I have been collecting early reminiscences." "Of what?" I could not help asking. "Of Albert's babyhood and childhood, they are that touching. I found a little diary he used to keep. I declare I laughed and I cried over it. We'll read it together this evening. Now then, off you go, and do get some colour back into your pale cheeks; you are quite the prettiest, most graceful, most h'aristocratic young lady I ever saw; but you are too pale now, you really are." I did not say any more; I grasped Mrs. Fanning's hand. "How is your dear mother?" she said. "Mother is not at all well." "Ah, poor dear, poor dear," said Mrs. Fanning; "then no wonder your cheeks are pale. I said to Albert the very last night I left, 'Albert, if you win her, she's worth her weight in gold, it is a gold heart she has; you watch her with her mother, Albert, and think what she'll be to you.'" "Mrs. Fanning, you really must not talk in that way," I said. "Please let me go." She did let me go. My contact with her had slightly braced me. I felt angry once more with the terrible Albert; but Mrs. Fanning was kindness itself. Oh, if only Albert had been a different man, and I had really cared for him, and I--but why think of the impossible. I got into an omnibus, and gave the man directions to put me down at the nearest point to the Duchess's house. I found myself echoing Jane Mullins's words, "Why had Jim Randolph gone away?" I arrived at the Duchess's in good time. I had made up my mind to tell her all. She must lend us a thousand pounds. Mother must be saved; mother must be kept in the dark as to the utter ruin of my mad plan. I whispered the story as I would tell it to my old friend over and over to myself, and when I mounted the steps of the house and rang the bell I was trembling, and felt very faint and tired. The footman opened the door, and I inquired for her Grace. "Can I see her?" I said. "I am Miss Wickham; I want to see her on very special business." "I will mention that you have called, madam," replied the man; "but her Grace is not visible, she is very ill. She has been in bed for several days, and the doctor is with her. It is influenza." Then, indeed, I felt my last hopes tottering. "I am sorry her Grace is ill," I said. I paused for a moment to consider. "Can I see Miss Mitford?" I inquired then. Miss Mitford was a lady who did some correspondence for the Duchess, and who was generally to be found in the house. Miss Mitford came downstairs immediately, and I saw her in a small room to the left of the great hall. "It is the shock about Mr. Randolph," she said at once. "Then is it really supposed that he was drowned in the _Star of Hope_?" I cried. "He mentioned that he was coming to England by that boat," replied Miss Mitford. "The Duchess is certain that he is amongst the passengers, although his name has not been mentioned as yet in any list. Her Grace is terribly upset, more particularly as Mr. Severn, Sir Henry Severn's only son, died a fortnight ago. There is great confusion, and Mr. Randolph ought to be back." I did not ask any questions with regard to this latter news, nor did it interest me in the very least. Of course Mr. Randolph ought to be back, but for very very different reasons. I went sorrowfully, oh so sorrowfully, away. When I returned home Jane was waiting for me in the hall. She was hovering about, looking very untidy and very anxious. "Well," she said; "come in here, I must speak to you." "But it is luncheon time," I said, "and people will wonder." "Let them wonder. Did you see her? Did she promise to lend it? That man has been here again. He is desperate, and says that if he is not paid in two days he will put in the bailiff." "And what will that mean?" I asked. "Ruin--utter and complete. But tell me, did you see the Duchess?" "I did not," I answered; "she is ill in bed; and oh, Jane, it is the shock about Mr. Randolph which has caused her illness. The Duchess is quite sure that he did sail in the _Star of Hope_. O Jane! what is to be done?" "God only knows," answered Jane Mullins; "we are up a tree, and that's the truth." CHAPTER XXII THE MAN IN POSSESSION I cannot exactly say how the next two days went by. Even in a crisis, people get more or less accustomed to the thundercloud overhead, and the feeling of insecurity below. I still found that I could eat, I could walk, I could even sleep. I still found that I could be calm in my mother's presence, and could say little funny nothings to amuse her; and I sat in such a position, that she did not see the shadow growing and growing on my face, and the guests did not suspect anything. Why should they? They were enjoying all the good things of my most miserable failure. Jane, however, never appeared in the drawing-room now; she left the entertaining of the visitors to me. She told me boldly that I must take it on me; that it was the least I could do, and I did take it on me, and dressed my best, and talked my best, and sang songs for our visitors in the evenings when my own heart was breaking. Captain and Mrs. Furlong were very kind. They noticed how, more and more often, mother was absent from meals, and how the colour was paling from my cheeks with anxiety for her. It was truly anxiety for her, but they did not guess what principally caused it. On the evening of the third day I hurried into the dining-room just before dinner. I quite forgot what I had gone for. It had been a brilliant May day, but in the evening a fog had come on--a heavy sort of cloud overhead, and there was a feeling of thunder in the air, and the atmosphere was close. I remember that the windows of the dining-room were wide open, and the long table was laid in its usual dainty, and even sumptuous, manner for dinner. There were some vases of flowers, and the plate, and china, the polished glass, the snowy napery, all looked as tasteful, as fresh, as pretty, as heart could desire. The guests were accustomed to this sort of table, and would have been very angry if they had been asked to sit down at any other. Emma was hurrying in and out, putting final touches to the preparations for the great meal. I thought she looked pale, and very anxious, and just as I was entering the room she came up to me, and said in a hurried whisper-- "If I were you, Miss Westenra, I wouldn't go in." "Why not?" I asked, "why should not I go into the dining-room?" She did not say any more; but as I insisted on going in, pushed past me almost rudely, at least, I thought so at the moment, and went away, shutting the door after her. Then I discovered the reason why she had wished me not to go into the room. A little short man, stout and podgy, in a greasy coat, and a greasy waistcoat, and a dirty tie, rose as I entered. "Beg pardon, miss," he said. He was seated in a chair not far from the window. He had a dirty newspaper on his lap, and by his side was a glass which must have contained beer at one time, but was now empty. "I'm Scofield," he said, "Josiah Scofield at your service, miss. May I ask, miss, if you're Miss Wickham?" "I am," I answered; "what are you doing here? Does Miss Mullins know you are here?" "Yes, miss," answered the man in quite a humble, apologetic tone, "she knows quite well I am here, and so do Emma, the servant; and so do the other servants, and the reason why too, miss. It's on account of Pattens, I'm here, miss; and I've come to stay, if you please." "To stay!" I echoed feebly, "to stay, why?" "You see, miss," continued the man; "this is how things is. You're the daughter of the lady who owns this house, and I have heard that you own it partly yourself; and it's this paper that justifies me, miss, and I can't go out." As he spoke, he pulled a long, ugly, foolscap envelope out of his pocket, and taking a paper from it, opened it, and showed it to me. I saw something about _Victoria_, and _by the grace of God_, and some other words in large, staring print, and then my own name, and my mother's, and Jane Mullins'; and I thrust it back again. I could not understand it, and I did not care to read any further. "I have heard of men like you," I said slowly; "but I have never seen one of them before." The man was gazing at me with his queer, bloodshot eyes, full of the strangest pity. "It must be a horrid profession for you," I said suddenly. I could not help myself; at that moment I seemed to forget my own trouble in sorrow for the man who had to do such dirty work. Was my brain going? Scofield did not answer my last remark. He put it aside as too foolish to require a reply. "A very pretty young lady," I heard him mutter, "and I'm that sorry for her." He looked me all over. "Now, miss," he said, "there are two ways of taking a man of my sort." I nodded my head. "There's the way of succumbing like, and going into hysterics, and making no end of a scene, and the man stays on all the same, and the neighbours get wind of it, and the ruin's complete in no time, so to speak. 'Taint nothing much of a bill that's owed to Pattens, and even if half of it was to be paid, I have not the slightest doubt that Pattens would take me out and give you a bit more time; but there's no use in quarrelling with me, nor telling me to go, for go I won't, and can't. I had my orders, and I'm the man in possession. You have got to face that fact, miss." "But you spoke of two ways," I said. "What is the way which is not--not quite so hopeless?" "Ah!" said the man, rubbing his hands, "now, we are coming to our senses, we are. Now I can manage matters fine." I glanced at the clock. It was already seven o'clock, and we dined at half-past. The air outside seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and the sky to grow darker, and I expected the thunder to roll, and the lightning to flash at any moment: but what did external things matter. There was a storm in my heart which kept out the sound, and the meaning of external storms. "Mother! mother!" I kept murmuring under my breath, "this will kill you, mother. O Mother! and it has been my fault. My wild, wild scheme has come to this!" I felt so ill, that I could scarcely keep upright, and yet I could not sit in the presence of that man. The next moment everything in the room seemed to go round, and I was obliged to totter towards a chair. I think I lost consciousness, for when I came to myself, I found the little dirty greasy man had brought me a glass of water, and was standing near. "You pluck up heart, child," he said, "there now, you're better. This is not the first nor the second time I have been in a house as big as this, and just as grand and full of visitors, and everything seemingly as right as possible, and the house undermined. I've seen scores of times like this, and pretty misses, like you, cut to the heart. It's a nasty trade is mine, but we all must live, my dear, and I'm truly sorry for you, and now, if you'll just let me advise you?" "What?" I asked, "what?" "You don't want the guests to know as I'm here?" "Of course not." "I must stay, and the servants had better know as little about me as possible. Of course, they have seen me already, but anyhow it is a sort of disguise that is commonly managed, and I had better do it." "What do you mean?" I cried. "My son, Robert, will be round directly. He often comes to me when I am in possession; I expect by the same token that's his ring I hear now. If you'll give me five shillings, miss, I'll do just what you want, and nobody need guess." "But what? what?" I asked. "Bob is bringing me my servant's livery, miss, and I'll attend at table to-night as your new man-servant. I look extremely well in livery, and I have often attended in the houses of gentry just as grand as yourself. Have you got five shillings in your pocket, miss? I have to earn my bread, and I can't do it for less. Nobody will guess who I am, and why I am here, if you'll give me that five shillings." "Take it, take it," I cried. I thrust two half-crowns into his palm, and fled from the room. In the hall I found that I had run almost into the arms of Mr. Fanning. "Why, Miss Wickham," he cried. He caught my hand to keep me from falling; "why, my dear, what is the matter?" he said then; there was a world of affection and sympathy in his voice, but I hated him for speaking to me thus. "I have been feeling ill," I said, "I cannot go down to dinner." "But what is wrong?" he said. He backed towards the dining-room door, and I did not want him to go in. He was so sharp; he would know at once what that little greasy man meant. I knew by his manner, and by hints that his mother had dropped, that they were both of them by no means in the dark with regard to our affairs. He must not go into the dining-room. "Don't go in; come upstairs with me," I said. "Oh, that I will, with pleasure," he answered, delighted at my tone, "and if you are really ill we must get the doctor. We cannot allow you to be really ill, you know, that would never do. I am very fond of nice girls like you; but they must keep their health, oh yes, they must. Now you are better, that is right. It's this horrid air, and the storm coming on. You want the country. It's wonderfully fresh at Highgate; splendid air; so bracing. I have been out at my place this afternoon, and I cannot tell you what a difference there is. It is like another climate." "Then why don't you stay in your place?" I could not help answering. "What is it for, if you do not live there?" "I won't live in it, Miss Wickham, until I bring my wife there to bear me company. But now if you are ill, do go to your room and rest; only come down to dinner, pray. I never could do with hysterical girls; but run upstairs and rest, there's a good child." I left him, went to my attic, shut and locked the door, and threw myself on the ground. O God! the misery of that hour, the bitter blackness of it. But I must not give way; I must appear at dinner. Whatever happened I must not give way. I got up, arranged my hair, washed my face and hands, dressed myself in the first evening dress I came across, and went downstairs. The beautiful little silver gong sounded, and we all trooped down to the dining-room. There were pleased smiles among the guests. The room was crowded. Every seat at the long table had its occupant. Several fresh paying guests had arrived, and there was the little man in livery helping Emma to wait. How pleased the old paying guests were to see him. The new paying guests took him as a matter of course. Mrs. Armstrong, in particular, nodded to Miss Armstrong, and bent across to Mr. Fanning and said-- "I am so pleased to see that poor Emma is getting a little help at last." And Mr. Fanning looked at me and gave me a broad, perceptible wink. I almost felt as if I must go under the table, but I kept up my courage as people do sometimes when they are at the stake, for truly it was like that to me. But mother was there, looking so sweet and fragile, and a little puzzled by the new waiter's appearance. "What is your name?" I heard her say to him as he brought her some vegetables, and he replied in a smug, comfortable voice, "Robert, ma'am." And then she asked him to do one or two things, just as she would have asked our dear little page in the old days which had receded, oh! so far, into the background of my life. That evening, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Fanning came up to me. "They are all talking about Robert," she said. She sat down, shading me by her own portly figure from the gaze of any more curious people. "You shan't sing to-night," she said; "you're not fit for it, and I for one won't allow it. I told Albert I'd look after you. We'll have to make excuses to-morrow when _he's_ not here." "When who is not here?" I asked. "The man they call Robert, who waited at dinner to-night." "But he'll be here to-morrow," I said; "you know he will; you know it, don't you?" She bent a little closer, and took my hand. "Ah, dearie, my dearie," she said. "I have been low down once. It was before Albert the first made his fortune. I have been through tight times, and I know all about it. There, my dearie, take heart, don't you be fretting; but he won't be here to-morrow, my love." "But he will," I said. "He won't, darling. I know what I'm talking about. We must make excuses when he goes. We must say that he wasn't _exactly_ the sort of servant Jane Mullins wanted, and that she is looking out for a smarter sort of man. Don't you fret yourself over it, my darling." "Oh! I feel very sick and very tired," I cried. "Mrs. Fanning, will you make some excuse for me to mother? I must go upstairs and lie down." "I'll have a talk with your mother, and I'll not let out a thing to her," said Mrs. Fanning, "and I'll take you up and put you right into bed myself. I declare you do want a little bit of mothering from a woman who has got abundant strength. Your own poor, dear mother would do it if she could, but she hasn't got the strength of a fly. I am very strong, dear, owing to Dr. Williams' Pink Pills, bless the man!" Just at that moment Mr. Fanning came up. He bent his tall, awkward figure towards his mother, and I distinctly heard the odious word "Robert," and then Mrs. Fanning took my hand and led me out of the drawing-room. She was very kind, and she helped me to get into bed, and when I was in bed she took my hand and said she was not going to stir until I fell asleep. "For I have been through these times, my dear, but the first time is the worst of all," said the good woman, and she held my hand tightly, and in spite of myself her presence comforted me and I did drop asleep. The next morning when I went down to breakfast I could not see any sign of Robert. Immediately afterwards I went into Jane's room. "Where is the man in possession?" I said bitterly. Jane's face looked a little relieved. "Haven't you heard?" she said; "he has gone. It was Mr. Fanning who did it. He paid the bill in full, and the man has gone. He went last night. Mr. Fanning is arranging the whole thing, and the man in possession won't come back, that is, for the present. I begin to see daylight. I am glad you have made up your mind to be sensible, Westenra." CHAPTER XXIII ALBERT I was so stunned I could not speak at all for a minute, then I said, after a brief pause-- "Do you know if Mr. Fanning is in?" "No, why should he be in?" replied Miss Mullins in an almost irritable voice, "he has got his work to do if you have not. Men who are generous on the large scale on which he is generous, cannot afford to be idle--that is, if they are going on adding to their fortunes. He is out and probably in the city, he is a great publisher, you know, and extremely successful. For my part, I respect him; he may be a rough diamond, but he is a diamond all the same." Still I did not speak, and I am sure my silence, and the stunned subdued heavy expression on my face, vexed Jane more than any amount of words I might have uttered. "I will go and see if he has really gone," I said. "It is sometimes quite late before he starts for the city, I want to speak to him at once." "Now, Westenra, if you in this crisis make mischief," began Miss Mullins. "Oh, I won't make mischief," I said, "but I must speak to Mr. Fanning." I had almost reached the door when she called me back. "One moment," she said. I turned, impatiently. "Please don't keep me, Jane, I must see Mr. Fanning before he goes to the city--I will come back afterwards." "If I wasn't almost sure what you are going to say to Mr. Fanning, I would let you go," said Jane, "but you ought to know--your mother was very ill, worse than I have ever seen her before, last night." "Mother ill in the night, and you never told me!" The greater trouble seemed to swallow up the lesser, and for the time I forgot Mr. Fanning, the man in possession, and everything in the world except mother herself. "She had a sharp attack," continued Jane, "rigors and extreme weakness. I happened most fortunately to go into her room about midnight, and found her in an alarming state. Dr. Anderson was summoned. She is better, much better, but not up yet." "But, Jane, why, why did you not wake me?" "I should, dear, if there had been real danger, but she quickly recovered. You looked so ill yourself last night, that I had not the heart to disturb your sleep. And there is no danger at present, no fresh danger, that is. Unless something happens to cause her a sudden shock, she is comparatively well, but it behoves you, Westenra, to be careful." "And suppose I am not careful," I said, a sudden defiance coming into my voice. "In that case----" said Miss Mullins. She did not finish her sentence. She looked full at me, raised her hands expressively, and let them fall to her sides. Nothing could be more full of meaning than her broken sentence, her action, and the expression of her face. "But you could not deliberately do it," she said slowly, "you could not expose a mother like yours to----" "Of course I could do nothing to injure mother," I said, "I will try and be patient; but Jane, Jane, do you know really what this means? Can you not guess that there are things that even for a mother, a dying mother, a girl ought not to do?" "I do not see that," answered Jane deliberately; "no, I do not, not from your point of view. You can do what is required, and you can bear it." I knew quite well what she meant. She did not call me back this time when I left the room. I heard her mutter to herself--her words startled me--putting a new sort of sudden light on all our miserable affairs. "My little home gone too," I heard her mutter, "ruin for me too, for me too." I stood for a moment in the dark passage outside Jane's room. There was no one there, and I could think. I did not want to go into the big hall, nor to run up the staircase. I might meet some of those smiling, well satisfied, delighted and delightful paying guests, those paying guests who were ruining us all the time. Yes, I knew at last what Jane meant, what Mrs. Fanning meant, what Albert Fanning meant. We would be relieved from our embarrassments, mother would receive no shock _if I promised to marry Albert Fanning_. Albert Fanning would save the position, he would pay the necessary debts; he was rich, and for love of me he would not mind what he did. Yes, I supposed it was love for me. I did not know, of course. I could not fancy for a moment that a girl like myself could excite any feeling of worship in a man like Albert Fanning, but anyhow, for whatever reason, he wanted me (and he did want me), he was willing to pay this big price for me. My heart trembled, my spirit quaked. I stood in the luxury of the dark passage, clasped my hands to my brow, and then determined not to give way, to be brave to the very end. I ran upstairs and entered the drawing-room. It was tidy, in perfect order. I was glad to find no one there. I went and stood under father's picture. I gazed full up at the resolute, brave, handsome face. "You died to win your V.C.," I said to myself, and then I turned to leave the room. I met Mrs. Furlong coming in. "Ah, dear child," she said, "I am so glad to see you. But what is the matter? You don't look well." "I am anxious," I answered; "mother had a very serious attack last night." "We are all full of concern about her," replied Mrs. Furlong. "Won't you sit down for a moment? I wish to talk to you. Ah, here comes my husband. Philip, we have bad news about dear Mrs. Wickham, she was very ill last night." "Your mother, Miss Wickham, is very far from strong," said Captain Furlong. He came and stood near me; he looked full of sympathy. He was very nice and kind and gentlemanly. He had been kind and courteous, and unselfish, ever since he came to the house. "You are very good, both of you," I said. "I am going to mother now; please, don't keep me." "But is there anything we can do? Would change be of service to her?" said Mrs. Furlong. "I know it is a little early in the year, but the spring is coming on nicely, and she must weary so of London, particularly this part of London; she has been accustomed to such a different life." "I do not think our present life has injured her," I said. "She has not had any of the roughing. Things have been made smooth and pleasant and bright for her." "All the same, it has been a very, very great change for her," said Mrs. Furlong. "It has been good neither for her nor for you. Yes, Philip," she continued, noticing a warning expression on her husband's face, "I have got my opportunity, and I will speak out. I am quite certain the sooner Westenra Wickham, and her dear mother, leave this boarding-house the better it will be for both of them. What has a young, innocent girl, like Westenra, to do with paying guests? Oh, if they were all like you and me, dear, it would be different; but they are not all like us, and there's that"--she dropped her voice. Captain Furlong shook his head. "Miss Wickham has accepted the position, and I do not see how she can desert her post," he said. "Never fear, be sure I will not," I answered; "but please--please, kind friends, don't keep me now." "There is just one thing I should like to say before you go, Miss Wickham," said Captain Furlong; "if you find yourself in trouble of any sort whatever, pray command both my wife and myself. I have seen a good deal of life in my day. My wife and I are much interested, both in you and your mother. Now, for instance," he added, dropping his voice, "I know about tight times; we all of us get more or less into a tight corner, now and then--if a fifty pound note would----" "Oh no, it would not do anything," I cried. My face was crimson; my heart seemed cut in two. "Oh! how can I thank you enough?" I added; and I ran up to the kind man and seized his hands. I could almost have kissed them in my pain and gratitude. "It would be useless, quite useless, but I shall never forget your kindness." I saw the good-natured pair look at one another, and Mrs. Furlong shook her head wisely; and I am sure a dewy moisture came to her eyes, but I did not wait to say anything more, but ran off in the direction of mother's room. A softened light filled that chamber, where all that refinement and love could give surrounded the most treasured possession of my life. Mother was lying in bed propped up by pillows. She looked quite as well as usual, and almost sweeter than I had ever seen her look, and she smiled when I came in. "Well, little girl," she said, "you are late in paying me your visit this morning?" "It was very wrong of you, mother, not to send for me when you were so ill last night," I answered. "Oh, that time," said mother, "it seems ages off already, and I am quite as well as usual. I have got a kind nurse to look after me now. Nurse Marion, come here." I could not help giving a visible start. Were things so bad with mother that she required the services of a trained nurse? A comely, sweet-faced, young woman of about thirty years of age, now approached from her seat behind the curtain. "The doctor sent me in, Miss Wickham; he thought your mother would be the better for constant care for two or three days." "I am very glad you have come," I answered. "Oh, it is so nice," said mother; "Nurse Marion has made me delightfully comfortable; and is not the room sweet with that delicious old-fashioned lavender she uses, and with all those spring flowers?" "I have opened the window, too," said the nurse, "the more air the dear lady gets the better for her; but now, Miss Wickham, I cannot allow your mother to talk. Will you come back again; or, if you stay, will you be very quiet?" "As you are here to look after mother I will come back again," I said. I bent down, kissed the lily white hand which lay on the counterpane, and rushed from the room. Stabs of agony were going through my heart, and yet I must not give way! I ran upstairs, and knocked at Mrs. Fanning's door. As Albert Fanning was out, I was determined to see her. There was no reply to my summons, and after a moment I opened the door and looked in. The room was empty. I went to my own room, sat down for a moment, and tried to consider how things were tending with me, and what the end would be. Rather than mother should suffer another pang, I would marry Albert Fanning. But must it come to this! I put on my outdoor things, and ran downstairs. The closeness and oppression of the day before had changed into a most balmy and delicious spring morning; a sort of foretaste day of early summer. I was reckless, my purse was very light, but what did that matter. I stopped a hansom, got into it, and gave the man Albert Fanning's address in Paternoster Row. Was I mad to go to him--to beard the lion in his den? I did not know; I only knew that sane or mad, I must do what I had made up my mind to do. The hansom bowled smoothly along, and I sat back in the farthest corner, and tried to hope that no one saw me. A pale, very slender, very miserable girl was all that they would have seen; the grace gone from her, the beauty all departed; a sort of wreck of a girl, who had made a great failure of her life, and of the happiness of those belonging to her. Oh, if only the past six or eight months could be lived over again, how differently would I have spent them! The cottage in the country seemed now to be a sort of paradise. If only I could take mother to it, I would be content to be buried away from the eyes of the world for evermore. But mother was dying; there would be no need soon for any of us to trouble about her future, for God Himself was taking it into His own hands, and had prepared for her a mansion, and an unfading habitation. I scarcely dared think of this. Be the end long, or be the end short, during the remaining days or weeks of her existence, she must not be worried, she must go happily, securely, confidently, down to the Valley. That was the thought, the only thought which stayed with me, as I drove as fast as I could in the direction of Mr. Fanning's place of business. The cab was not allowed to go up the Row, so I paid my fare at the entrance, and then walked to my destination. I knew the number well, for Albert had mentioned it two or three times in my hearing, having indeed often urged me to go and see him. I stopped therefore at the right place, looked up, saw the name of Albert Fanning in huge letters across the window, opened the door and entered. I found myself in a big, book saloon, and going up to a man asked if Mr. Fanning were in. The man was one of those smart sort of clerks, who generally know everybody's business but their own. He looked me all over in a somewhat quizzical way, and then said-- "Have you an appointment, miss?" "I have not," I replied. "Our chief, Mr. Fanning, never sees ladies without appointments." "I think he will see me," I answered, "he happens to know me. Please say that Miss Westenra Wickham has called to see him." The clerk stared at me for a moment. "Miss West! what Wickham Miss? Perhaps you wouldn't mind writing it down." I did not want to write down my name, but I did so; I gave it to the clerk, who withdrew, smiling to a brother clerk as he did so. He came back in a minute or two, looking rather red about the face, and went back to his seat without approaching me, and at the same time I heard heavy, ungainly steps rushing downstairs, and Mr. Fanning, in his office coat, which was decidedly shabby, and almost as greasy as the one which belonged to the "Man in Possession" on the previous evening, entered the saloon. His hair stood wildly up on his head, and his blue eyes were full of excitement. He came straight up to me. "I say, this is a pleasure," he exclaimed, "and quite unlooked for. Pray, come upstairs at once, Miss Wickham. I am delighted to see you--delighted. Understand, Parkins," he said, addressing the clerk who had brought my message, "that I am engaged for the present, absolutely engaged, and can see _no one_. Now, Miss Wickham, now." He ushered me as if I were a queen through the saloon, past the wondering and almost tittering clerks, and up some winding stairs to his own sanctum on the first floor. "Cosy, eh?" he said, as he opened the door, and showed me a big apartment crowded with books of every shape and size, and heavily, and at the same time, handsomely furnished. "Not bad for a city man's office, eh?" he continued, "all the books are amusing; you might like to dip into 'em by-and-by, nothing deep or dull, or stodgy here, all light, frothy, and merry. Nothing improving, all entertaining. That is how my father made his fortune; and that is how I, Albert the second, as the mater calls me, intend to go on adding to my fortune. It is on light, frothy, palatable morsels that I and my wife will live in the future, eh, eh? You're pleased with the look of the place, ain't you. Now then, sit right down here facing the light, so that I can have a good view of you. You're so young; you have not a wrinkle on you. It's the first sign of age coming on when a girl wishes to sit with her back to the light, but you are young, and you can stand the full glare. Here, you take the office chair. Isn't it comfortable? That's where I have sat for hours and hours, and days and days; and where my father sat before me. How well you'd look interviewing authors and artists when they come here with their manuscripts. But there! I expect you'd be a great deal too kind to them. A lot of rubbish you would buy for the firm of Fanning & Co., wouldn't you now, eh? Ah, it's you that has got a tender little heart, and Albert Fanning has been one of the first to find it out." I could not interrupt this rapid flow of words, and sat in the chair indicated, feeling almost stunned. At last he stopped, and gazing at me, said-- "Well, and how _is_ Miss Westenra Wickham, and what has brought her to visit her humble servant? Out with it now, the truth, please." Still I could find no words. At last, however, I said almost shyly-- "You have been kind, more than kind, but I came here to tell you, you must not do it." "Now that's a pretty sort of thing to bring you here," said Mr. Fanning. "Upon my soul, that's a queer errand. I have been kind, forsooth! and I am not to be kind in the future. And pray why should I turn into an evil, cruel sort of man at your suggestion, Miss Wickham? Why should I, eh? Am I to spoil my fine character because you, a little slip of a girl, wish it so?" "You must listen to me," I said; "you do not take me seriously, but you must. This is no laughing matter." "Oh, I am to talk sense, am I? What a little chit it is! but it is a dear little thing in its way, although saucy. It's trying to come round me and to teach me. Well, well, I don't mind owning that you can turn me with a twist of your little finger wherever you please. You have the most bewitching way with you I ever saw with any girl. It has bowled Albert Fanning over, that it has. Now, then, what have you really come for?" "You paid the bill of Pattens the butcher either this morning or last night, why did you do it?" Mr. Fanning had the grace to turn red when I said this. He gave me even for a moment an uncomfortable glance, then said loudly-- "But you didn't surely want that fellow Robert to stay on?" "That is quite true," I replied, "but I still less want you, Mr. Fanning, to pay our debts. You did very wrong to take such a liberty without my permission, very, very wrong." "To tell you the honest truth, I never wished you to know about it," said Mr. Fanning. "Who blurted it out?" "Jane Mullins, of course, told me." "Ah, I mentioned to the mater that it would be very silly to confide in that woman, and now the little mater has done no end of mischief. She has set your back up and--but there, you were bound to know of it sooner or later. Of course the butcher's is not the only bill I must pay, and you were bound to know, of course. I don't really mind that you do know. It's a great relief to you, ain't it now?" "It is not a great relief, and what is more I cannot allow it." "You cannot allow it?" "No." Mr. Fanning now pulled his chair up so close to mine that his knees nearly touched me. I drew back. "You needn't be afraid that I'll come closer," he said almost sulkily, "you know quite well what I feel about you, Miss Wickham, for I have said it already. I may have a few more words to deliver on that point by-and-by, but now what I want to say is this, that I won't force any one to come to me except with a free heart. Nobody, not even you--not even _you_--although, God knows, you are like no one else on earth, shall come to me except willingly. I never met any one like you before, so dainty, so fair so pretty--oh, so very pretty, and such a sweet girl and, upon my word, you can make just anything of me. But there, the time for love-making has not yet come, and you have something ugly to say in the back of your head, I see the thought shining out of your eyes. Oh, however hard you may feel, and however much pain you mean to give me, you cannot make those eyes of yours look ugly and forbidding. Now I am prepared to listen." He folded his arms across his chest and looked full at me. He was in such great and desperate earnest that he was not quite so repellant as usual. I could not but respect him, and I found it no longer difficult to speak freely to him. "I come as a woman to appeal to a man," I said. "You are a man and I am a woman, we stand on equal ground. You would not like your sister, had you a sister, to do what you want me to do. I appeal to you on behalf of that sister who does not exist." He tried to give a laugh, but it would not rise to his lips. "As you justly remarked," he said, "I have not got a sister." "But you know, you must know, Mr. Fanning, what you would feel if you had a sister, and she allowed a man who was no relation, no relation whatever, to take her debts and pay them. What would you think of your sister?" "I'd say the sooner she and that chap married the better," was Mr. Fanning's blunt response; "they'd be relations then fast enough, eh, eh? I think I have about answered you, Miss Wickham." "But suppose she did not want to marry that man; suppose she had told him that she never would marry him; suppose he knew perfectly well in his heart that she could not marry him, because she had not a spark of love to give him?" "But I don't suppose anything of the sort," said Mr. Fanning, and now his face grew white, uncomfortably white, and I saw his lips trembling. "There now," he said, "you have had your say, and it is my turn. I see perfectly well what you are driving at. You think I have taken an unfair advantage of you, but this was the position. I knew all about it, I had seen it coming for some time. Jane Mullins had dropped hints to mother, and mother had dropped hints to me, and, good gracious! I could tell for myself. I am a man of business; I knew exactly what each of the boarders paid. I knew exactly or nearly to a nicety, and if I didn't my mother did, what the dinners cost which we ate night after night in your dining-room, and what the furniture must have cost, and what the breakfast cost, and the hundred and one things which were necessary to keep up an establishment of that kind, and I said to the mater, 'Look you here, mater, the incomings are so and so, and the outgoings are so and so, and a smash is _inevitable_. It will come sooner or later, and it is my opinion it will come sooner, not later.' The mater agreed with me, for she is shrewd enough, and we both thought a great deal of you, and a great deal of your mother. We knew that although you were dainty in your ways, and belonged to a higher social class than we did (we are never going, either of us, to deny that), we knew that you were ignorant of these things, and had not our wisdom, and we thought Jane Mullins was a bit of a goose to have launched in such a hopeless undertaking. But, of course, as the mater said, she said it many, many times, 'There may be money at the back of this thing, Albert, and if there is they may pull through.' But when Mr. Randolph went off in that fine hurry last winter, we found out all too quickly that there was no money at the back, and then, of course, the result was inevitable. "I expected Pattens to send a man in, for I had met him once or twice, and he told me that his bill was not paid, and that he did not mean to supply any more meat, and what Pattens said the baker and greengrocer said too, and so did Allthorp the grocer, and so did the fishmonger, Merriman, and so did all the other tradespeople, and if one spoke to me, so did they all. I have paid Pattens, but that is not enough. Pattens won't trouble you any more, his man has gone, but there is Merriman's man to come on, and there is Allthorp's man, and there are all the others, and then, above and beyond all, there's the landlord, Mr. Hardcastle. Why, the March quarter's rent has not been paid yet, and that is a pretty big sum. So, my dear young lady, things _cannot_ go on, and what is to be done? Now there's the question--what is to be done?" I stared at him with frightened eyes. It was perfectly true that I knew nothing whatever about business. I had imagined myself business-like, and full of common sense, but I found in this extreme moment that my business qualities were nowhere, and that this hard-headed and yet honest man of the world was facing the position for me, and seeing things as I ought to see them. "What is to be done?" he repeated. "Are you going to have the bed on which your mother sleeps sold under her, and she dying, or are you not? I can help you, I have plenty of money, I have a lot of loose cash in the bank which may as well go in your direction as any other. Shall I spend it for you, or shall I not?" "But if you do--if you do," I faltered, "what does it mean?" "Mean!" he said, and now a queer light came into his eyes, and he drew nearer again, and bending forward tried to take my hand. I put it hastily behind me. "I'll be frank," he said, "I'll be plain, _it means you_." "I cannot, oh! I cannot," I said. I covered my face with both my hands; I was trembling all over. "Give me your promise," he said, dropping his voice very low, "just give me your promise. I'll not hurry you a bit. Give me your promise that in the future, say in a year (I'll give you a whole year, yes I will, although it goes hard with me)--say in a year, you will be mine, you'll come to me as my little wife, and I won't bother you, upon my soul I won't, before the time. I'll go away from 17 Graham Square, I will, yes I will. The mater can stay, she likes looking after people, and she is downright fond of you, but I won't worry you. Say you'll be my little wife, and you need not have another care. The bills shall be paid, and we'll close the place gradually. The boarding-house, on its present terms, cannot go on, but we will close up gradually, and poor old Miss Mullins need not be a pauper for the rest of her days. She's a right down good sort, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll start her in a little boarding-house of a humble kind on my own hook. Yes, I will, and she shall make a tidy fortune out of it. I'll do all that, and for you, for _you_, and you have only got to promise." "But I cannot," I said, and now I began to sob. "Oh, I cannot. You don't want a wife who doesn't love you at all." "Not even a little bit?" he said, and there was a pathetic ring in his voice. "Aren't you sure that you love me just a very little bit? Well, well, you will some day; you will when you know me better. I am a very rough sort of diamond, Miss Wickham, but I am a diamond all the same, if being true and honourable and honest and straightforward means anything at all. I don't want to speak too well of myself, but I do know that in my entire life I have never done a real mean or shabby thing. I am an honest fellow out and out, Miss Wickham, and I offer you all I have, and I will get you out of this scrape in a twinkling, that I will. You thought, perhaps, your fine friend Mr. Randolph would do it, but when he guessed how things were going he cut off fast enough to the other side of the world." "I won't let you speak of him like that," I cried, and my voice rose again with anger, and the pity I had felt for Mr. Fanning a moment ago vanished as if it had never existed. "Mr. Randolph has been our true, true friend, and he may be dead now. Oh, you are cruel to speak of him like that!" "Very well, we won't talk of him. It is unkind to abuse the dead," said Mr. Fanning in a low, considerate sort of voice. "He sailed, poor chap, in the _Star of Hope_, and the _Star of Hope_ has been wrecked. He will never come back to bother anybody again, so we won't talk of him." I was silent. A cold, faint feeling was stealing over me. "Well, now, you listen to me," continued Mr. Fanning. "You think that it is very hard on you that a man of my sort should want you to be his wife, but men of my sort, when they make fortunes, often do marry girls like you. I have a lot of money, Miss Wickham, plenty and plenty, thousands upon thousands, and it's piling up every day. It is the froth and the light literature that has done it--all those picture-books, coloured, most of 'em, and those children's books, and those nonsense rhymes, and all that sort of thing. We have huge sales all over the world, and the money rolls in for Albert Fanning, and Albert Fanning can marry about any girl he chooses. Why shouldn't he take a wife a peg above him? It's done every day, and why should not his wife be happy? What is there against that house at Highgate, for instance, and what is there against the old woman? Is there an honester or a better heart than hers?" "That is quite true; I really love your mother," I said. "Ah, that's a good girl, now." He laid his big hand on mine and gave it a little pat. "And you'll be all right when you come to me; you'll be as comfortable as possible. You'll soon get accustomed to me and my ways." "But I can never, never come to you," I cried, shrinking away. "I cannot make you that promise." "I won't take your answer now, and I have not done speaking yet. Do you know that I have cared for you for a long time? I'll tell you how it happened. I was in the Park one day, more than two years ago. I had been in Germany, learning book-binding. There was nothing I did not go into as far as my trade was concerned, and I had come back again, and I was in the Park watching the fine folks. My pockets were comfortably lined, and I had not a debt in the world, and I was feeling pretty spry, you may be sure, and thinking, 'Albert Fanning, the time has come for you to take a mate; the time has come for you and your sweetheart to meet, and to have a right good time, and a happy life afterwards.' And I was thinking which of the suburbs I'd live in, and what sort of girl I'd have. Oh, there were plenty ready to come to me for the asking, young girls, too, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. There was one, I never saw blacker eyes than hers; they were as black as sloes, and I always admired black eyes, because I am fair, you know, and the mater is fair. You always like your opposite as a rule, and as these thoughts were coming to me, and I was thinking of Susan Martin and her black eyes, and the merry laugh she had, and her white teeth, who should come driving slowly by, in the midst of all the other grand folks, but your little self. You were bending forward, doing something for your mother, putting a shawl about her or something, and you just gave the tiniest bit of a smile, and I saw a gleam of your teeth, and I looked at your grey eyes; and, upon my word, it was all over with me. I never knew there were girls like you in existence before. I found myself turning at first white and then red, and at first hot and then cold, and I followed that carriage as fast as I could, and whenever I had a chance I took a glance at you. Oh, you were high above me, far away from me, with people that I could never have anything to do with; but I lost my heart to you, and Susan Martin hadn't a chance. I found out from the mater that you were Miss Wickham, and that your father had been a general officer in the army, and you lived in Mayfair, and went into society; and often and often I went into the Park to catch a glimpse of you, and I got the number of your house, and sometimes I passed it by and looked up at the windows, and once I saw you there; you were arranging some flowers. I just caught the bend of your head, and I saw the shape of your throat, and your straight profile, and the whole look of you, and my heart went pitter-pat. I wasn't myself after I had caught a glimpse of you. You filled all my world, and the old mater found out there was something wrong. I am reserved about some things, and I didn't let it out to her, but at last I did, and she said, 'Courage, Albert, courage. If you want her, why shouldn't you have her? You have plenty of money, and you're a right good sort.' And then all of a sudden one day the mater came to me with news, no less news than this, that you, you plucky little darling, were going to start a boarding-house on your own account. After that, it was plain sailing." "She is poor," said the mother. "She and her mother have lost all their money; they are down in the world, down on their luck, and they are going to do this. So then we arranged that we'd come and live in the boarding-house, and I began my courting in hot earnest, and fortune has favoured me, Miss Wickham; fortune has favoured me, Westenra, and oh! I love you, God knows how much, and I'd be a good husband to you, and you should have your own way in everything. Won't you think of it, Miss Wickham? Won't you?" I was silent. The tears were running down my cheeks, and I had no voice to speak. I got up at last slowly. "Won't you think of it?" he said again. I shook my head. "Well, I tell you what," he said, turning very pale. "Don't give me your answer now. Wait until this evening or to-morrow. I won't worry you in the drawing-room to-night. I'll keep far away, and I'll try if I can to keep everybody at bay--all those wolves, I mean, that are surrounding you--and maybe you'll think better of it, for the position is a very serious one; maybe you'll think better of it. And remember, whatever happens, there ain't a fellow on earth would make you a better husband than I shall, if you'll let me." CHAPTER XXIV THE BOND I went slowly home. I walked all the way, I was glad of the exercise, I wanted to tire my body in order that my mind should not think too acutely. When I got in, it was lunch time. I went into the dining-room without taking off my hat. Jane Mullins was there, as usual she was at the foot of the table, she was busy carving, and she was chatting to Mrs. Armstrong, and Mrs. Armstrong was looking somewhat mysterious, and when she saw me she gave me a kindly nod, but I perceived the curiosity in her eyes and turned my face away. Marion Armstrong was seldom in to lunch, she was at her School of Art doing those drawings by which she hoped to win the hand of Albert Fanning. But what chance had she of Albert Fanning? Mrs. Fanning was present, and she looked very stout and prosperous, and mysterious and happy, and as I sat down, not far away from her, she suddenly stretched her fat hand across the table and grasped mine and said-- "How are you, dear, and how is your mother?" I answered that I hoped mother was better, and Captain and Mrs. Furlong looked at me also with pity. I had never greater difficulty in keeping my composure than I had during that awful meal, but I did eat a cutlet when it was put on my plate, and I did manage to talk to my neighbour, a new boarder who had come up from the country, and did not know her way about anywhere. She was an excitable middle-aged lady of between forty and fifty, and she asked questions which I was able to answer, and helped me more than she knew to get through that terrible meal. At last it was over and I went up to mother's room. To my great astonishment it was empty. Where was mother? Was she better? What could have happened? With a mingling of alarm and anticipation I ran into the drawing-room. She was there in her old accustomed seat by the window. She looked very much as usual. When she saw me she called me over to her. "Are you surprised, West?" she said. "I am greatly surprised," I answered; "are you better, Mummy?" I bent over her, calling her by the old childish, very childish name. She laid her thin hand on mine, her hand was hot, but her face looked, with the colour in her cheeks, and her eyes so feverishly bright, more beautiful than I had ever seen it. I sat down near her. "You don't know how nice Nurse Marion has been," she said. "When she found I really wished to get up, she did not oppose me, and she dressed me so carefully, and I am not the least bit tired. I longed to come into the drawing-room, I seem to have quite got over that attack; you need not be anxious, West." "Very well, I won't be anxious," I answered; "I will sit close to you here and read to you if you will let me." "I should love to hear you, darling. Read Whittier's poem, 'My Psalm.' Some of the lines have been ringing in my head all day, and I always like the sort of cadence in your voice when you read poetry aloud." I knew Whittier's "Psalm" well, and without troubling to get the book, I began to repeat the well-known words-- "I mourn no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west-winds blow, and singing low, I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind, I look in hope and fear: But grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here." As I slowly repeated the words, I noticed that mother's gentle soft eyes were fixed on my face. She raised her hand now and then as if to beat time to the rhythm of the poetry. At last I reached the final verses. "Say them slowly, West," whispered mother; "I know them so well, and they have comforted me so often. Say them very slowly, in particular that verse which speaks about death as 'but a covered way,'" I continued-- "That more and more a Providence Of Love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good; That death seems but a covered way, Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight; That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast In purple distance fair; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day." "Ah," said mother, when my voice finally ceased, it had very nearly failed me towards the end, "that is just how I am. I sit by the open window, I look out and beyond, I see no trouble anywhere. The peace is wonderful, wonderful. It is all my Father's doing, my heavenly Father's doing. I am so strangely happy that I cannot quite understand myself. Last night something strange happened, West. Your dear father, my beloved husband, came back to me." "Mother!" I cried. "Yes," she said very gently, "he did; you will understand some day, I cannot explain what happened. He came to my room. He looked at me with your eyes, my darling, only older and more grave; eyes with the weight of the knowledge of life in them, and the understanding of the Life beyond in them. He looked at me, and there was both joy and sorrow in his eyes, and the joy seemed greater than the sorrow. He even took my hand in his, and I fancied I heard him say something about our going away together, but I am not quite sure on that point. I only know that he was with me, and that now I feel no pain. Nothing can trouble me again. Even dying cannot trouble me. West, my child, what are you crying for?" "Oh, I am not crying at all, mother, only, somehow, there is a pathos in your words, but I am not crying." She took my hand and patted it softly. "You have no cause for tears, as far as I am concerned," she said. "I am the happiest woman in the world, I have had a happy life, such a husband, so dear a daughter, and now this wonderful, wonderful peace, this joy, and there is no death, dear West, for those who really love; there is no real parting for those who love." From where we sat we could see the trees in the Square garden. They had put on their spring green, and most lovely was the mantle they wore. The dust of London had not yet had time to spoil them. The freshness of their appearance on that May morning was as vivid, as perfect, as though those trees lived themselves in the heart of the country; they seemed to be a little bit of God in the middle of that town Square. I kept watching them, and glancing from time to time at mother, but all through there was in my mind another thought, the thought of Mr. Fanning and what he wanted me to do. After all, if the end of life was so full of bliss, what mattered any cross on the journey. I felt ready for sacrifice. I rose very slowly, and softly left the drawing-room. By a sort of common consent, the boarders had all gone out on this exquisite early summer's afternoon, and mother and I had the room to ourselves. Even Mrs. Fanning had gone out. I crossed the landing, and went into mother's bedroom. Nurse Marion was there. I shut the door behind me. "How long will mother live?" I said abruptly. I was in the humour not to walk round anything that day; I wanted to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Nurse Marion looked at me in astonishment. "You don't look well yourself, Miss Wickham," she answered. "Never mind about me," I replied, "answer my question. If nothing harms her, if she gets no shock, how long will my mother live?" "She may live for months and months," replied the nurse. "And if she gets a shock, a sudden shock?" "Ah!" the woman held up her hands ominously, "we must keep her from any thing of that sort, even a very little agitation would be bad for her; but I never saw a calmer, sweeter lady. She does not know she is dying, but why should she be troubled, she is close to God Himself, she lives in a sort of Paradise." "Thank you," I answered. The tears were pressing hard on my eyes, but I would not let them fall. "She thinks all the world of you, Miss Wickham," continued the nurse. "If she has an anxiety, it is about you; but even for you I do not think she feels real fear now. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I can tell, miss, for I have seen much sorrow myself, that you are perplexed and puzzled and miserable just now, but I assure you you need not be sorry on your mother's account. She lives in the Land of Beulah. Have you ever read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'? You know, of course, to what I allude?" "I know to what you allude," I answered; "the Land of Beulah is a beautiful country, but I am too young to understand about it." "We are none of us too young to understand about that," replied the nurse. "I have been with many people suffering as your mother suffers, but I never before came across any one quite so gentle, so resigned, so happy, so peaceful,--_it is the peace of God_." "We must keep her as long as we can," I said; "she is the most precious thing in all the world; we must keep her as long as we ever can. She must not have a shock nor a care." "Of course not," answered the nurse. I returned again to the drawing-room, taking some needlework with me. I sat near mother plying my needle, weaving a pattern with coloured silks into my embroidery. "How lovely the day is!" said mother. She made little remarks of this sort from time to time, but she did not do what was her invariable habit, and the fact of her omitting to do this caused me some surprise. As a rule, whenever she looked at any one, she generally ended by glancing at father's picture, but to-day she did not once look at it. This impressed me as so very strange and so unlike her, that I said-- "Can't you see the picture from where you sit?" We always called it _the_ picture; it was the one picture for us both. "I can see it perfectly if I want to," she answered, "but I do not care to look at it to-day. I see his own face wherever I turn, that is much more lifelike, and more interesting, and has more varied expressions than the dear picture can have. He was with me last night, and he is here now. You cannot see him, West, but I can." "Mother," I said, "you talk as if you were ill. Do you think you are ill?" "Oh no, darling, just a little weak, but that soon passes. There is nothing to be alarmed about, Westenra. The fact of a person being thoroughly happy does not surely mean that that person is in danger." "I am so glad you are happy," I said. "I am wonderfully so; it is the glad presence of God Himself, and also of your dear father. If I have a wish in the world," continued mother then slowly, and she looked at me as she spoke, "it is to see James Randolph. I cannot imagine why he does not write. He has been very good to me, and I like him much. He is a dear fellow, full of courtesy and chivalry; he has a gentle, tender, brave heart; he would make the girl he loves happy, very happy. I should like to see him again, and to thank him." I did not dare to tell mother what we all now firmly believed with regard to Mr. Randolph. I tried to thread my needle, but there was a mist before my eyes. The needlework nearly fell from my hand. Suddenly, in the midst of our conversation in the quiet drawing-room, I heard a commotion. Some one--two people were coming upstairs--the steps of one were heavy, there was an altercation in the landing, a voice pleaded with another voice, and the strange voice got loud and angry. I half rose from my seat, and then sat down again. "What is the matter?" asked mother; "you look very white, Westenra. Is there anything wrong?" "I don't want strangers to come here just now," I said. "But you forget, my dear child, that this is everybody's drawing-room. This cosy corner is my special seat, but we cannot possibly keep our boarders out--it is impossible, my darling." She had scarcely said the words before the door burst open, and a man with red hair and red whiskers, in a loud check suit, entered. "Ah," he said, "I thought as much; I thought I'd get to headquarters if I came here. Now, is this lady Mrs. Wickham, and is this young lady Miss Wickham? Now, Miss Mullins, I will see them for myself, please; you cannot keep me back; I am determined to have my rights, and----" I rushed towards the door. One glance at mother's face was enough. It had turned white, the blue look came round her lips, there was a startled gleam in her eyes. "What is it?" she said, and she looked at Jane. "Go to her, Jane; stay with her," I said; "I will manage this man. Go to her, and stay with her." Jane went to mother, and I rushed up to the man. "I am Miss Wickham," I said; "I know what you want. Come with me into the next room." He followed me, muttering and grumbling. "Why shouldn't I see Mrs. Wickham--she is at the head of this establishment? My name is Allthorp; you are all heavily in my debt, and I want to know the reason why I don't see the colour of my money." "Oh! please do not speak so loud," I implored. "Why?" he asked. "I am not mealy-mouthed. I want my money, and I am not afraid to ask for it." "I tell you, you shall have your money, but do not speak so loud. Mrs. Wickham is ill." "Ah, that's a fine excuse. That's what Miss Mullins tried to put me off with. Miss Mullins seems to be a sort of frost, but I was determined either to see you or Mrs. Wickham." "I am Miss Wickham." "And the house belongs to you? I can sue you if I like for my money." "Certainly you can, and I hope if you sue any one it will be me. How much is owed to you?" "Eighty-nine pounds, and I tell you what it is, Miss Wickham. It's a shame when a man works hard from early morning to late at night, a black shame that he should not be paid what is due to him. I'd like to know what right you have to take my tea and my coffee, and to eat my preserved fruits, and to make your table comfortable with my groceries, when you never pay me one farthing." "It is not right," I answered; "it is wrong, and you shall be paid in full." I took a little note-book and entered the amount. "Give me your address," I said; "you shall be paid." He did so. "I'll give you twenty-four hours," he said. "If at the end of that time I do not receive my money in _full_, yes, in _full_, mark you, I'll have a man in. I hear it answered very well in the case of Pattens, and it shall answer well in my case. So now you have had my last word." He left the room noisily and went downstairs. I waited until I heard the hall-door slam behind him, and then I went back to mother. She was leaning back in her chair; her eyes were closed. I bent over her and kissed her. "What is it, West? What did that horrid man want?" "He has gone, darling; he won't trouble us any more." "But I heard him say something about a _debt_. Is he owed any money?" "He was very troublesome because his account was not paid quite as soon as he wished," I said; "but that is nothing. He shall have a cheque immediately." "But I do hope, dear Miss Mullins," said mother, turning to her and looking at her fixedly, "that you pay the tradespeople weekly. It is so much the best plan." "Quite so," she answered. "This house is doing splendidly, is it not?" said mother. "We shall make a fortune if we stay on here long enough?" "Oh, quite so," answered Miss Mullins. I stole out of the room again. Mother looked satisfied, and although her cheeks were a little too bright in colour, I hoped no grave mischief was done. I ran downstairs. It was nearly four o'clock. I determined to wait in the hall or in the dining-room, in case any more of those awful men--wolves, Albert Fanning had called them--should arrive. Mother must not be troubled: mother must not run such an awful risk again. Just then I heard steps approaching, and there was the sound of a latch-key in the hall door. Most of our guests had latch-keys. I do not know what I noticed in that sound, but I knew who was there. I entered the hall. Mr. Fanning had come in. He did not expect to see me, and he started when he saw my face. I had never cared for Mr. Fanning--never, never. I had almost hated him rather than otherwise; but at that moment I looked at him as a deliverer. There was no one there, and I ran up to him. "Come into the dining-room," I said. "I must speak to you," and I caught his hand. His great hand closed round mine, and we went into the dining-room, and I shut the door. "One of them came," I said, "and--and nearly killed mother, and I promised that he--that he should be paid. His name is Allthorp. He has nearly killed mother, and he nearly killed me, and--and will you pay him, and will you pay the others?" "Do you mean it?" said Albert Fanning. "Do you mean it? Are you asking me to do this, clearly understanding?" "Clearly, clearly," I said. "And may I kiss you, just to make the bond all sure?" "You may," I said faintly. He bent forward, and I felt his kiss on my forehead. CHAPTER XXV YOU ARE A GOOD MAN Within a week every debt was paid absolutely and in full. Even the landlord was abundantly satisfied. Jane Mullins lost her look of care, and became cheerful and fat and good-tempered once more. The boarders, who had been merry enough and careless enough all through, suspecting nothing, of course, seemed now to be beside themselves with merriment. The weather was so fine and the house was so pleasant. Jane Mullins quite came out of her shell. She told stories of her early life, and made those boarders who sat near her at dinner quite roar with laughter, and Captain and Mrs. Furlong also came out of their shells, and were most agreeable and kind and chatty; and mother came down to dinner as usual, and sat in the drawing-room as usual, and in the evenings there was music, and I sang my songs and played my pieces and wore my very prettiest dresses, and Albert Fanning looked at me, and looked at me, and Mrs. Fanning nodded approval at me. Mrs. Armstrong, too, became strangely mysterious, wreathing her face in smiles now and then, and now and then looking strangely sour and disappointed, and Marion Armstrong began to flirt with a young German who had arrived. We never did want to have foreigners in the establishment, but he offered to pay a big sum for a certain room, and Jane said it would be the worst policy to leave him out. He satisfied Marion Armstrong too, which was another thing to be considered, for Marion and her mother were the sort of boarders who are always more or less the backbone of a house like ours. They stay on and on; they pay their money weekly. They speak of their aristocratic neighbours, and are mostly advertisements themselves. Now that the German, Herr Tiegel, had come, there was certainly very little chance of Mrs. and Miss Armstrong taking their departure until the end of the season. Jane used to go and have long talks with mother, and spoke about the future, and the extensions we should make, and Albert and his mother too talked about possible extensions. Mrs. Fanning whispered darkly to me that Albert had large ideas now with regard to the boarding-house. "It's wonderful, my love, the interest he takes in it," she said; "I never saw anything like it in the whole course of my life, and for a publisher too! But his idea is no less than this: When the lease of the next house falls in, we take it too, and break open doors, and have the two houses instead of one. He says the two houses will pay, whereas the one don't, and never could. The boarders, poor things! think that they are doing us a splendid good turn, but this house ain't paying, and it never will, my love." To these sort of remarks I never made any answer. I was quite cheerful; I had to be cheerful for mother's sake, and it was only at night I let myself go. Even then I tried hard to sleep well and to shut away the future. Albert Fanning and I, by tacit consent, hardly ever met alone, and that future life which we were to lead together, when a year had expired, was not spoken of between us. A fortnight, however, after all the debts had been paid, and the house had been put upon a very sure and very firm foundation once more, Mrs. Fanning came softly to me where I was sitting in the drawing-room. "Do you mind going into the little room for a moment," she said. The little room was on the same floor, it was the room where I had seen Althorp on that dreadful day when I had bound myself in a bondage in many ways worse than death. "Why?" I asked, looking at her with frightened eyes. She took my hand and patted it softly. "You are a very good girl and a very brave one," she said, "and there's nothing Albert and I wouldn't do for you. Albert wants to have a chat with you, he's waiting in the other room; you go along, dear. Oh, after the first blush you won't mind a bit; go, dear, go." I looked at mother, who was talking with Mrs. Furlong. The whole room was peaceful and quiet, a good many of the boarders were out, for it was now the height of the season and almost midsummer. The windows were wide open. I caught mother's eye for an instant; mother smiled at me. Of late she used to wear a very far away look. There was often an expression in her eyes which seemed to say that she and father were holding converse. I caught that glance now, and it steadied my own nerves, and stilled the rebellion at my heart. I got up steadily. Had my stepping down--oh, had my stepping down led to this? It was a bitter thought, and yet when I looked at mother, and felt that I had saved her from intolerable anguish and perhaps sudden death, I felt that it was worth while. I went into the next room. Albert Fanning, before our engagement--(oh yes, of course, we were engaged, I must use the hated word)--Albert before our engagement had thought little or nothing of his dress, but now he was extremely particular. An evening suit had been made to fit his tall ungainly person by one of the best tailors in the West End. He was wearing it now, and his light flaxen hair was standing up straighter than ever, and he had a kind of nervous smile round his lips. When he saw me enter he came forward and held out his hand. "Well," he said, "and how is Westenra? Sit down, won't you?" I did sit down; I sat where some of the summer breeze coming in from across the Square garden could fan my hot cheeks. I sat down trembling. He stood perfectly still an inch or two away from me. He did not attempt to take my hand again. After a pause, being surprised at his stillness, I looked up at him; I saw his blue eyes fixed on my face, with a very hungry expression. I sighed heavily. "Oh," I said, "you have been so very good, and I have never even thanked you." "You never have after, just the first day," he said; "but I did not expect thanks. Thanks were not in the bond, _you_ were in the bond, you know. That is all I want." He sat down then near me, and we both must have felt the same summer breeze blowing on our faces. "I am picturing the time when the year is out," he said slowly, "when you and I are away together in the country. I never cared much for the country, nor for nature, nor for anything of that sort, but I think I should like those things if you were with me. You embody a great deal to me, you make poetry for me. I never knew what poetry was before. I never cared for anything but nonsense rhymes and matters of that sort, until I met you, but you make poetry and beauty for me and all the best things of life. There is nothing I won't promise to do for you when you come to me, and in the meantime----" "Yes," I said, "in the meantime." "If you are certain sure, Westenra, that you are going to keep your bond, why, I--I won't worry you more than I can help just at present." "Certain sure that I am going to keep my bond? Yes, I am sure," I said. "Would I take your money and, and deceive you? Would I have asked you to save us and deceive you? No, no; you think I am good. I am not specially good, but I am not so low as that." "Dear child," he said, and now he took my hand and stroked it softly. He did not squeeze it, or draw it near to him, but he laid it on one of his own huge palms and kept on stroking it. "The very prettiest little paw I ever saw in my life," he said then; "it's wonderful how slim it is, and how long, and how white, and what little taper fingers; it's wonderful. I never saw anything like it. You are a poem to me, that's just what you are, Westenra, you are a poem to me, and you will make a new man of me, and you will keep the bond, won't you, dear?" "I will," I said. "I have put down the date," he said; "I put it down in my note-book; I am going to keep it _always_ by me; it is writ in my heart too. I declare I am getting poetical myself when I look at you. It's writ in my heart in gold letters. It was the 18th of May when you promised yourself to me, dear. May is not a lucky month to marry in, so we will marry on the first of June of next year. You'll promise me that, won't you?" "Yes," I said. "And in the meantime very likely you would rather not have it known." "It has been most kind and generous of you and Mrs. Fanning not to speak of it," I answered. "Just as you like about that; but I can see that, with the care of your mother and one thing or another you find me rather in the way, so I thought I would tell you that I am going off, I am going to Germany to begin with for a fortnight, and then I shall take lodgings in town. Oh, the house at Highgate won't hold me until it holds my little wife as well, but I won't live in this house to be a worry to you morning, noon, and night. And when I am not always there perhaps you'll think of me, and how faithful I am to you, and how truly, truly I love you; and you will think, too, of what you are to me, a poem, yes, that's the right word, a beautiful poem, something holy, something that makes a new man of me, the most lovely bit of a thing I ever saw. Sèvres china is nothing to you. I have seen dainty bits of art sold at Christy's before now, but there never was anything daintier than you before in the world, and I love you, there! I have said it. It means a good deal when a man gives all his love to a woman, and I give it all to you; and when everything is said and done, Westenra, bonny as you are, and lovely, and dainty as you are, you are only a woman and I am only a man." "I think," I said suddenly, and I found the tears coming into my eyes and stealing down my cheeks, "that you are one of the best men I ever met. I did not think it. I will tell you frankly that I used to regard you as commonplace, and--as vulgar. I saw nothing but the commonplace and the vulgar in you, but now I do see something else, something which is high, and generous, and even beautiful. I know that you are a good man, a very good man. I don't love you yet, but I will try; I will try at least to like you, and on the first of June next year I will be your wife." "Thank you, dear," he replied, "you could not have spoken clearer and plainer and more straight if you were to study the matter for ever and ever. Now I know where I am, and I am contented. With your sweet little self to take pattern by, I have not the slightest doubt that I'll win that golden heart of yours yet. I mean to have a right good try for it anyhow. The mater will be so pleased when I tell her how nicely you spoke to me to-night. I am off to Germany first thing in the morning; you won't see me for a fortnight, and I won't write to you, Westenra; you'd be worried by my letters, and I cannot express what I feel except when you are there. I won't even kiss you now, for I know you would rather not, but perhaps I may kiss your hand." He raised my hand to his lips; I did not look at him, I slowly left the room. He was very good, and I was very fortunate. Oh yes, although my heart kept bleeding. CHAPTER XXVI HAND IN HAND Mr. Fanning went away and Mrs. Fanning took care of me. She openly did this; she made a tremendous fuss about me, but she never by word or deed alluded to my engagement to her son Albert. She did not talk nearly so much as in former times of her son; perhaps he had told her that I was not to be worried, but she was very good and very nice, and I got sincerely attached to her: and I never saw the Duchess nor Lady Thesiger nor my old friends, although I heard that the Duchess was fairly well again, and was out and going into society; and every one now seemed certain that Jim Randolph had gone to the bottom in the _Star of Hope_, but by universal consent the boarders decided that the news should be kept from mother, and mother grew much better. The weather was so fine she was able to go out. We got a bath chair for her and took her out every day; and the boarding-house was thronged, absolutely thronged with guests; and by Mrs. Fanning's suggestion Miss Mullins put up the prices, and very considerably too, for the London season, but the boarders paid what they were asked willingly, for the house was so sweet and so bright and so comfortable; and Jane had her moment of triumph when she saw that No. 14 in the next street was beginning to imitate us, to put up sun blinds, and even to fix balconies on to the windows, and to have the same hours for meals; and the ladies who kept No. 14 called one day and asked to see Jane Mullins. Jane did give them a spice of her mind, and sent them away without any information whatever with regard to her plans. "I could not tell them to their faces," said Jane to me that day, "that it wasn't I. I am just a homely body, and can only do the rough homely work; I didn't tell them that it was because I had a lady who had the face of an angel and the ways of a queen in the drawing-room, and a young lady, the princess, her daughter, that the boarding-house prospered. I never let out to them that because you two are real ladies, and know how to be courteous and sympathetic and sweet, and yet to uphold your own dignity through everything, that the place was always full. No, I never told them that. What cheek those Miss Simpsons had to try to pick my brains!" Yes, undoubtedly, whether we were the cause or not, things seemed to be flourishing, and mother enjoyed her life; but one evening towards the end of June she began to talk of old times, of the Duchess, and the friends she knew in Mayfair, and then quite quietly her conversation turned to a subject ever I believe near her heart, James Randolph and his friendship for her. "He ought to be back now," she said. "I have counted the months, and he ought to be in England many weeks ago. I cannot understand his silence and his absence." I did not answer. Mother looked at me. "He was fond of you, West," she said. My heart gave a great throb and then stood still. I bent my head, but did not reply. "He never wished me to tell you," said mother. "He felt, and I agreed with him, that it would be best for him to speak to you himself. He said that he would be back in England early in April at the latest, and then he would speak to you. But he gave me to understand that if for any reason his return was delayed I might act on my own discretion, and tell you what comforts me beyond all possible words, and what may also cheer you, for I can scarcely think, my darling, that the love of a man like that would be unreturned by a girl like you, when once you knew, Westenra, when once you surely knew. Yes, he loves you with all his great heart, and when he comes back you will tell him----" "Oh don't, mother," I interrupted, "oh don't say any more." My face, which had been flushed, felt white and cold now, my heart after its one wild bound was beating low and feebly in my breast. "What is it, West?" said mother. "I would rather----" I began. "That he told you himself? Yes, yes, that I understand. Whenever he comes, West, take your mother's blessing with the gift of a good man's heart. He has relieved my anxieties about you, and his friendship has sweetened the end of a pilgrimage full--oh, full to overflowing--of many blessings." Mother lay quite quiet after these last words, and I did not dare to interrupt her, nor did I dare to speak. After a time she said gently-- "Your father came to me again last night. He sat down by me and held my hand. He looked very happy, almost eager. He did not say much about the life he now leads, but his eyes spoke volumes. I think he will come back to-night. It is quite as though we had resumed our old happy life together." Mother looked rather sleepy as she spoke, and I bent down and kissed her, and sat with her for some little time. I saw that she was in a sound sleep, and her lips were breaking into smiles every now and then. She had been so well lately that we had sent Nurse Marion away, for her services seemed to be no longer required. After sitting with mother until nearly midnight I went up to my own room. I sat down then and faced the news that mother had given me. "I always knew it," I said to myself, "but I would not put it into words before; I always guessed it, and I was happy, although I scarcely knew why. Yes, I have put it into words at last, but I must never do so again, for on the 1st of June next year I am to marry Albert Fanning, and he is a good man, and he loves me." I stayed awake all night, and early in the morning went downstairs. I entered mother's room. I felt anxious about her, and yet not anxious. The room was very still, and very cool and fresh. The windows were open and the blinds were up; mother always liked to sleep so, and the lovely summer air was filling the room, and there was a scent of heliotrope and roses from the flowering plants on the verandah. Mother herself was lying still as still could be on her bed. Her eyes were shut, and one of her dear white hands was lying outside the coverlet. It was partly open, as though some one had recently clasped it and then let it go. I went up to the bedside and looked down at mother. One glance at her face told me all. Some one _had_ clasped her hand, but he had not let it go. Hand in hand my father and mother had gone away, out through that open window, away and away, upward where the stars are and the Golden Gates stand open, and they had gone in together to the Land where there is no Death. CHAPTER XXVII TOO LATE On the evening of mother's funeral, I was sitting in the little room. I had the little room quite to myself, Jane had arranged that. I had gone through, I thought, every phase of emotion, and I was not feeling anything just then; I was sitting quiet, in a sort of stupor. The days which had intervened between mother's death and her funeral had been packed full of events. People had come and gone. Many kind words had been said to me. Mr. Fanning had arrived, and had taken my hand once again and kissed it, and looked with unutterable sorrow into my eyes; and then, seeing that I could not bear his presence, had gone away, and Mrs. Fanning had opened her arms, and taken me to her heart, and sobbed on my neck, but I could not shed a tear in return; and Captain and Mrs. Furlong had been more than kind, and more than good; and the Duchess had arrived one morning and gone into the room where mother lay (that is, what was left of mother), and had sobbed, oh, so bitterly, holding mother's cold hand, and kissing her cheek; and then she had turned to me, and said-- "You must come home with me, Westenra, you must come away from here, you are my charge now." But I refused to leave mother, and I even said-- "You neglected her while she was alive, and now you want to take me away from her, from the last I shall ever see of her beloved face." "I could not come; I did not dare to," said the Duchess, "it was on account of Jim. I have been grieving for Jim, and I thought I should have let his death out to her; so I had to stay away, but my heart was aching, and when I heard that she--that she had gone--I"--and then the Duchess buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, oh, so bitterly. But I could not shed a tear. The Duchess and the Duke both went to the funeral, which made a great impression on all the guests in the boarding-house; and Lady Thesiger went; I saw her at a little distance, as I stood close to mother's grave; but all these things were over, and father and mother were together again. That was my only comfort, and I sat in the little room, and was glad that I could not suffer much more. Into the midst of my meditations there came a brisk voice, the door was opened suddenly, there was a waft of fresh air, and Lady Thesiger stood near me. "You are to come with me at once, Westenra," she said, "the carriage is at the door, and Miss Mullins, and that good soul, Mrs. Fanning, are packing your things. You are to come right away from here to-night." I did not want to go. I said, "Please leave me, Jasmine, I cannot talk to you now." "You need not talk," said Jasmine Thesiger, "but come you must." I opposed her as best I could; but I was weak and tired, and half stunned, and she was all life and energy; and so it came to pass, that in less than an hour, I found myself driving away in her luxurious little brougham to her house in Mayfair. She gave me a pretty room, and was very kind to me. "I'll leave you alone, you know," she said; "I don't want to worry you in any way, but you must not stay at the boarding-house any longer. Your mother is dead, and you must come back to your own set." "I can never come back to my own set," I answered; "or rather, my set is no longer yours, Jasmine; I have stepped down for ever." "That is folly, and worse than folly," she replied. She came and sat with me constantly and talked. She talked very well. She did her utmost, all that woman could possibly do, to soothe my trouble, and to draw me out, and be good to me; but I was in a queer state, and I did not respond to any of her caresses. I was quite dazed and stupid. After a fortnight I came downstairs to meals just as usual, and I tried to speak when I was spoken to, but the cloud on my spirit never lifted for a single moment. It was now the middle of July, and Jasmine and her husband were talking of their summer trip. They would go away to Scotland, and they wanted me to go with them. I said I would rather not, but that fact did not seem to matter in the very least. They wanted me to go; they had it all arranged. I declared that I must go back to Jane to the boarding-house, but they said that for the present I belonged to them. I thought to myself with a dull ache, which never rose to absolute pain, how soon they would give me up, when they knew that I was engaged to Albert Fanning. I had not mentioned this fact yet, though it was on the tip of my tongue often and often. Still I kept it to myself. No one knew of our engagement but Jane Mullins, who, of course, guessed it, and Mrs. Fanning and Albert himself. I respected the Fannings very much for keeping my secret so faithfully, and I respected them still more for not coming to see me. On a certain evening, I think it was the 15th of July--I remember all the dates of that important and most terrible time; oh, so well--I was alone in Jasmine's drawing-room. Jasmine and her husband had gone to the theatre; they had expressed regret at leaving me, but I was glad, very glad, to be alone. I sat behind one of the silk curtains, and looked with a dull gaze out into the street. It was between eight and nine o'clock, and the first twilight was over everything. I sat quite still, my hand lying on my black dress, and my thoughts with mother and father, and in a sort of way also with Mr. Fanning and my future. I wished that I could shut away my future, but I could not. I had done what I had done almost for nothing. Mother's life had only been prolonged a few weeks. My one comfort was, that she had gone to her rest in peace, quite sure with regard to my future, and quite happy about me and my prospects. She was certain, which indeed was the case, that I loved James Randolph, and that whenever he returned, we would marry; and if by any chance his return was delayed the boarding-house was doing well, and my temporal needs were provided for. Yes, she had all this comfort in her dying moments, so I could scarcely regret what I had done. I sat on by the window, and thought vaguely of mother, and not at all vaguely of Albert Fanning; he was a good man, but to be his wife! my heart failed me at the terrible thought. Just then I heard the door of the room softly open, and close as softly; there came a quick step across the floor, a hand pushed aside my curtain, and raising my eyes I saw James Randolph. He looked just as I had seen him before he went away; his eyes were full of that indescribable tenderness, and yet suppressed fun, which they so often wore; his cheeks were bronzed, he had the alert look of a man who had gone through life, and seen many adventures. And yet with all that, he was just as he always was. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to have him close to me, and I scarcely changed colour; and, after a moment's pause, said quietly-- "Then you did not die, after all?" "No," he replied. He spoke in a cheerful, matter-of-fact, everyday voice. "I was delayed," he said, "but I have come back at last." Then he dropped into a chair near me. "I went to 17 Graham Square," he said, "and they said you were here. I did not ask a single question. I came straight on here. Am I too late? Don't tell me I am too late." "Oh, you know it," I answered, "you must know it, you are quite, quite too late--too late for everything, for everything!" There was a sob in my voice, but I would not let it rise. I saw his brow darkening to a frown of perplexity and alarm, and I turned my eyes away. Had he interpreted a double meaning in my words? Did he really even now guess that he was too late for everything? "Tell me about your mother," he said, in a choking voice; "is she----?" He looked at me, and I pointed to my black dress. He uttered a sharp exclamation of pain, and then said slowly-- "I understand, Westenra, I am too late; but, thank God, not too late for everything." As he said this I think the bitterness of death passed over me; for was he not now quite too late for everything--for the love which I could have given him, for the joy which we might both have shared, had he only come back a little sooner. I almost wished at that bitter moment that he had never returned, that he had really died. The next instant, however, a revulsion came over me, and I found that I was glad, very glad, that he was alive, that he was in the land of the living, that I had a chance of seeing him from time to time. "To-night," I said to myself, "I will not allow anything to temper my joy. He has come back, he is alive. No matter though I must never be his wife, I am glad, glad to see him again." "I will tell you all about what kept me," he continued, for he half read my thoughts. "We were wrecked, as of course you saw in the papers, off Port Adelaide, and nearly every soul on board perished." "But your name was not in the lists," I answered. "That can be accounted for," he said, "by the fact that I had only come on board a couple of hours before at Adelaide, and doubtless the purser had not time to enter my name. I had no intention of taking passage in that special liner until the morning of the day when the wreck occurred. Well, the captain went down with the ship, and only one woman, two children, myself, and some of the sailors wore rescued. As the ship went down I was struck by a spar on my head and badly injured. When I was finally picked up I was quite unconscious, and for six weeks and more I was in hospital at Adelaide. As soon as ever I was well enough I took the first boat home; and here I am, Westenra, in time--oh, I hope in time--for the best of all. But tell me, how have things been going? I have been more anxious than I can say. There must have been money difficulties. You can little imagine what I went through. Can you bear just to speak of your mother? And can you bear to tell me how 17 Graham Square has been going?" "We had hard times, but we pulled through," I answered briefly. "Did you?" he cried, with a sigh of relief; "what a wonderful creature Jane Mullins is! What an extraordinary head for business she possesses! I must go and see her to-morrow, or--or to-night." "Don't go to-night," I said, and I stretched out my hand a very little and then drew it in again; but he saw the gesture, and suddenly his strong brown hand took mine and closed over it and held it firmly. "Then I am in time, in time for the best of all," he said, and he gave a sigh straight from the bottom of his heart. "Now, I must tell you something. Will you listen?" I drew my hand away, he dropped it, looked at me with a hurt expression, and then went on hurriedly, "I have got something to confess to you." "I am listening," I said. "Perhaps you have guessed the truth. I have a great deal to answer for. I cannot tell you how I have reproached myself. I have always taken an interest in you and in your mother. Even as a schoolboy at Eton this has been the case." "But why?" I asked. "Did you never know--I hoped not, but your mother knew, only I begged of her not to tell you--I am the son of the man whose life your father saved? His name was Chaloner then, but with some property he changed it to the one which I now bear, and I have been called Randolph almost the whole of my life. When my father died he gave me a charge. He said if ever the time came when you or your mother were in difficulties or peril or danger, I was to remember what your gallant father had done for him. He need not have told me, for the deed had always excited my keenest admiration; but I never came across you until that day when, by the merest chance, I was at the house-agents when you came in. I heard your name and I guessed who you were, but I did not dare to look at you then. I felt strangely overpowered. "I went away, but I came back again shortly afterwards, and, forgive me, child, I overheard a great deal of your scheme, and I remembered my father's words and determined to help you. It was I who sought Jane Mullins. Her people had been old retainers of ours, and she had always worshipped the ground on which I walked. I told her exactly what I meant to do, and she helped me straight through at once. The money which smoothed matters with the landlord and enabled you to take the house, was really my money, money which I had inherited from my mother, but which was invested in Australian stocks. At that time these stocks were paying a high dividend, and everything seemed to be going well; but you had not been three months in the boarding-house before the bank in Melbourne which held such a large amount of my money went smash, and I was obliged to go over to secure what was left. The blow was most sudden, and I had no one to help me. I gave Jane Mullins what little money I had left, and went to Australia. I quite hoped I should be back before--before any great trouble came to you. I rescued a large portion of my money, and hoped that everything was all right. Then came the shipwreck, the danger, the awful fight with death in the hospital, the final home-coming, and now--now I find that I shall never see your mother again. What did she think of my long absence, my enforced silence, Westenra? What did she feel about me?" "She always hoped you would come back, and she always loved you," I said slowly. "Did she tell you nothing more?" No colour could come to my face; my heart was too cold, too bitterly cold, too despairing. "She told me something more," I said in a whisper. He bent close to me. "That I love you, darling--that I have loved you from the first moment I saw your face--that I love your courage, and your dear, dear self? I am a wealthy man now, Westenra. Money has come to me while I have been away, and I am a wealthy man and in your set, and--and will you come to me, darling? Will you make me happy--will you? Oh! I know you love me--I feel you do. You will come to me?" But I started up. "I cannot," I said. "You cannot! Then you do not love me?" I made a great struggle. Never in the whole course of my life did I make a struggle like that. My struggle was to keep my lips closed; but I looked wildly up at Jim, and Jim looked at me, and the next moment, against my will, perhaps against his will, I was in his arms, and my head was on his breast. "You love me; there is your answer," he said. "You need not say any more. You have gone through much. Oh! I am happy, and I will take such care of you, little West. I have loved you for so long, and so deeply." But I managed to wrest myself away. "I cannot go to you," I said, "and I have never said----" "You must say it now," he answered. "You do love me?" "Yes, but I cannot marry you; it is too late. Oh! you have been good, but there is nothing to be said; it is too late. It is as much too late as if I were dead--dead, as mother is dead. Oh! I can say no more." CHAPTER XXVIII THIS DEAR GIRL BELONGS TO US I forget all about the night that followed. I also forget the next day. I think I stayed in my room most of the time, but the day following I went down to the drawing-room. London was already emptying fast. Jim had not come back. I sat in the drawing-room wondering what was going to happen, feeling that something must happen soon--a great catastrophe--a great shattering of that castle in the air which I had built so proudly a few months ago. While I was sitting there Jasmine bustled in. "Now that is good, West," she said. "You are better. I want to have a little chat with you." I raised my eyes. I knew very well what she was going to talk about, but I was not prepared to tell the whole truth yet. There was one matter I kept in reserve--my engagement to Albert Fanning. Whether I did right or wrong, the announcement of that extreme news could not pass my lips. I often struggled to tell it, but never yet had I been able. I knew, of course, that if Jim came to see me again I must tell him everything, but I hoped in my mad misery that he would not come again. Then the next hour I hoped the other way. I longed most passionately to see him, and so I was torn from hour to hour and from minute to minute with longings and doubts and despairs; but all through everything, I kept my secret untold within my breast. "It is so nice about Jim Randolph," said Jasmine, sitting down near me. "Do you know that when Sir Henry Severn dies, Jim will be the successor to the baronetcy. While Jim was away in Australia, Sir Henry's son Theodore died quite suddenly. It was awfully sad, and now James is the next in succession. Sir Henry wishes him to live either with him at Severn Towers, in Somersetshire, or to have a house close by. James went down yesterday to see the old man, and will probably be coming back to-morrow. He was very sorry to leave you, but he had to go. He will be a rich man in the future, for Sir Henry Severn is very wealthy. It is a grand chance for Jim. He never for a moment supposed that the title would come to him." I sat silent. I had a little ring on my finger--a very plain ring, with one tiny diamond in it. It had been given to me by Albert Fanning. I would not allow him to give me a flashy or showy ring, as he wanted to do, and I think he would gladly have spent a couple of hundred pounds on my engagement-ring, but I would not have it, not until the whole thing was known, then he might lavish jewellery on me as much as he pleased for all I cared. I twisted the little ring round and thought of my bond, and said after a pause-- "I do grieve about one thing, and that is that mother did not see Mr. Randolph before she died." "But she always knew about everything. It is an open secret," said Jasmine. "I cannot imagine, Westenra, why you are so reserved with me. Every one knows. The Duchess knows, your mother knew, I know that James loves you, that he has loved you for months and months. What else would have taken a young man like James, a man of the world, so polished, so distinguished, so charming, to live in a place like Graham Square? Besides, dear, he has told you himself, has he not?" I felt myself turning white. "He has told you, has he not?" repeated Jasmine. "I would rather not say," I replied. "Your face tells me; besides, I saw the Duchess yesterday, and she said that she was so happy, for now you would be back again in your own set. You will make a very pretty and graceful Lady Severn." "I care nothing whatever about that," I said, and I jumped up and walked to the window. "I hate titles," I continued. "I hate rank; I hate the whole thing. It is humbug, Jasmine; humbug. Why is it necessary for us all to class together in Mayfair, or to live in large houses in the country, in order to love each other? Why should we not go on loving, whatever our worldly position? Oh! it is cruel; the whole thing is cruel." "But you ought to be rejoiced about James," continued Jasmine, who did not evidently think it worth her while even to answer my last words. "He has come back; he is quite well. In a few years at latest he will be Sir James Severn, for of course he must take the name with the baronetcy, and you will be his pretty wife. Doubtless he will want to marry you very soon--as soon, I mean, darling, as you can bring yourself to go to him after your dear mother's death; but I knew your mother quite well enough, Westenra, to be sure that the sooner you made yourself happy the better pleased she would be, and you will be happy with such a good man. Why, he is a catch in a thousand. I cannot tell you how many girls are in love with him, and I never saw him talk to any one or flirt the least bit in the world except with your charming self. You are lucky, Westenra; very lucky." I went now and stood by the window, and as I stood there I felt my heart give a great thump, and then go low down in my breast. I turned impulsively. "I--I am not quite well," I began; but then I hastily thought that I must see it out. The moment had come when Jasmine Thesiger was to have all her doubts answered, her questions replied to, and my future would be clear in her eyes, for I had seen the chocolate-coloured brougham draw up at the door, and Mrs. and Mr. Fanning get out. "What is the matter? Are you ill?" said Jasmine. "No, no; I am quite well," I replied. I sank down on a chair. "I only saw some visitors just arrive," I continued. "Visitors at this hour! I will tell Tomkins we are not at home." "It is too late," I answered; "they are coming up. They are friends of mine." "All right, child; but how queer you look," Jasmine gazed at me in great astonishment. I hoped earnestly that I did not show my emotion too plainly, when the next moment the door was thrown open by Lady Thesiger's smart servant, and Mrs. and Mr. Fanning walked in. Mrs. Fanning had put on black on my account. She had told me that she meant to go into mourning, as we were practically relations already. I had begged of her not, but she had not regarded my wishes in the least. She was in a heavy black serge dress, and a voluminous cape which came down nearly to her knees, and she had a black bonnet on, and her face was all beaming and twinkling with affection and sympathy and suppressed happiness. And Albert Fanning, also in a most melancholy suit of black, with his hair as upright as ever, came up to my side. I heard his usual formula-- "How is Westenra?" and then I found myself introducing him and his mother to Lady Thesiger, and Lady Thesiger gave a haughty little bow, and then sat down, with her eyes very bright, to watch events. Perhaps already she had an inkling of what was about to follow. "We have come," said Mrs. Fanning, looking at her son and then glancing at me, "to tell you, Westenra, that we think you had better arrange to spend your holidays with us. Considering all things, it seems most fitting." "What I say is this," interrupted Albert Fanning. "Westenra must do as she pleases. If she likes to come with us to Switzerland we shall be, I need not say, charmed; but if she prefers to stay with her ladyship"--here he gave a profound bow in the direction of Lady Thesiger--"we must submit. It is not in the bond, you know, mother, and anything outside the bond I for one debar." "You always were so queer, my son Albert," said Mrs. Fanning, who had lost her shyness, and now was determined to speak out her mind fully. "It's this way, your ladyship," she continued, turning to Lady Thesiger. "I may as well be plain, and I may as well out with the truth. This pretty young girl, this dear girl, belongs to us. She does not belong to you--she belongs to us." "No, no, mother; you are wrong there," cried Mr. Fanning; "she does not belong to us at present." "It's all the same," said Mrs. Fanning; "don't talk nonsense to me. When a girl is engaged to a man--" "Engaged! Good heavens!" I heard Lady Thesiger mutter, and then she sat very still, and fixed her eyes for a moment on my face, with a sort of glance which seemed to say, "Are you quite absolutely mad?" "Yes, engaged," continued Mrs. Fanning. "It is a very queer engagement, it seems to me, but it is a _bonâ fide_ one for all that." "As _bonâ fide_," said Mr. Fanning, with a profound sigh, "as there is a sky in the heavens. As _bonâ fide_ as there is a day and a night; as _bonâ fide_ as that I am in existence; but the marriage is not to be consummated until the 1st of June of next year. That is in the bond, and we have nothing to complain of if--if Westenra"--here his voice dropped to a sound of absolute tenderness--"if Westenra would rather not come with us now." "Please explain," said Lady Thesiger. "I knew nothing of this. Do you mean to tell me, madam, that my friend Westenra Wickham is engaged to--to whom?" "To my son Albert," said Mrs. Fanning, with great emphasis and with quite as much pride as Lady Thesiger's own. "Is that the case, Westenra?" continued Jasmine, looking at me. I bowed my head. I was silent for a moment; then I said, "I am engaged to Albert Fanning. I mean to marry him on the 1st of June next year." "Then, of course, I have nothing to say. Do you wish to go away with the Fannings, Westenra? You must do what you wish." I looked at her and then I looked at Mrs. Fanning, and then I looked at Albert, whose blue eyes were fixed on my face with all the soul he possessed shining out of them. He came close to me, took my hand, and patted it. "You must do just as you please, little girl," he said; "just exactly as you please." "Then I will write and let you know," I answered. "I cannot tell you to-day." "That is all right--that is coming to business," said Mrs. Fanning; "that is as it should be. Albert, we are not wanted here, and we'll go. You'll let us know to-morrow, my dearie dear. Don't keep us waiting long, for we have to order rooms in advance at the big hotels in Switzerland at this time of year. Your ladyship, we will be wishing you good morning, and please understand one thing, that though we may not be quite so stylish, nor quite so up in the world as you are, yet we have got money enough, money enough to give us everything that money can buy, and Westenra will have a right good time with my son Albert and me. Come, Albert." Albert Fanning gave me a piteous glance, but I could not reply to it just then, and I let them both go away, and felt myself a wretch for being so cold to them, and for their society so thoroughly. When they were gone, and the sound of wheels had died away in the street, Jasmine turned to me. "What does it mean?" she cried. "It cannot be true--you, Westenra, engaged to that man! Jim Randolph wants you; he loves you with all his heart; he has been chivalrous about you; he is a splendid fellow, and he is rich and in your own set, and you choose that man!" "Yes, I choose Albert Fanning," I said. "I can never marry James Randolph." "But why, why, why?" asked Jasmine. CHAPTER XXIX HAVE I LOST YOU? I told her everything, not then, but on the evening of the same day. She came into my room where I was lying on a sofa, for I was thoroughly prostrated with grief for my mother and--and other great troubles, and she held my hand and I told her. I described Jane's anxiety in the boarding-house, the debts creeping up and up, the aspect of affairs getting more and more serious; I told her about Mrs. Fanning and Albert, and the chocolate-coloured brougham, and the drive to Highgate, and the rooms all furnished according to Albert's taste, and the garden, and the proposal he made to me there, and my horror. And then I told her about mother's gradual fading and the certainty that she would not live long, and the doctor's verdict, and the one caution impressed and impressed upon me--that she was to have no shock of any sort, that everything was to be made smooth and right for her. I described, further, Jane Mullins' agitation, her despair, her difficulty in going on at all, the dreadful news which had reached us with regard to Jim, the almost certainty that he was drowned. Then I told her of the awful day when I went to try and borrow a thousand pounds from the Duchess, and how I could not see the Duchess, for she was too ill to see any one, all on account of Jim's supposed death; and then I told her what I found when I came back--the awful greasy little man in the dining-room--the man in possession. I described his attitude that day at dinner, and the surprise and astonishment of the boarders; and then I explained how he had gone and why he had gone, and I told her of my visit to Albert Fanning in Paternoster Row, and what Albert Fanning had said, and how kind he was to me; and, notwithstanding his want of polish, how really chivalrous he was in his own way, and how really he loved me and wanted to help me. I made the very best of him, and I went on still further, and told her of the man who had burst into mother's presence in the drawing-room, and rudely demanded payment for his debt, and then how I had yielded, and told Albert Fanning that I would marry him, and how, after that, everything was smooth, and all the worries about money had disappeared as if by magic. "I gave him my bond," I said at the conclusion. "I said that I would marry him at the end of a year, and he was satisfied, quite satisfied, and he paid up everything, and mother went to her grave happy. She was sure that all was well with me, and indeed I gave her to understand that all was very well, and she died; and never guessed that 17 Graham Square was an absolute, absolute failure--a castle in the clouds, which was tumbling about our heads." I paused at the end of my story. Jasmine had tears in her eyes; they were rolling down her cheeks. "Why didn't you come to me, Westenra?" she said; "my husband is very rich, and we would have lent you the money. Oh! to think that a thousand pounds could have saved you!" "I did not think of you," I replied. "You must acknowledge, Jasmine, that you were cold and indifferent, and did not help me with a cheery word, nor with much of your presence, during my time in the boarding-house; and when the Duchess failed me, troubles came on too thick and fast to wait for any chance help from outside. I just took the help that was near, and in my way was grateful." "I see," said Jasmine; "it is a most piteous--most terrible story." "Do not say that," I answered. "Help me to bear it; don't pity me too much. Help me to see the best, all the best in those two good people with whom I am in future to live. Albert Fanning is not polished, he is not a gentleman outwardly, but he has--O Jasmine! he has in his own way a gentleman's heart, and his mother is a dear old soul, and even for Jim I would not break my bond, no, not for fifty Jim Randolphs; but I love Jim--oh, I love him with all my heart and soul." I did not cry as I said the words; I was quite past tears that evening, and Jasmine continued to sit near me and to talk in soft tones, and after a time she relapsed into silence, a sort of despairing silence, and I lay with my eyes closed, for I could not look at her, and presently I dropped asleep. At an early hour the next day I wrote to the Fannings to tell them that I would go with them to Switzerland. I went and saw Jasmine after I had written the note. "I am going with the Fannings to Switzerland on the 4th of August," I said; "will this interfere with your plans? I mean, may I stay on here until they start?" "Oh yes, you can stay on here, Westenra," she replied. She looked at me fixedly. I thought she would say something to dissuade me, but she did not. She opened her lips once, but no words came. She simply said-- "Is that the letter?" "Yes." "I am going out," she said then; "I will post it for you." "Thank you," I answered. I went back to the drawing-room. I heard Jasmine go downstairs and out, and then I sat quiet. Everything seemed to have come to a sort of end; I could not see my way any further. In a fortnight's time I should have truly stepped down out of sight of those who were my friends. I should have left them for ever and ever. It would be a final stepping down for me. Nevertheless, the faintest thought of being unfaithful to the promise I had made, I am glad to think now, never for a single moment occurred to me. Jasmine returned to lunch, and after lunch we went to the drawing-room, and she asked me if I would like to drive with her. I said-- "Yes, but not in the Park." Perhaps she guessed what I meant. "Jim has come back," she remarked; "I had a line from him, and he wants to see you this evening." "Oh, I cannot see him," I answered. "I think you must. You ought to tell him yourself; it is only fair to him. Tell him just what you told me; he ought to know, and it will pain him less to hear it from your lips." I thought for a moment. "What hour is he coming?" I asked then. "He will look in after dinner about nine o'clock. I am going to a reception with Henry; you will have the drawing-room to yourselves." I did not reply. She looked at me, then she said-- "I have written already to tell him that he can come. It is absolutely necessary, Westenra, that you should go through this; it will be, I know, most painful to you both, but it is only just to him." Still I did not answer. After a time she said-- "I do not wish to dissuade you; indeed, I cannot myself see how you can get out of this most mistaken engagement, for the man has behaved well, and I am the first to acknowledge that; but has it ever occurred to you that you do a man an absolute and terrible injustice when you marry him, loving with all your heart and soul another man? Do you think it is fair to him? Don't you think he ought at least to know this?" "I am sure Albert Fanning ought not to know it," I replied, "and I earnestly hope no one will ever tell him. By the time I marry him I shall have"--my lips trembled, I said the words with an effort--"I shall have got over this, at least to a great extent; and oh! he must not know. Yes, I will see Jim to-night, for I agree with you that it is necessary that I should tell him myself, but not again," I continued; "you won't ask me to see him again after to-night?" "You had much better not," she replied; she looked at me very gravely, and then she went away. Poor Jasmine, she was too restless to stay much with me. She was, I could see, terribly hurt, but she had not been gone an hour before the Duchess came bustling in. She was very motherly and very good, and she reminded me of my own dear mother. She sat near me, and began to talk. She had heard the whole story. She was terribly shocked, she could not make it out. She could not bring herself to realise that her god-daughter was going to marry a man like Albert Fanning. "You ought never to have done it, West, never, never," she kept repeating. At last I interrupted her. "There is another side to this question," I said; "you think I did something mean and shabby when I promised to marry a man like Albert Fanning. You think I have done something unworthy of your god-daughter, but don't you really, really believe that you would have a much poorer, more contemptible, more worthless sort of god-daughter if she were now to break her bond to the man who saved her mother at considerable expense--the man who was so good, so kind, so faithful? Would you really counsel me to break my bond?" "No, I would not," said the Duchess, "but I would do one thing, I would up and tell that man the truth. I would put the thing before him and let him decide. Upon my word, that's a very good idea. That's what I would do, Westenra." "I will not tell him," I replied. "I have promised to marry him on the 1st of June next year. He knows well that I do not love him, but I will keep my bond." "That is all very fine," said the Duchess. "You may have told him that you do not love him, but you have not told him that you love another man." "I have certainly not told him that." "Then you are unfair to him, and also unfair to James Randolph. You think nothing at all of breaking his heart." "He was away when he might have helped me," I replied. "That was, I know, through no fault of his, but I cannot say any more except that I will not break my bond." The Duchess went away, and in the evening Jim arrived. He came in with that very quiet manner which he always wore, that absolute self-possession which I do not think under any circumstances would desert him, but I read the anxiety in his grey eyes, the quizzical, half-laughing glance was gone altogether, the eyes were very grave and almost stern. "Now," he said, "I have come to say very plain words. I want to know why you will not marry me." "Have you not heard?" I asked. "I have heard nothing," he answered. "I have been given no reason; you just told me you could not marry me the other night, and you were so upset and shaken that I did not press the matter any further. You know, of course, that I can give you everything now that the heart of girl could desire." "Do not talk of those things," I said. "I would marry you if you had only a hundred a year; I would marry you if you had nothing a year, provided we could earn our living together. O Jim! I love you so much, I love you so much, so much." I covered my face with my hands, a deep, dry sob came from my throat. "Then if that is so," he answered, half bending towards me and yet restraining himself, "why will you not marry me?" "I cannot, because--because----" "Take your own time," he said then; "don't speak in a hurry. If you love me as you say you love me, and if you know that I love you, and if you know also, which I think you do, that your mother wished it, and all your friends wish it, why should not we two spend our lives together, shoulder to shoulder, dear, in the thick of the fight, all our lives close together until death does us part? And even death does not really part those who love, Westenra, so we shall in reality never be parted if we do so sincerely love. Why should not these things be?" "Because I am bound to another man," I said then. He started away, a stern look came into his face. "Say that again," was his answer, after a full minute of dead silence. "I am engaged to another," I said faintly. "And yet you have dared to say that you love me?" "It is true." "In that case you do not love the man to whom you have given your promise?" "I do not." "But what does this mean? This puzzles me." He put up his hand to his forehead as if to push away a weight. He was standing up, and the pallor of his face frightened me. "I do not understand," he said. "I had put you on a pedestal--are you going to prove yourself common clay after all? but it is impossible. Who is the other man?" Then I told him. He uttered a sharp exclamation, then turned on his heel and walked away to the window. He stood there looking out, and I looked at him as his figure was silhouetted against the sky. After a time he turned sharply round and came back to me and sat down. He did not sit close to me as he had done before, but he spoke quietly, as if he were trying to keep himself in control. "This is very sudden and terrible," he said; "very inexplicable too. I suppose you will explain?" "I will," I said. "I knew you were coming to-night; I was cowardly enough to wish that you would not come, but I will explain." "You are engaged to the man I used to see you talking to at 17 Graham Square?" "Yes," I said; "do not speak against him." "I would not be so cruel," he answered. "If you have promised yourself to him, he must merit some respect; tell me the story." So I told Jim just the same story I had told Jasmine that morning. I did not use quite the same words, for he did not take it so calmly. I had never seen his self-possession shaken before. As my story drew to an end he had quite a bowed look, almost like an old man; then he said slowly-- "It was my fault; I should not have gone away. To think that you were subjected to this, and that there was no escape." "There was no escape," I said. "Could I have done otherwise?" "God knows, child, I cannot say." "I could not," I replied slowly. "If you had been me you would have acted as I have done; there are times when one must forget one's self." "There are, truly," he said. "Then you are not dreadfully angry with me, Jim?" "Angry?" he said slowly; "angry? You have not given me the worst pain of all, you have not stepped down from your pedestal, you are still the one woman for me. But oh! Westenra, have I lost you? Have I lost you?" He bowed his head in his hands. CHAPTER XXX THE DUCHESS HAS HER SAY I shall never forget as long as I live that sultry 1st of August; there seemed to be scarcely a breath of air anywhere, all the air of London had that used-up feeling which those who live in it all the year round know so well. It was hot weather, hot in the house, hot in the outside streets, hot in the burnt-up parks, hot everywhere. The sky seemed to radiate heat, and the earth seemed to embrace it; and we poor human beings who were subjected to it scarcely knew what to do with ourselves. Even in Jasmine's luxurious house, where all the appliances of comfort were abundantly in evidence, even there we gasped and thought of the country with a longing equal to that of thirsty people for water. Jasmine and her husband were going away the next day, and the Duchess was going away too, and I was to join the Fannings on the 4th. I was to have three more days in Jasmine's house, and then I was to go, I knew well never to return. I had not seen Jim after that night, nearly a fortnight ago, when I had told him everything, and from that hour to now nothing at all had occurred to deliver me from my bondage and misery. Mrs. Fanning had come twice to see me; she was very bustling and self-important, and told me honestly that she had a downright hatred for that airified madam her ladyship. She said that we'd have an excellent time in Switzerland, going to the very best hotels, enjoying ourselves everywhere. "And you two young engaged creatures will have no end of opportunities for flirtation," she said; "I won't be much in the way. You may be quite sure that the old mother will efface herself in order to give her son and her dear new daughter every possible opportunity for enjoying life. Ah! my dear, there is no time like the engaged period--the man makes such a fuss about you then. He don't afterwards, dear; I may as well be frank, but he don't--the best of 'em even take you as if you were common clay; but beforehand you're something of an angel, and they treat you according. It's the way of all men, dear, it is the way of every single one of 'em. Now Albert, for instance, I declare at times I scarcely know him. He used to be a matter-of-fact sort of body, but he is changed in all sorts of ways; and as to the way he speaks of you, you'd think you weren't common clay at all, that your feet had never yet touched the earth. He drives me past patience almost at times; but I say to myself, 'Thank goodness, it won't last.' That's my one consolation, for I cannot bear those high-falutin' ideas, although there's nothing Albert does that seems really wrong to me. He said to me only yesterday, 'Mother, I have a kind of awe over me when I am with her; she is not like any one else, she is so dainty, and so----' I declare I almost laughed in his face; but there, I didn't, and doubtless he has told you those sort of things himself. I don't want to see you blush. Not that you do blush, Westenra; I must say you take things pretty cool. I suppose it is breeding. They say it takes a power of good breeding to get that calm which it strikes me you have to perfection. I never saw any one else with it except that Mr. Randolph, who, I hear, wasn't drowned at all, but came back as safe as ever a few days ago. Well, well, I'm off now. You wouldn't like to come back to the Métropole to me and Albert the day her ladyship goes, would you, child? Say out frankly if you have a wish that way." "No," I answered, "I have not a wish that way. I will meet you at Victoria Station. I would rather stay here until then." "Well, well, good-bye, my dearie," said the stout old woman, and she embraced me with her voluminous arms, and patted me on my cheek. But although she came, as I said, twice, Albert did not come at all, and I thought it extremely nice of him. New proofs of his kindness were meeting me at every turn. He wrote to me several times, and in each letter said that he knew perfectly well that I meant to be free until the year was up, and that he was not going to worry me with overmuch love-making, or any nonsense of that sort; but he thought I would like Switzerland, and the change would do me good, and although he would not say much, and would not even ask me to go out walking with him unless I wished it, yet I was to be certain of one thing, that he was ready to lay down his life for me, and that I was the one thought of his heart, the one treasure of his soul. "Poor Albert!" I had almost said, "Poor dear Albert!" when I read that last letter. How much he had developed since the days when we first met. It is wonderful what a power love has, how it ennobles and purifies and sanctifies, and raises, and Albert's love was very unselfish--how utterly unselfish, I was to know before long. But the days went on, and each day seemed a little harder than the last, until I became quite anxious for the complete break to take place when I should have parted with my old friends and my old life for ever. But I knew quite well that even if I did go away, the image of the man I really loved would remain in my heart. As this was likely to be a sin by-and-by--for surely I ought not to marry one man and love another--I must try to fight against all thoughts of Jim, and to banish the one who would not be banished from my thoughts. I have said that the 1st of August came in with tremendous heat; every window in the house was open, the blinds were all down. Jasmine was quite fretful and irritable. She pined for Scotland; she said that she could scarcely contain herself until she got away. She and her husband were to go early the next day to the North, and all arrangements were being made, and the final packing was being completed. The Duchess also was kept in town owing to some special duties, but on the next day she was also to go. She had asked me two or three times to visit her, but I had written to her begging of her not to press it. "I must go through with what I have promised," I said, "and to see you only pains me. Do forgive me. Perhaps you will see me once when I return from Switzerland just to say good-bye." The Duchess had taken no notice of this letter, and I concluded sadly that I was never to see her or hear of her again; but as I was sitting by myself in Jasmine's inner drawing-room on that same 1st of August, about twelve o'clock in the morning, I was startled when the door was thrown open, and the dear Duchess came in. She came up to me, put her arms round me, drew me to her breast, and kissed me several times. She had not, after all, more motherly arms than Mrs. Fanning, but she had a different way about her, and before I knew what I was doing, the feel of those arms, and the warm, consoling touch of her sympathy, caused me to burst out crying. Mrs. Fanning would not have thought much of the calm which in her opinion seems to accompany good breeding had she seen me at that moment. But the Duchess knew exactly what to do. She did not speak until I was quieter, and then she made me lie on the sofa, and took my hand and patted it. "I am thinking of you, Westenra, almost all day long," she said solemnly. "I am terribly concerned about you. Have you got a photograph of that man anywhere near?" "I have not got one," I replied. "He never sent you his photograph? I thought they always did." "He would have liked to. He is very patient, and he is very fond of me, you need not be anxious about me, it is just----" "But it is the giving of you up, child, that is so painful, and the want of necessity of the whole thing. Sometimes I declare I am so impatient with----" But what the Duchess meant to say was never finished, for the drawing-room door was opened once more and the footman announced Mr. Fanning. Albert Fanning entered in his usual, half assured, half nervous style. He had a way of walking on his toes, so that his tall figure seemed to undulate up and down as he approached you. He carried his hat in his hand, and his hair was as upright as usual, his face white, his blue eyes hungry. He was so anxious to see me, and this visit meant so much to him, that he did not even notice the Duchess. He came straight up to me, and when he saw that my cheeks were pale and my eyes red from recent crying, he was so concerned that he stooped, and before I could prevent him gave me the lightest and softest of kisses on my cheek. "I could not keep away," he said, "and I--I have a message from the mater. Can you listen?" I was sitting up, my face was crimson, with an involuntary movement I had tried to brush away that offending kiss. He saw me do it, and his face went whiter than ever. "Introduce me, Westenra," said the voice of the Duchess. In my emotion at seeing Albert Fanning, I had forgotten her, but now I stood up and made the necessary introduction. Her Grace of Wilmot gave a distant bow, which Mr. Fanning gravely and with no trace of awkwardness returned. "Won't you sit down?" said the Duchess then; "do you know I have been most anxious to see you?" "Indeed," he replied. He looked amazed and a little incredulous. He kept glancing from the Duchess to me. I do not know why, but I suddenly began to feel intensely nervous. There was a gleam in my old friend's soft brown eyes which I had only seen there at moments of intense emotion. She evidently was making up her mind to say something terrible. I exclaimed hastily-- "Albert, if you wish to speak to me, will you come into the next room. You will excuse us for a moment will you not, Duchess?" "No, Westenra," she replied, and she rose now herself; "I will not excuse you. You must stay here, and so must Mr. Fanning, for I have got something I wish particularly to say to Mr. Fanning." "Oh, what?" I cried. "Oh, you will not"--she held up her hand to stop my torrent of words. "The opportunity has come which I have desired," she said, "and I am not going to neglect it. It need make no difference to either of you, but at least you, Mr. Fanning, will not marry my dear girl without knowing how things really are." "Oh, please don't speak of it, I implore you, you don't know what terrible mischief you will do." "Hold your tongue, Westenra. Mr. Fanning, this young girl is very dear to me, I have known her since her birth; I stood sponsor for her when she was a baby. I take shame to myself for having to a certain extent neglected her, and also her mother, my most dear friend, during the few months they lived in 17 Graham Square. I take shame to myself, for had I done all that I might have done for those whom I sincerely loved, the calamity which came about need never have occurred." "As to that," said Albert Fanning, speaking for the first time, and in quite his usual assured voice, "it could not help occurring, your Grace, for the simple fact that the boarding-house never could have paid, the expenses were greater than the incomings. If you have ever studied political economy, your Grace will know for yourself that when you spend more than you receive it spells RUIN." The Duchess stopped speaking when Albert Fanning began, and looked at him with considerable astonishment. "Then you knew from the first that the extraordinary scheme of my young friend could not succeed." "I did," he replied, "and I bided my time. I suppose you mean to say something disagreeable to me; you do not think I am in the running with her at all, but as far as that goes I have money, and she has not any, and I love her as I suppose woman never was loved before, and I will make her happy in my own fashion. And I'll never intrude on her grand friends, so that her grand friends can come to see her as often as they like; and as to my mother, she is a right-down good sort, though she wasn't born in the purple like yourself, your Grace; so, as far as I am concerned, I do not know what you have to say to me. I suppose you want to tell me that Westenra here, my pretty little girl, who is going to give herself to me on the 1st of June next year, does not care for me, but she will care for me by-and-by, for my feeling is that love like mine must be returned in the long run, and if after a year she don't tell your Grace that she is the happiest little wife in the length and breadth of England, I shall be greatly surprised." Here Albert Fanning slapped his thigh in his excitement, and then stood bolt upright before the Duchess, who in absolute astonishment stared back at him. "That is not the point," she said. "You do not want to marry a girl who not only does not love you, but who does, with all her heart and soul, love some one else?" "Why, of course not," he replied, and a frightened look came for the first time into his blue eyes. He turned and faced me. "Of course not," he repeated, his eyes still devouring mine; "but Westenra cares for nobody, I never saw a girl less of a flirt in the whole course of my life. It is not to be supposed that such a very pretty girl should not have men fall in love with her, but that is neither here nor there." "You ask her yourself," said the Duchess; "I think from your face that you seem a very honest good sort of man; you are a publisher, are you not?" "Yes, Madam, I publish books, bright, entertaining books too." "I repeat that you seem a very honest upright sort of man, who sincerely loves my young friend, and honestly wishes to do his best for her, but I think you will find that there is more behind the scenes than you are aware of, and, in short, that Westenra ought to tell you the truth. Tell him the truth now, Westenra." "Yes, tell me now, Westenra," he said; "tell me the truth;" and he faced me once more, and I forced myself to look into his eyes. "I know you don't love me just yet," he continued, "but it will come some day." "I will do my very best to love you," I answered; "I will try to be a good wife to you, Albert." "Ay, ay--how sweetly you say those words. May I hold your hand?" I gave him my hand--he held it as he always did hold it, as if it were something very precious and sacred, letting it lie in his palm, and looking down at it as if it were a sort of white wonder to him. "But ask her the question," said her Grace, and then I glanced at the Duchess and saw that her cheeks were pink with excitement, and her eyes shining; "ask her that straight, straight question on which all your happiness depends, Mr. Fanning." "I will, your Grace. You do not love me, Westenra, but you will try to be a good wife to me, and you will try to love me, that is, in the future. There is no one else whom you love now, is there? I know, of course, what your reply will be, darling, and it is a hard question to ask of you, as though I doubted you. There is no one, is there, Westenra? Speak, little girl, don't be afraid, there is no one?" "But there is," I faltered. I covered my face for a moment, then I checked back my tears and looked at him as steadily as he had looked at me. "There is another," he repeated, "and you--you love him? Who is he?" "I won't tell you his name. I shall get over it. I could not help myself--I promised to marry you, but I never said that I could love you, for I don't--not now at least, and there is another, but I will never see him again. It won't make any difference to you, Albert." "Yes, but it will," he said, "all the difference on earth." He dropped my hand as though it hurt him. He turned and faced the Duchess. "I suppose you are talking of Mr. Randolph. I quite understand, he belongs to the set in which she was born, but he deserted her when she wanted him most. It can scarcely be that she cares for him. There, I don't want either of you to tell me his name just now. I have heard enough for the present." He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. CHAPTER XXXI THE END CROWNS ALL "I have done it now," said the Duchess, "God knows what will be the consequence, but I have at least delivered my soul." She had scarcely uttered the words before Albert Fanning strode back into the room. He was not the least awkward now, he looked quite manly and dignified. "Will you oblige me," he said, looking straight at the Duchess, "by giving me the address of Mr. James Randolph?" "You are not going to do anything," I cried, springing up, "oh, you are not going to say anything? This has been forced out of me, and I have not mentioned any one's name." "I will do nothing to hurt you, dear," he said very gently, and he looked at me again, and putting his hand on mine forced me quietly back into my seat. Then he turned to the Duchess, waiting for her to give him what he required. Her face was very white, and her lips tremulous. She tore a sheet out of her little gold-mounted note-book, which always hung at her side, scribbled a few words on it, and handed it to him. "I am dreadfully sorry to hurt you, you must believe that," she said. He did not make any response. He bowed to her and then left the room. "What does it mean? This is terrible," I cried. The Duchess looked at me. "Will you come home with me, Westenra? it is best for you," she said. "Come and spend the rest of the day with me." "No, I cannot," I answered; "I must stay here. Albert may come back again. There is no saying what mischief you have done. I cannot think, I am too miserable, too anxious. Oh, suppose he goes to see Mr. Randolph, and suppose, suppose he tells him." "I believe in his heart that man is a gentleman. Even if you marry him I shall not be quite so unhappy as I would have been," was the Duchess's next speech, and then seeing that I was not inclined to say anything more she left the room. I do not know how the rest of the day passed. From the quiet of despair my mind was suddenly roused to a perfect whirl of anxiety, and I could not think consecutively. I could plan nothing, I could hope nothing, but it seemed to me that my journey to Switzerland was indefinitely postponed, and that my future from being settled in every detail, month, week, hour, and all, was as indefinite and vague and shadowy as though I were standing on the brink of the other world. Jasmine entered the room at tea-time and asked me what was the matter. I replied that I had nothing at all fresh to tell her, for I felt that she must never know what the Duchess had told Albert Fanning. She gazed at me as I spoke as though I were a source of irritation to her, and then said that my stepping down had changed me so absolutely that she was not sure whether I was a nice girl any longer, and whether, after all, the fate of being Albert Fanning's wife was not the best fate for me. Then I said stoutly-- "Albert Fanning is one of the best men in the world, and I am fortunate to be left in such good care." Jasmine got really angry and offended then, and went out of the room. She presently came back to ask me, if I would mind dining alone, as she and Henry wished to spend their last evening with some friends. I said that, of course, I did not mind. In reality I was very glad. Jasmine went out, and I was again alone. How I hated the house; how I hated the dreary, and yet beautifully-furnished drawing-room; how the heat oppressed me, and seemed to take away the remainder of my strength! I wondered if it were true, that I was only two-and-twenty, just on the verge of womanhood. I felt quite old, and I stretched out my arms, and gave a dreary sigh; and felt that the sadness of youth was just as _great_ as the sadness of age; and that one of its most painful moments was the knowledge that, in the ordinary course of life, I was so far from the end. Yes, I was young, and I must bear my burden, and I was strong too; and there was no chance under any ordinary circumstances of my not living out the full measure of my years. Just before dinner the drawing-room door was again opened, and Albert Fanning for the third time that day made his appearance. He looked quite brisk, and bright, and like his usual self, except that in some extraordinary way his awkwardness and self-consciousness had completely left him; he was evidently absorbed with some business on hand, which made him a new man for the time. "Will you come for a walk with me, Westenra?" he asked gravely. "What, now?" I inquired in some surprise and trepidation. "Yes," he answered, "or, at least, I want you to drive with me now, and to walk with me afterwards. I have a great desire that we should spend this evening together; and I fancy, somehow, that you won't deny me. I have a carriage outside; I bought it for you, yesterday, a smart little victoria. I will drive you to Richmond, and we can dine there. You will come, won't you, dear?" I paused to think, then I said, just as gravely as he had addressed me-- "Yes, I'll come." "That is nice," he remarked, rubbing his hands, "we'll have a good time, little girl. We won't mind what the Duchess said; we'll have a right, good, jolly time, you and I." "Of course," I answered. I went up to my room, dressed, and came down again. "I am ready now," I said. He took my hand. "It is very good of you, Westenra; we shall have a delightful evening; all that thundery feeling has gone out of the air, everything is crisp and fresh, and you'll enjoy your drive." None of the servants saw us go out, and it was Albert himself who put me into the victoria. He sat beside me, took the reins, and we were off. "Don't you think this is a neat little turn-out?" he said, as we drove down in the soft summer air to Richmond. I praised the victoria to his heart's content, and then I told him that I thought his taste was much improved. "It is all owing to you, dear," he replied. "You like things to look _gentle_ somehow. I could not see myself looking at you in a place with _loud_ things. It was only this morning I was saying to myself, early this morning, I mean"--he gave a quick sigh as he uttered these last words--"I was saying to myself, that we would furnish the house at Highgate over again according to your ideas. We would just leave a couple of rooms for mother, according to her tastes, and you and I should have the rest of the house furnished as you like. Liberty, Morris, all the rest, everything soft, and cloudy, and dim, and you walking about in the midst of the pretty things, and I coming home, and--but, never mind, dear, only I would like you always to feel, that there is nothing under the sun I would not do for you, nothing." "You are very, very kind," I murmured. "Oh, it is not real kindness," he replied with great earnestness. "You must not speak of it as kindness; you cannot call it that, when you love, and I love you so much, little girl, that when I do things for you, I do things for myself; you can never call it just _kindness_ when you please yourself. That is how I feel about the matter. You understand, don't you?" I nodded. I understood very well. Albert thought me kind when I said gentle and affectionate words to him, but he thought himself rather selfish than otherwise, when he poured out his whole heart at my feet. As we were driving quickly in the direction of Richmond, he told me many of his plans. I had never heard him speak more freely nor unrestrainedly. Amongst other things he mentioned Jane Mullins. "She is a capital woman," he said, "and she and I have gone carefully into the matter of the house in Graham Square. Jane wants to give it up, and it is quite too big for her to manage alone. I am starting her in a little boarding-house in Pimlico, and with her business-like instincts she will do uncommonly well there. She spoke of you when I saw her yesterday, there were tears in her eyes." "She must come and see us when we are settled at Highgate," I replied, but to this remark of mine he made no answer. We got to Richmond, and had some dinner, and then we went out, and walked up and down on the terrace outside the hotel. There was a lovely view, and the stars were coming out. Albert said-- "Let us turn down this walk. It is quite sheltered and rather lonely, and at the farther end there is an arbour, they call it the 'Lover's Arbour.' Beyond doubt many lovers have sat there; you and I, Westenra, will sit there to-night." I had been feeling almost happy in his society--I had almost forgotten the Duchess, and even Jim Randolph had been put into the background of my thoughts; but when Albert proposed that he and I should sit in the "Lover's Arbour" as lovers, I felt a shiver run through me. I said not a word, however, and I do not think he noticed the momentary unwillingness which made me pause and hesitate. We walked between the beautiful flowering shrubs, and under the leafy trees to the little arbour, and we entered. I seated myself; he stood in the doorway. "Won't you come and sit down, too?" I said. "Do you ask me?" he answered, a light leaping into his eyes. "Yes, I do ask you," I replied after a moment. He sat down--then suddenly without the slightest warning, his arms were round me; he had strained me to his heart; he had kissed me several times on my lips. "Oh, you ought not," I could not help exclaiming. "But why not?" he cried, and he did not let me go, but looked into my eyes, almost fiercely it seemed to me. "You are my promised wife, may I not kiss you just once?" "Oh, I know, you have the right to kiss me, but you have always been----" I could not finish the words. He suddenly dropped his arms, moved away from me, and stood up. His face was gloomy, then the gloom seemed to clear as by a great effort. "I have kissed you," he said; "I vowed I would, and I have done it. I shall remember that kiss, and the feel of you in my arms, all my life long; but I am not going to think of my own feelings, I have something far more important to say. Do you know, little girl, that I received an awful shock to-day? Now, listen. You gave me your bond, did you not?" "I did, Albert, I did." "Just come out here, dear, I want to see your face. Ah! the moon shines on it and lights it up; there never was a face in all the world like yours, never to me; and I vowed, that because of it, and because of you, I would lead a good life, a beautiful life. A great deal, that I did not think was in me, has been awakened since you were good to me, Westenra." "You have been very kind to me, Albert," I said, "and I will marry you. I will marry you when a year is up." "You are a good girl," he said, patting my hand; but he did not squeeze it, nor even take it in his. "You are a very good girl, and you remember your bond. It was faithfully given, was it not?" "Very faithfully, Albert." "And you always, always meant to keep it?" "I always did. I will keep it. Albert, why do you question me? Why do you doubt me?" "I will tell you in a minute, darling. Now I want to ask you a question. Do you love me the least little scrap? Look well, well into your heart before you answer. I know that when you said you would marry me, you did not love me. You were willing to be bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh; my dear, dear wife, till death us did part; you were willing to be all that?" "I was," I said. "And yet had you _never_ a kindly feeling towards me?" "A very kindly feeling," I answered, "very kindly, but I----" "I know," he said, "you are a good girl. I won't press you too hard. Still my questions are not quite over. Had you, Westenra, at the time you promised yourself to me, any sort of idea that you cared for another?" "He was dead, or at least, I thought he was dead," I said, trembling, and turning away. "Had I thought him alive, even for mother's sake, I could not have done it, but I thought him dead." "And now that he has come back, you are sorry you gave me that bond?" "Do not question me," I replied; "I will do my best for you; you will never regret that you have taken me to be your wife, but you must not question me." "Because of your sore, sore heart," he said, looking very kindly at me; and now I looked back at him, and saw that in some wonderful way the expression on his face had changed; the look of passion had left it--it was quite quiet, a very kindly face, a very good face; never were there more honest blue eyes. "I pressed you hard," he said, "I should not have done it, I see it all now, and you were so good and so unselfish. You gave me that bond for your mother's sake. I meant to put you into a corner; I meant to force your hand. It was unfair, miserably unfair. I did not think so at the time, but now I see it. Well, my dear, you are so gentle, and so different from other girls, that you have opened my eyes. There is a good bit of pain in having one's eyes opened sometimes, but there is also great joy in giving perfect joy to one whom you love, as I love you. So, if you will promise, little girl, faithfully, that never, never shall those debts which I paid for you, be paid back again to me; if you will allow me, for the whole of my life, to feel that I was the one who saved Westenra in her hour of bitter need; I was the one who helped her mother in her last moments to go down to the grave in peace, if you will promise all that, Westenra, there is an end of everything else. You have your bond back again. I don't want it, child, it is yours to do what you will with. You are free, Westenra. If it is hard on me, I am not going to talk of myself; but, I hope, I am manly enough to bear a bit of pain, and not cause the girl I love best on earth to suffer pain to her dying day. You are free, Westenra, that is all." "But I won't be free," I answered passionately, for at that moment all the heroism in me, all that my dead father had given me before I was born, all that I owed to him, sprang to life in my veins, and I saw Albert Fanning as a hero, and faintly, very faintly, I began to love him in return. Not for a moment with the love I had for Jim, but still with a love which might have made me a blessed if not a happy wife. "I won't be free, Albert," I cried, "I gave you my bond, and I will keep it; I will marry you." "Never mind about that just now," he said; "but do you think--" he sat down near me as he spoke, and looked me in the face. "Do you think you could bring yourself to do one last thing for me?" "It won't be a last thing," I answered, "it will be the first of many; I will do everything for you; I will marry you." "It is not such a big thing as that," he replied; "but it is a big thing, at least a very big thing to me. It is something that I shall prize all my life. I took you in my arms just now and kissed you--will you kiss me just once of your own accord?" I did not hesitate; I raised my lips and pressed a kiss on his cheek. He looked at me very mournfully and quietly. "Thank you," he said, "I shall always have this to make a better man of me." "But I am going to be yours; you won't cast me off," I pleaded; "I said I would marry you on the 1st of June next year, and I will." "But I would rather not, my little girl. The fact is this, Westenra, I would not marry you now at any price. I would have married you had I thought I could have won you in the end, but I won't have a wife who loves another. I could not do it on any terms, Westenra. I am low down enough, but I am not as low as that. So I refuse you, dear; I give you up--you understand, don't you?" I did understand. A wild wave of joy, almost intolerable, surged round my heart, and the next moment Mr. Fanning took my hand and led me out of the arbour just where the moon was shining. "I asked Mr. Randolph to come down," he said quietly, "I guessed that perhaps he would be wanted. I think this is he." Footsteps were heard approaching, and Jim Randolph stood in the moonlit path. "How do you do, Mr. Randolph?" said Albert Fanning, with that new dignity which self-denial gave him. He looked almost grand at the moment. "I have just been telling this young girl, Mr. Randolph, that I have heard a certain secret about her which she was bravely trying to keep to herself, and in consequence of that secret I can have nothing more to do with her. She wanted to marry me, sir, but I have refused her; she is quite free, free for any one else to woo and win. She is a very good girl, sir, and--but that is all, I have nothing more to say. I have given her back her bond." And then without a word, Albert Fanning walked quickly away through the gloom of the shrubbery, and Jim and I found ourselves alone face to face with the moonlight shining on us both.